Month: May 2001

It’s Friday the 13th, but Luther Allison ain’t feeling superstitious. Halfway through a four-hour set in Minneapolis, he rolls into a rollicking version of his award-winning hit song “Cherry Red Wine,” unleashing a melodious storm from his trademark golden Les Paul. Luther is rejoicing in the blues, and his energy is mirrored in the faces of the standing-room-only crowd. He picks guitar with his teeth, boogies across the stage, and waltzes out among his fans. The blues have come to town with a fury.

Luther Allison’s time is now. He’s riding high on two fine albums, Soul Fixin’ Man (Alligator, 1994) and Blue Streak (Alligator, 1995). He took home an arm full of five big trophies at the 1996 W.C. Handy Awards in Memphis, including Best Male Blues Artist, and won a handsome 10 Living Blues Readers’ and Critics’ Awards. He’s instantly become the hottest headliner for blues festivals around the world. And in the last year, he graced the cover of all the major blues magazines and Blues Access crowned him the new king of the blues. Luther’s new Alligator CD, Reckless, promises to deliver more of the goods.

Luther has paid his dues to get to the top. He has been touted as “the next big thing” ever since the debut of his first full record as a leader in 1969, and his legendary performances in the 1960s and 1970s. Now, there’s no denying it: the former shoeshine boy has made it big.

Luther is justifiably proud of his recent achievements. He is a gracious, friendly man who loves to talk about the blues and vintage guitars. We met for a series of three interviews and chats before and after his Minneapolis show. Bursting with energy, he summed up his current state.

“I feel great! I’m not running out of steam now.”

Gospel, Muddy Waters, and Baseball
Luther was raised on gospel. He was born in Widener, Arkansas, on August 17, 1939, the 14th of 15 children in a sharecropping family. He learned to play organ and sing gospel early on, roots that come through today in his soulful, churchified blues singing. Music always mattered in his family, and he remembers he and his father listening to everything from the Grand Ole Opry to B.B. King on Memphis’ all-black WDIA radio.

Like many other rural Southern youths, Luther fashioned a diddley-bow to make music: he stretched a length of broom wire between two nails on the side of a building, playing a one-string beat and melody using a slide. He first experimented with a guitar was at age 10, learning licks from his elder brother, Ollie, and strumming along with records by Muddy Waters and his favorite bluesman, slide guitarist Robert Nighthawk.

In 1951, the family said goodbye to Arkansas plantation life and made the exodus to the promised land – Chicago. Luther went to high school with Muddy Waters’ son, Charlie Morganfield, and hung out at Muddy’s house to hear his band practice. After school, Luther played baseball, apprenticed in shoemaking, and sang gospel in a group called the Southern Travellers. But he was also drawn to the blues clubs, and soon was drafted into Ollie’s band.

In about 1957, Luther and another brother, Grant, formed a serious band, presciently named the Rolling Stones, but later changed to the Four Jivers. Luther also played bass behind neighborhood chum Jimmy Dawkins, learned licks from friends Magic Sam Maghett and Otis Rush, and sat in with Muddy. But it was Freddie King who took Luther under his wing.

King was playing as a frontman in Chicago at the time and was on the verge of breaking big with his 1960s Federal hits, “You’ve Got to Love Her With a Feeling” and “Hide Away.” He became Luther’s blues mentor, inspiring his music and his love of goldtop Les Pauls.

Luther appeared as a sideman on a handful of recordings in the 1960s, backing Delta bluesman Johnny Shines and Big Walter Horton on a Testament session. He first recorded as a frontman for Bob Koester’s fledgling Delmark label in 1967, releasing his first full album, Love Me Mama, in 1969.

At the 1969 Ann Arbor Blues Festival, Luther wowed the blues world much as Jimi Hendrix had dazzled the rock world at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. Luther played an inspired show, covering blues classics with his rock and roll touch. Throughout the ’70s, he was on the verge of the big time, returning to Ann Arbor several times, as well as Fillmores East and West.

