Daniel Margasa lives on a lake in Palermo, but from his villa-style home to his west coast fashion sensibility, and the fly-in clientele of his business Sixx Gun Music, he might as well be in Los Angeles, Las Vegas or some other hot, neon metropolis of Spanish taxonomy.

The look of the house, as it turns out, has more to do with Palermo than the American West, but more on that later.

For years, Margasa, a drummer and music producer, and most recently builder of high-end custom guitars and amplifiers, lived in LA. He spent a year in Vegas, and at one time called Boston home until it stopped feeling like one.

Between his recording and producing gigs and the touring schedule of his band Five Star Loser, he was always shipping out to one city or another. At some point he realized that he didn’t want his home to be in one.

In 2000, he bought a property amid the summer residences of Bald Head Island on Sheepscot Lake. His first home there burned and was rebuilt once, but in essence he set up shop in Maine a decade ago and has been here as a year-round resident — in the winter he is often the only one on the island — ever since.

His house includes a full music studio, a woodshop and detailing room for building guitars and amplifiers, a showroom where he displays his work for prospective customers, an office where his assistant works and living spaces appointed in a style that wouldn’t be out of place on the MTV show “Cribs” — albeit on a much smaller scale and with more food in the refrigerator.

Margasa’s been building guitars and amps for about three years and has started to generate a buzz among professional players and others in the music industry — the guitars are highly detailed, flashy designs, often treated to make them look like they’ve been around the block a few times, and the amps have received rave reviews from the handful of name brand players who have tried them out.

Hardly anyone in Maine knows what Margasa does, and he’s hoping to change that. But the markets are much smaller in Maine, so for now he continues to go where the work is.

About once a month, Margasa, who jokes that he never leaves his house without a suitcase, flies across the country to work as a producer or a session musician or both. He started his music career as a drummer, but picked up guitar at some point because he wanted to include it in his recordings (in his current band, he plays guitar and sings).

As session work goes, his ability to play a part while overseeing a recording session, he said, has made him somewhat sought after.

At some point along the way, he started tinkering and modifying guitars, improving them and selling them for a premium. Later he started making his own, drawing on the expertise of others for a few tricky parts like the neck and fretboard but mostly doing everything from carving the bodies to painting finishes and installing custom wiring and hardware.

As a kind of sideline, he’s made some remarkable replicas of the guitars of famous players. Walking through his home, several are on display here and there including Stevie Ray Vaughn’s signature “SRV,” The George Lynch (Dokken) J-Frog guitar and, most striking, Eddie Van Halen’s “Frankenstein,” detailed down to the scratches on the red, white and black striped body and the 1971 quarter that held the bridge of the original in place.

Margasa sells the replicas and his own designs under the brand name “Hangar-13” — the name, he said has no special significance beyond an allusion to airplanes, a slight riff on his street address and the fact that it hadn’t yet been trademarked.

Van Halen, who signed off on 300 replicas of his “Frankenstein” guitar released through his own company, EVH, was not impressed with the Hangar-13 version, according to Margasa, who said the rocker’s lawyers have sent Sixx Gun Music several cease and desist letters. eBay allegedly shut Margasa down for selling the replicas, but he maintains that there’s a vast legal difference between a replica and a counterfeit. And since he makes no attempt to pass his off as the real thing — his bears a prominent “H-13” on the headstock — it’s not a problem.

“I know Eddie Van Halen,” he said. “That’s my argument with him. You can’t copyright the stripe.”

A bigger concern from Van Halen’s point of view may be the price. The official replicas cost $25,000 new. Margasa’s are about a tenth of that price. He makes them to order and, though he’s obviously proud of them, he seems less invested in promoting those than the guitars he designs himself.

Among these there’s the “Bomber,” which has the appearance of a World War II era plane, the “Puzzle,” an all-black guitar routed with a glittering green pattern to resemble the name, and a new model called the “Mr. Paul,” a tribute to one of the more sought after models of one of the most popular guitars ever, the Les Paul, specifically the 1959 model.

In the broad spirit of authenticity, the “Mr. Paul,” which looks more or less like an actual Les Paul — the most noticeable difference is the large “59” carved into the headstock — features a finishing step called relicing (i.e., making into a relic) that involves carefully distressing the finish to look worn-in.

Margasa speaks of relicing as though it were the inevitable final step of luthiery, and for now the treatment is unquestionably in style. Considering that jeans and furniture have been subjected to levels of pre-consumer abuse for years, guitars are arguably late to the relicing party, but recently it’s caught on — most visibly in Fender’s “road worn” series.

On relicing, Margasa says it’s a mental thing.

“It feels different to them,” he said. “… The guitar doesn’t sound any different, it doesn’t play any different.”

He looked away for a moment, thinking. When he turned back, he seemed to have the answer.

“The phenomenon is it’s just cooler to have a guitar that looks like it’s been loved and played. It’s mojo,” he said. It’s also about having a guitar that looks like the ones your heroes play.

