On a warm Saturday night in Las Vegas, the Colosseum at Caesars Palace glowed with nostalgia as Neil Diamond, now 84, took the stage for an intimate evening of music and memories. Midway through the show, right after his iconic “Sweet Caroline,” a stagehand appeared carrying a weathered mahogany acoustic guitar.
The crowd thought it was just a prop — but Neil froze. His eyes widened as he recognized the 1963 Gibson J-45 with its faded sunburst finish: the very guitar he had used to write “Solitary Man,” believed lost for decades.
The story went that the guitar had vanished during a chaotic move in the mid-1970s. Neil had accepted it was gone forever — maybe sold or misplaced somewhere, perhaps cherished by another musician. But tonight, the truth unfolded.
David Ross, Neil’s longtime road manager, stepped forward to explain. Years ago, an assistant had packed up Neil’s storage but accidentally left the guitar behind. The landlord found it and stashed it away in his attic for decades. Recently, the landlord’s grandson discovered it, spotted Neil’s carved initials inside the soundhole, and reached out.
Trembling, Neil cradled the guitar, tracing every scratch like a sacred map. “I wrote my first dreams on this wood,” he whispered to the crowd.
The theater fell silent as Neil strummed a tender chord. Then, with raw emotion, he began playing “Brooklyn Roads.” His voice cracked on the second verse, but he pressed on, letting the music carry him.
When the last note faded, Neil rested his forehead against the guitar and softly said, “Welcome home.” The audience rose—not in loud applause but in a shared, quiet reverence for a man reunited with his long-lost friend.
No encore. No grand farewell. Just Neil walking offstage, guitar in hand, as if afraid to let go again.