Luther was the first bluesman I ever saw live, way back in the bad old ’70s. Fresh out of high school, I had heard the odd Muddy album and Clapton’s whitebread blues. But even though I was an ex-boy scout, I was unprepared. I was mesmerized by the age-old pomp and circumstance of the blues show: the band’s building intro theme and then, there’s Luther – with a 100-foot guitar cable, playing down amongst hoi polloi, like Guitar Slim. This was the real thing.

The Prodigal Son
In the late 1970s, disco was cool and blues were old school. Luther was getting more accolades in Europe, so in 1984, he packed his guitars and moved to Paris. There, he cut a long string of rocking R & B albums and built a devoted following.

“Luther Allison got a chance and unfortunately I had to go do it that way,” he recounts. “Jimi Hendrix had to do the same thing. At a certain point, I was a bigger name than B.B. King in Europe.”

Yet he always kept an eye on America. He played shows in the U.S. several times and tried in vain to get his French albums released here.

“I sent my records over here but everyone says, ‘That’s not the blues.’ And I say, ‘Hey, I don’t just play “Sweet Home Chicago” and “Stormy Monday”.’ They say, ‘You’ve been away too long.’ But I have been back here many a time but there ain’t no coverage unless some foul show go down.”

Finally, in the early 1990s, he teamed up with German blues aficionado and budding record-label head Thomas Ruf. Together with Luther’s second wife and manager, Rocky Brown, they charted a career for Luther, which included a return to the U.S. Bruce Iglauer, chief of Chicago’s Alligator Records, saw Luther play in Cannes, France, and knew the time was right.

Luther made a pilgrimage to Nashville to record what would become his first U.S. album in two decades. He was backed by the Memphis Horns and his U.S. touring group, the James Solberg Band, from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. At the control board was producer Jim Gaines, a veteran of sessions with the likes of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Albert Collins, and Santana. The result was a masterpiece, released in 1994 in Germany as Bad Love and later that year in the U.S. on Alligator as Soul Fixin’ Man.

The “Soul Fixin’ Man” moniker came to Luther on the spur of the moment.

“We were down in Nashville recording and we were walking one night on Beale Street down near B. B. King’s club, and there was a shoeshine guy and James Solberg said, ‘You used to shine shoes, didn’t you?’ and I said, ‘Yeah, I’m the sole fixin’ man.’ And we wrote that song that night. And it fired up the band and we named the album after the song.”

In 1995, Luther headlined the Chicago Blues Festival with Otis Rush. It was like the triumphant return of the prodigal son: one wheelchair-bound older woman in front of the stage shouting and hallelujahing, revival-style, as if kingdom had finally come. Tours in support of Soul Fixin’ Man and 1995’s Blue Streak packed clubs and festivals around the world.

Luther is philosophical about his revival.

“There’s many people who used to know Luther Allison when they were in college,” he said. “They’re raising their families now and they want to come out and have some fun again and they remember Luther Allison from the energy I gave then, and the energy I’m giving now. I have been away and I have been back – many times.”

Luther’s energy is, at times, downright frightening. He sometimes has to change guitars after almost every song due to broken strings. He employs the hardest-working guitar tech in show business.

Talking Blues Guitars
Luther loves to talk guitars. He has long been enamored with goldtop Les Pauls. Emulating Freddie King, early on he picked a P90-equipped goldtop. Today, his trademark is once again Midas-touched Les Pauls. On the Blue Streak tour, he played a goldtop Classic and his “perfect guitar,” a heavy, all-gold Classic he discovered in Paris several years back.

“This guitar has made a lot of noise for Luther Allison,” he says.

He bought his first guitar at pawnshop for $20, “…and paid another 20 bucks for the pickup a year later because we had to scratch for it, selling pop bottles, watermelon, whatever.”

He soon moved up to Les Pauls.

“Somewhere along the line I was able to get a Les Paul Junior which [belonged to] a friend of my brother’s who sang gospel.”

In 1961, he was playing a nightclub called Walton’s Corner, in Chicago, and the club owner told him he needed some decent equipment. The owner fronted Luther a piggyback Fender amp and a white Stratocaster. That Strat was later loaned to Magic Sam, who made it famous.