“You’re not going to play your guitar enough to make it look beat up like that,” he said. “But you want people to think you did.”

Which raises the question of who buys Margasa’s Hangar 13 guitars, which sell for just under $4,000, roughly twice the cost of a high quality mass-market guitar.

Margasa said he puts about $1,300 into the materials alone, which accounts for some of the price, and the guitars are designed to be exceptional instruments even if they never get used that way.

“Someone might want to buy that guitar to hang on the wall,” he said, “I don’t know.” Given the cost, he asked rhetorically, would the owner want to risk bringing it to a club where it could get dinged up?

Margasa didn’t seem to worry much about what happened to the guitars, post-sale. The craft and challenge of making them seemed to be the important thing.

The windowless workshop in Margasa’s home has the timeless and, say, naturally reliced feeling of a rock club. Mock-ups of guitar bodies hang from the ceiling or stand erect in vices with various drips and spatters of paint. Projects in various completion lie on benches — most recently a guitar with high-relief fangs dripping blood down the body and rings of bones encircling the pick-ups was under construction for a famous producer with a thing for vampires.

“It’s your basic shop of doom,” Margasa said, casually.

In one corner is a booth for finish work, primarily soldering and upholstery for Margasa’s custom amplifiers, the other big piece of his fledgling boutique instrument business.

Like many musicians, Margasa got his initial exposure electronics by looking for blown transistors, bulging capacitors, shorts, and other bugs that were fouling up his own equipment.

Unlike the majority of his peers, he decided at some point that he wanted to learn more. He signed up to take a class at a luthier’s school in Chicago that involved putting together a basic amplifier from a kit, but as he would later realize, the course taught him nothing about how amps work. It was all about assembly.

To learn the intangibles of amp building, he traveled to Indiana to spend a week with a man he described as the guy the amplifier designers go to when they have a problem with their circuits — a man he would at various times refer to as a guru, or with joking respect, as Yoda.

Learning the theory behind the electronics, he said, enabled him to see beyond what he described as a kind of blindness afflicting the aspiring amp builders of the world. Namely, the idea that all the good amps have been built, and the best a new company can do is make a variation of a Marshall, Fender, Vox, Ampeg or one of a handful of other unique circuit designs.

Margasa credits his nontraditional circuitry of his signature amp, the Lady Deadlock, with his piecemeal education and willingness to try new things.

In a nutshell, the Lady Deadlock is an extremely clean sounding amp of the sort that country players seek out. There are three knobs and Margasa makes a point to say that, unlike some of the big name amps, all of them do something.

When he finished the design, he recalled, his teacher (the guru) said it looked wrong. Beneath the statement was the man’s own belief that innovations probably would.

“To me that’s a compliment,” Margasa said. “I’m not an engineer. I’m building amps here in the backwoods of Maine.”

In the shop a radio was playing classic rock. Margasa said he often works until midnight, and one gets the sense that he enjoys every minute of it.

One of the biggest things on his mind has been the prospect of building a guitar for a certain rock star. He’s been courting several big name guitarists but said this one is getting to the point where they will probably meet soon to discuss details.

Margasa probably wouldn’t want the player’s name published, but there’s a good chance that he hears him on the classic rock radio station at least once a night.

One of the strange ironies of the potential deal is that Margasa would be expected to pay for everything and give the instrument to the guitarist — who could probably afford to buy every guitar Margasa has ever made without denting his bank account — for free, provided he can use the guitarist’s name.

Though he knows other luthiers who have nearly bankrupted themselves making multiple guitars for pampered rockers who keep coming back for the top-shelf freebies, Margasa didn’t seemed too bothered by the prospect of not getting paid. The endorsement could bode really well for his business.

The best thing, he said, would be if he could do well enough with his guitars that he didn’t have to travel so much. To this end, he recently started advertising on craigslist and said ironically it’s the first time he’s had Mainers looking at his gear.

“I’m building these guitars for all these superstars and I have this studio but I don’t have anyone in Maine,” he said. As an aside he vented an unconvincing gripe about traveling.

“I find this very therapeutic,” he said. “I could sit here and listen to Tom Petty (no, that’s not the guy he might build the guitar for) all day and build amps.”

By “here,” he means Palermo, the town Margasa moved to partly on the capricious namesake connection to the town his Sicilian mother was from. His father was from Portugal.

As a child Margasa lived in Europe, which is why, he said, he built the kind of house he did, in the style of a Spanish villa. And he built it that way because that’s the way he wants to live.

He had just come back from somewhere out west and was going to be flying out for another gig in a week. Standing in the showroom at home, he laughed at the absurdity of it all — the absurdity that accounted for everything he has and doesn’t have.

“Why are they calling me?” he said. “There’s so many good guys in Vegas. I should be the guy in Maine.”

VillageSoup reporter Ethan Andrews can be reached at 207-338-3333 or by email to eandrews@villagesoup.com.