Accordo: Turtle picks

Before “discovering” the plectrums made by Frenchman Jean Charles Dugain many years ago, cut out of a multitude of materials, the only ones that existed for me were those in celluloid, plastic or some other improbable (for the time) material, the result of some friend’s brainwave.
I can’t say that all the oddities were pointless, quite the opposite. In some sectors “deviant” thought has always paid off. It’s the very salt of research and has often produced satisfying results for those who get it into their heads, especially under the hats of those belonging to the creative category, one of the most dissatisfied anywhere in the world. And part of which includes a series of musicians not the least of whom, champing at the bit, are guitarists. One day it’s the strings that are bugging them, another it’s an unacceptable action that’s driving them mad, then it’s the turn of the previously praised pedal to fall from grace. And so on and so forth, in a sort of string of sausages in which each sausage contains a torment with a quite precise name: weedy pickup, crappy vibrato, so-so tuning, machine heads with a notch, pick good enough now for certain techniques but no good for others.
As for the latter there’s frequently something to sort out or improve on: the sound, the attack, unsatisfactory ergonomics. Result: the time-honoured plectrum ends up coming in countless sizes, shapes, and materials. And each with its tale to tell.

Back when animal rights activists were only drooling over the ox and the ass of a nativity scene, someone came up with the bright idea of using tortoiseshell, a natural substance already in use for combs, hair slides and various other items ever since women discovered they were beautiful and the human eye learned to delight in priceless manmade objects, namely, back in the mists of time. I can’t find any info on tortoiseshell plectrums dating to before the beginning of last century, but in all probability they did exist.
The most common species of tortoiseshell used to make items of any kind, including plectrums, was the type known as imbricated. This term means “overlapping” and indicates the superimposition of the corneal plates that make up the back. The cruelty with which the set of plates used to be “extracted” was something appalling. Since the carapace can only be detached from the rest of the animal at high temperatures, the latter was roasted over a fire and “stripped” of its “home”. Later on ‒ but no less cruel ‒ boiling water was used until the point when any violence against the animal came to be severely prohibited. Sadly, laws are often not enough and there continues to be a black market buoyed by countries like the Seychelles and Madagascar.

With regard to the mention of the animal’s shield as its “home”, there is a short mythological tale to be told. Tortoises belong to the order of chelonians in the reptile family and Chelone, in Greek mythology, was the name of a nymph who was invited by the messenger Hermes (the Roman Mercury) to the wedding of Zeus and Hera, but disdained to take part, preferring to stay in her house on the river bank. Hermes dragged her into the water in a rage, along with her house, and thus Chelone became a tortoise, an animal inseparable from its “roof”. Hence the full name of the Imbricata, which is Chelonia Imbricata.

In a rapid rundown comparing the quality of plectrums in tortoiseshell, celluloid and plastic, the order is the one just given. There is more than one reason why those in tortoiseshell take first place: a magnificent feel and grip when holding them, a warm sound that is open on the high notes with the welcome characteristic of bringing out the harmonics. They are also free from static build-up and possess a good memory in the sense that after picking they swiftly return to their initial status.
Unfortunately, both the production of plectrums in tortoiseshell and those in splendid celluloid has ceased. The latter were abandoned around the mid-nineties due to high production costs.
Plectrums in real tortoiseshell can be found on the black market and cost around 40-50 Euros each. Replacing them, and coming very close to them in terms of performance, are certain mass-production lines. I’m mentioning only a few of them along with a score (expressed on the basis of others’ experience) plus the price.
Here they are.
Saga Music, Golden Gate model, a score of 8
Bluechip (costly, €35), a score of 8.5
JB Shell Sonic Triangle, a score of 7
Wegen (costly, €20), a score of 8.5
Red Bear Tortis (based on polymerized animal protein, costly, €20), a score of 9

Some ranges of plectrums in artificial tortoiseshell are exceptional and in certain cases it is difficult to tell the real nature of the material by eye. There are a number of small tests to understand whether a vintage plectrum is made of tortoiseshell or celluloid. The most important being the “camphor” one.
If, for example, while rubbing it on a piece of fabric, or even between finger and thumb, the plectrum gives off a camphor smell (that’s right, the same as disinfectants), then the plectrum is made of celluloid. The reason is easy to explain. Celluloid (which is a trade name) is the result of the marriage (made by J. W. Hyatt) between natural camphor (a highly aromatic resin taken mostly from the wood of the Laurus Camphora) and cellulose nitrate. If you want more proof, try sucking the plectrum. If a menthol flavour remains on your tongue, then it is celluloid. Or, masochistically, you can heat a pin and press it into a non-strategic part of the plectrum. If the tip sinks in straight away and you smell camphor, you know fine what material it is.

One oddity. The top model of the Sonata brand (made by Harmony in the period between the two World Wars) is an arch-top featuring a large pickguard made entirely out of tortoiseshell.

Anyone wishing to delve further into the question of plectrums might like to read the book by Will Hoover entitled “Picks” first published in 1995 by Miller Freeman Books.