“Magic Sam took my Stratocaster to Europe and all around,” Luther reminisces. “He used it and finally he gave it back to me. I had it refinished and then it got stolen and I ain’t seen it since.”

Along with Les Pauls, Luther grew up on Strats. “In those days, everybody jumped on the brand new Stratocaster. Everybody had a Strat at some point, and I had two or three down the stretch. We were all victims of the Stratocaster. I still play a Strat now.”

Luther has a prized black ’62 Strat that became a victim of his performing excesses.

“I split it down the middle acting the fool,” he says, recounting the time he was standing on his own cord doing some fancy tricks, and the guitar body literally split in half. He has since had it repaired.

Luther also plays Super Strat-like Blade guitars made by American expatriate luthier Gary Levinson, in Basel, Switzerland.

“I have played and promoted the Blade for many, many years now. It’s a fantastic guitar but at the same time it’s not going to be the Les Paul. You can get the Strat sound, the SG sound, and almost a Les Paul sound.”

In fact, Luther’s Blue Streak album was named for the blue Blade he is pictured with on the cover – almost.

“What happened is that I forgot the name of the guitar; it’s really called the Silver Streak. But it’s painted blue, and that’s how we came up with the name. So I’m feeling good and I call Gary up and say, ‘Hey, I just named my record after your guitar.’ And he says, ‘But it’s not Blue Streak, it’s Silver Streak.’”

Overall, Luther loves Gibsons, which he terms the “Cadillac” of blues guitars.

“You see me with a Les Paul in my hands most of the time. I played Gibsons for years and years and years. Matter of fact, Gibson was the first guitar I played after I was able to get a name-brand guitar.”

Alongside his goldtops, he also plays a sweet baby blue Lucille. As he says, “Lucille was a big effect on me, and I like to play 335s. I have a ’67 335 and a ’50s 345 Stereo, given to me a long time ago.”

His intense acoustic CD, Hand Me Down My Moonshine, was recorded largely with a 1950s Gibson LG series sunburst.

He currently plays slide on either a tobaccoburst Les Paul reissue given to him by Gibson at the 1996 W. C. Handy Awards, or on an Ibanez ES-335 copy. “I play slide in normal and G, but I like the Elmore James, Hound Dog Taylor trip-E tuning.” Luther also has a 1930s 12-fret, slothead National Duolian.

Gibson has lately returned Luther’s longtime faith in the brand.

“When we were recording down in Nashville, we went over to the factory, went to the Custom Shop, got to know the people. They’re being very supportive of me with mechanical work and they take care of my business.”

Not a fan of effects, Luther lets nothing come between him and his backline.

“I used to play a Strat with a Twin Reverb with JBL speakers. I loved that sound and went to Europe [with the setup], but the sound wouldn’t work with the different electrical current. I couldn’t get that beautiful sound.”

In Europe these days, he uses a German-made Stevens rackmount amp run through two Fender 1959 Bassman Reissue 4 X 10 cabinets.

In the U.S., he was using two recent Fender 4 X 10 DeVilles. He has just switched to a single Victoria 4 X 10 that he is pleased with. “I’m looking for a sound between Albert King and Freddie King.”

These days, however, there’s many a guitar player striving for the Luther Allison sound. The former shoeshine boy has become the Soul Fixin’ Man.

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Photo Michael Dregni. Return of the prodigal son: Luther Allison headlines the 1995 Chicago Blues Festival, playing impassioned slide on his Ibanez ES-335 copy.

This article originally appeared in VG‘s Apr. ’97 issue.

Legendary multi-instrumentalist Roy Clark has owned a number of the first “consumer items” listed in this article’s subtitle, and he collects the latter two. Knowing that Clark is into aviation as well as classic instruments and vehicles would tend to make a conversation with the guitarist all the more intriguing.

And that was exactly the case when Vintage Guitar sat down with Clark prior to a recent concert. Clark’s exuberance for the guitar-oriented dialogue was evident, as he gestured at many times during the interview to emphasize a particular point; i.e., the country music veteran frequently played “air guitar!”

His 1994 autobiography, My Life: In Spite of Myself!, served as a basis for many of VG‘s inquiries about details, but our initial question concerned another story – one that had appeared in the electronic media:

Vintage Guitar: Since your autobiography was released, TNN aired a documentary called The Life and Times of Roy Clark. How did that come about?

Roy Clark: I saw one about Roy Acuff and one on someone else, and at the time I remarked to my wife it was a nice program; very entertaining and informative. Then they contacted me and since I had already seen those shows, I thought it was great!

They’re very thorough; they make them very entertaining. They have to condense things, but they keep the meat of the story.

Did you have any input in regard to production? Did you provide photos, for example?

Well, I’m sure the office did; a lot of that stuff is handled while I’m off somewhere tuning guitars (chuckles)! About all I had to do was sit and talk with an easygoing woman. In fact, I was impressed with the way she got my wife to talk. [She] also said that the interviewer had been so easy to talk to.

There was a minimal amount of interview footage but a lot of good documentary footage.

There was, and where they got it, I don’t know. I’ve been doing this a long time, so there’s apparently a lot of stuff out there. I just did George Jones’ show a few weeks ago, and they sent me a copy of it, and there was a little clip in there of me doing a show where Roy Acuff was the emcee, and Jerry Byrd was playing rhythm guitar while I was doing all of this garbage I used to do back then. I was fascinated because I had completely forgotten about it. It was a part of that series called “Good Ol’ Nashville Music.” I remembered the show, but I didn’t remember working with Roy Acuff.

What’s the latest on Branson?

I’m not a landlord anymore (chuckles). I’m either praised or considered guilty for building the first “celebrity” theater there; in other words, using people that were known nationally, as opposed to the theaters that were there prior to our theater. They had family shows with family members. Great entertainment, but they were only known in that part of the country. So we built this celebrity theater, and when I wasn’t there, we had Mel Tillis, Glen Campbell, Louise Mandrell, Barbara Mandrell, and most of them have built their own theaters.

We built in ’82 and opened in late ’83. Back then the season was May 1 to October 31. There were four of us involved in building the theater, and I didn’t think it would create enough revenue for four people, so I backed out of it after the first year, and I worked there. Then Jim Thomas, one of the original partners, talked me into buying it, which I did in 1990, and I sold it back to him in ’95, with the stipulation that I work there for two years, which was up this past year.

We’re going into a brand new theater that just opened last August – Loew’s Branson Town U.S.A. I’ve haven’t played there yet, but I’ve been in it; it’s a beautiful theater. They’ve dug down 30 feet, so when you walk in, it’s like walking into a ballpark – there’s the “playing field” down there, and there’s not a bad seat in the house. It’s got a big, nice stage, and I’m going to play 72 days there this year.

You noted in the book that you were an impulse buyer, and although you were referring to your airplanes, were you indicating that you’re the kind of guy who grabs a container of malted milk balls near the checkout line?

(laughs) Those are my favorites! Yeah, but I’m better than I used to be. I would get stuck by not paying attention to what I was doing. If I went to buy a car, they’d say, “Come back tomorrow; we’ll have it serviced by then.” But I’d say, “Aw, I’ll get that done myself; I want it right now.” But I finally got over that to a great degree.

Most of the stuff I acquire are things that have sentimental value. I collect cars, and almost all of [them] have had something to do with my life.

The reason I brought up your impulse buyer past is the photos in your book indicate it also may also have been applicable to your guitar purchases. For example, there’s a picture of you in 1951 with what appears to be a new Fender electric guitar.

That was a Broadcaster. When the Fender guitar came out around ’51, it was like nothing you’d ever had your hands on. Back then, I could not afford those high-dollar Gibsons, and most of the guitars I played had action a quarter of an inch high, which is good for building up chops, but not for continuous playing.

I was playing at a little club in Washington, D.C., and a Marine from California who’d just been discharged walked in with a Fender guitar and wanted to sit in with us.

Had you ever seen a solidbody electric before?

No, I’d seen pictures of Merle Travis’ Bigsby, but I’d never looked at one closely. That Marine let me play his Fender, and my Lord, when I put my hands on it, it practically played itself! They may have been all the rage in California, but I don’t think there were any in music stores in D.C. at the time.

I won a five-string banjo contest later on, and part of the prize was $500, so I bought a Broadcaster.

Another photo in the book shows you in ’52 with a goldtop Les Paul.

Yep, and I still have it.

There’s even a photo of you in a book on Gibson electric guitars that shows you around ’59 with a natural-finish Gibson ES-335. I also noted you were sporting an impressive set of ducktails (Clark laughs), but again, that guitar would just about have been a brand new model back then.

That was taken at Capitol Studios when I was recording my first album. I borrowed that guitar; someone had just stolen everything I had out of the back of my station wagon – my underclothes, boots, cufflinks, a Gibson Mastertone banjo, another ’52 Les Paul I owned, a trumpet – wiped me out. I was due to go out and record, so Smitty Irvin, the banjo player with Jimmy Dean, let me borrow that Gibson.

On the same trip, Leo Fender gave me a Jazzmaster, which had just come out. But I wasn’t used to it. I had it in the studio with me, but I played that blond Gibson, because I was a little more familiar with it.

I recall reading an interview with Mr. Fender one time, when they asked him about his favorite guitar players. He said, “Roy Clark; he plays the guitar the way a guitar should be played.” But at that time I was playing a Byrdland, and the guy interviewing him told him I played a Gibson. Leo said, “You can’t win ’em all,” and I thought it was so clever of him to come back like that. And Bill Carson was the guy who had the answers with Fender if you had a question about something.

One photo in your book is a bit of a paradox considering your acquisition of new solidbody electric guitars in the early ’50s: there’s a mid-’50s picture of you with the Jimmy Dean band, and you’re holding what appears to be a Gibson acoustic with a clamp-on McCarty fingerrest and two pickups built into the pickguard.

I was searching for something at that time, and I traded for that guitar; I’ve forgotten what I was playing before I traded for that one. It really didn’t fit for all of the stuff I was doing, so I didn’t have that guitar long. I don’t even remember the model.

When you toured with Ernest Tubb, was Billy Byrd his guitarist at the time?

Yes.

Was Byrd playing his Bigsby?

Yes.

That guitar’s in Tulsa right now (Clark, who resides in Tulsa, raises eyebrows). Larry Briggs has it, and we’ve displayed it at our booth at guitar shows.

I haven’t seen it since 1952! I’ll make it a point of going down and seeing it.

You played around D.C. for most of the ’50s, right?

Yeah, but when I won that banjo contest, the other part of the prize was that I got to go to Nashville, and I worked out of there. That’s where that picture of me with the Fender guitar was taken. I would go out on the road with Stringbean and Lonzo & Oscar, and we would play little theaters. Then, on a Friday, we’d go to a major city and join up with Ernest Tubb or Red Foley – the bigger stars – for the weekend. Then they’d go on their way and we’d go on ours until the next weekend.

When you ended up back in D.C., were you aware of players like Roy Buchanan or Danny Gatton?

I knew of them; Danny used to come out with his parents and watch me play. I read that in a write-up on him. Through the ’50s, and probably through the ’60s, D.C. was like no other town, because girls would come from all over [to work for] the government after they graduated from high school, and there were plenty of boys there, in the service. So every club was like a Saturday night; you’d have a packed house and there must have been 300 clubs with live entertainment.

Another milestone was playing the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas with Wanda Jackson. Does it still exist? Some of the older clubs have been demolished to make way for new ones.

It’s still there. Steve Wynn went into Vegas and…bought that whole block, which included the Lucky Strike – the one you see in every Vegas movie; it has the giant neon cowboy doing his hand like this (gestures with hitchhiking pantomime). He refurbished the Golden Nugget, and it’s incredible now.

Your buddy, Hank Thompson, considers himself a singer and arranger more than a guitarist.

But you ought to hear when he sits down and plays. He’ll surprise you!

Thompson recorded the very first live country at that venue. Was the Golden Nugget more oriented toward country acts?

I recall that album very well; Hank’s wearing a black suit with silver dollars all over it, and he’s standing in front of the Golden Nugget. Everybody played there. They had entertainment from 11 in the morning until eight the next morning. Bob Wills and Hank Penny were there. I wound up working with Penny later, but that performance with Wanda Jackson was the first thing I did when I left D.C. When I left Wanda, there was a short time when I was trying to get my bearings, to see what I really wanted to do, and Hank Penny got me to join his group. He didn’t really need me, and he was without a doubt the greatest entertainer I ever worked with. He was funny, but he was also a good musician and a good singer. He even did a baggy-pants routine with a funny hat.

And it was Hank who got me that Jazzmaster from Leo.

“Tips of My Fingers” was your first big hit. What did you think of Steve Wariner’s version in the early ’90s?

I thought it was great. And I keep thinking about the song; Bill Anderson wrote it, but it was on the B-side of something else his company was pushing, so I slipped in under that and had the first hit in ’63. Later on – and I don’t know if it was in this order – Jean Shepard had a hit with it, Eddy Arnold had a hit with it, Bill Anderson had a hit, then Steve Wariner. I mean, you could send your kids to college off the royalties from that one song (laughs)!

Another guitar veteran, Duane Eddy, told me how he admired folks like Wariner, Vince Gill, and Ricky Skaggs, who are good players, good singers, and good writers. That seems a more recent phenomenon, but you’ve been in that mode for a long time.

When I came along, you didn’t find that. You might find some performers like that in clubs, maybe, but if you sang you usually just played rhythm chords on guitar. And if you were a good guitar player, you played for a singer, backing him up. All the guys you mentioned are exceptional musicians, but all of them, to my knowledge, came up working in other bands until they had enough experience to go out on their own.

You endorsed Gretsch guitars in the ’70s, when it was a Baldwin-owned company. Some of their products were okay – I saw a photo of you playing what appeared to be a Country Club with a squared-off pickguard from those times. But there were some weird models introduced then, and the ’70s have been stereotyped as a decade when more than one major guitar manufacturer experienced quality control problems.

I even knew it at the time. My connection with them then was Shot Jackson. Shot was a dear friend of mine; he had a deal with Baldwin/Gretsch, and he made a lot of those guitars. There was actually a Roy Clark model that was like the Super Axe they made for Chet [Atkins], with a phase shifter built into it. They were gaudy looking, but they played good. I didn’t get any big money out of that endorsement, and the Roy Clark model was a Super Axe they changed a little.

I’m not going to mention the brand, but during that decade there was also a controversy concerning another ad where you were holding a flat-top acoustic. It turned out you hadn’t authorized it; the photo had been taken at a music store, as I recall. Do you remember?

Yes I do, vaguely. I don’t think it ever got as far as litigation, but they had to withdraw the ad because I did not okay it. In fact, I had an endorsement with another brand, and they called me and said, “Hey, what the deal?” So the two manufacturers got it straightened out.

A lot of photographs in the book were also in the TNN special, but one of the instruments in the special that’s not in the book is a (Gibson) Barney Kessel; its pickguard had been removed.

(pauses) Evidently that was a picture of me with a Barney Kessel that wasn’t mine; I never owned one (upon further review, the instrument in question appears to be a Ventura copy).

There’s a nice photo in the book of you and your dad in the midst of a lot of cars and guitars on display. I presume the picture was taken at your Branson theater.

That’s at Hugh Hawthorne’s museum in Richmond, Virginia. He’s got two of Richard Petty’s cars and he’s a big buddy of Richard’s, as I am. He also collects instruments. He’s got a couple of my old suits and a couple guitars I gave him.

I enjoyed your performance on TV some years ago with Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown – I’m 99 percent sure it was “Austin City Limits” on PBS –

(grins) Yep!

…and y’all were playing “Caldonia.”

(still grinning) Yep!

…and he had this way of making his guitar “talk,” but he was doing some kind of gimmick with his voice at the same time. You looked like you were having a tremendous time, and Brown’s “technique” was quite different from Alvino Rey’s.

He does two licks; he goes up like this (gestures on imaginary guitar neck), and he calls that his “up-whip,” and he calls this (gestures in opposite direction) his “down-whip.” In fact, we cut an album together called Makin’ Music, and Steve Ripley (VG, July ’99) produced it. We did it in Tulsa; we just sat down in the studio and said, “What do you want to play? You know this one?”

That’s the way Ripley likes to record anyway; first-takes and “live-in-the-studio.”

Steve and I wrote one of the tunes that’s on there. He came in one night saying something about “Four o’clock in the mornin’, three nights in a row.” We made it up as we went along.

I use Finger-Eze, and while we were making the album, Gate saw me spraying it onto my guitar neck, and wanted to know what it was. I told him it was Finger-Eze, and it made my fingers slide easier. He said: “Lemme try some,” and after he sprayed it on, he did that “up-whip” of his, went off the end of his neck, and hit his hand on the guitar body. He got a towel and wiped it off, telling me: “Man, this stuff is dangerous!” (laughs).

He does his fingers like this (gestures), almost like a bass player, and he catches the strings with the side of his fingers, instead of using a pick.

One of the things that distinguishes your in-concert version of “Malaguena” is that you flat-pick it rather than finger-picking it.

A lot of the things I do are gimmicky kind of things, but I do less of it now than I used to. I was playing a club in Safford, Arizona one night; it was in a hotel and was called the Matador Room. It was just one of those nights where it seemed like you could do no wrong; everything was just “clickin’.” Two doctor friends of mine were sitting out in the audience, and they kept yelling “Play ‘Malaquena!’” This had actually gone on for more than one night, and on that particular night I was playing a Fender Jaguar…of all things to try and play “Malaguena” on (chuckles)! I had been messing around with it, but I had never put it together from beginning to end; I was just fascinated with the melody.

So I started playing it right then and there, and I played it almost note-for-note the way I play it now. But I’ve graduated to an Ovation 12-string guitar, which gives it a bigger sound. What I’ve always tried to do is emulate the emotion of the song, rather than technically fingerpick it on a gut-string guitar, which is probably the way it was conceived.

You noted in your book that there was also a specific performance that made you decide to play that song “straight” instead of “mugging” while you were doing it.

All of my comedy started from the fact that I never had that much self-confidence; I would laugh and cut up, so the audience wouldn’t think I was being too serious. But slowly but surely, I got more confidence, and one night some guy came up to me after the show and said I played “Malaguena” so well that I didn’t need to “mug” while I was doing it, and he was right, so I’ve played it “straight” ever since.

You participated in the George Lindsey benefit golf tournament and show in my hometown for a number of years. I’m aware that you have had your own celebrity tournament; is that still ongoing?

We still have one, but it’s not the one we had for 17 years in Tulsa for the Children’s Medical Center. For the last six years, we’ve had one in West Palm Beach, Florida. This year, they’ve moved it to Fort Lauderdale. The hotel can accommodate all of the players, and they have two golf courses right there at the hotel; you don’t have to worry about transportation back and forth. We do that for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.

Do you participate in any other charity golf tournaments during the year?

I do the Crosby in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and I’ve been going to one in Linton, Indiana for about 15 years that was the Phil Harris tournament. Since Phil passed away, I’ve sort of inherited the “caretaking” of it, but we still call it the Friends of Phil Harris tournament, and it pays for scholarships for kids that can’t afford to go to school.

Tell me about your Heritage signature model guitar.

You already know that Heritage is the old Gibson plant, and it has a number of people still working there who were with Gibson. My guitar is based on a 335, which Heritage calls the 535, but my guitar’s got a single cutaway. It has a maple neck, which makes it a little head-heavy, and I still do a lot of stuff onstage, so I can’t get comfortable with it. Although I used that on the album I did with Joe Pass, which was the last thing he did, I use an off-the-rack 535 with a mahogany neck as my main stage guitar. Heritage makes great instruments, and their quality control is A-l.

Other performance instruments?

I use a Gibson Byrdland as a backup, which I happened to find in a closet! Back when I was playing Gibson all the time, I was flying commercial airlines, and they would break a lot of my guitars, so Gibson and I were always sending guitars back and forth. One day, I was going through a closet, and I saw this guitar case. I didn’t recognize it, and when I opened it up, it was a Byrdland; I’d had it 17 years, and it still had the wrapping paper on it! Talk about a classic! It’s so expensive I’m taking a chance hauling it out on the road, so that’s another reason I prefer that Heritage, but the Heritage also has a softer sound at volume. Almost any guitar through any amplifier might sound great at low volume, but if you crank ’em up onstage, they’ll lose it. The maple-neck guitar also has a tendency to get a little “hard”-sounding at volume.

I also use a Takamine flat-top for some bluegrass stuff, the Ovation 12-string acoustic for “Malaguena,” and I also have two Ovation solidbodies – a Deacon 12-string, which we use on some Russian folk songs and “Somewhere My Love,” the theme from Dr. Zhivago. It emulates a balalaika. I also use a Preacher six-string.

I think Ovation’s original solidbodies from the ’70s were very underrated and quite innovative for their times.

I’ve been looking for a backup for the Deacon. I’ve had it forever, and I’ve sent it back to the factory twice, because the electronics have gone out. It’s all on a printed circuit; if one little thing goes wrong you have to replace the whole thing.

The next obvious segue would be to discuss your personal collection.

I never set out to do it, but I love old instruments and they’re a pain in the neck! What are you gonna do with ’em (chuckles)? You can’t afford to take them on the road.

The last thing I got was a 1939 D-45 Martin, that was given to me. [Interviewer whistles appreciatively.] I was raised in D.C. with the guy that owned it, so I’ve known that guitar all my life. I played all over Washington with Smitty Smith, who’d owned this Martin. When he passed away, he left it to his nephew, who is a monster guitar player named Doyle Dykes. He’s incredible. One night at a show I can’t remember where it was – the security guard said “There’s a guy here who wants to give you a guitar.” You get this a lot, and a lot of those guitars may have a lot of sentimental value, but may not be much of an instrument.

But when they walked around the corner, I saw the case, which had stickers all over it, including one from Miami Beach with palm trees on it like what you used to see on luggage. Doyle told me: “You grew up with this guitar, and I thought you’d like to have it.”

There was something sincere about him, and when I opened the case, and I knew what it was right away; I said: “That’s Smitty’s.”

He said: “Yeah, he left it to me.”

I just went to the Martin factory, and Martin IV said there’s only 91 of ’em. George Gruhn has a ’38 or ’39 up on his second floor.

The first guitar I ever got was a Sears & Roebuck; I saw it in a catalog and my dad got it for me for Christmas. It was $14.95. I don’t have that guitar, but my cousin got one at the same time. He was killed in a plane crash several years ago, and my aunt gave me his guitar, so I have a twin of the first guitar I ever owned.

The first good guitar I ever had was a D-18 Martin, and I still have it; my dad played it after I left home. I also have a 00-18 Martin. I have two Super 400 Gibsons, a ’36 and a ’38. I have an L-5, an L-7, and an L-10. I didn’t know they made an L-10; it’s rare.

Double-triangle inlay and checkered binding?

(Grins, flashes thumbs-up) You got it! That checkered binding was the only difference in the L-7 and the L-10, so when people found out they could get the same guitar for less money, the L-10 didn’t last too long. I bought mine from Shot Jackson, when he had his music store in Nashville. I told Chet Atkins I’d bought it, and Chet said the first good guitar he ever had was an L-10. He’s the one who told me about the binding and why it didn’t last. I’ve also got two old Gibson 12-strings and some Alvarezes.

What about electrics?

I’ve got a ’58 Stratocaster, two Leo Fender signature model G&Ls, a Fender 2000 pedal steel, a ’57 Twin amp. I bought a student model steel with matching amp from Benny Garcia, a great guitar player out of Oklahoma City; I think it dates back to 1945. I’ve got a bunch of Gretsches.

It really works on your head, because you know they should be taken care of; they should be played, but I’m between a rock and a hard place, because I can’t take ’em out on the road and subject them to temperature changes and possible shipping damage.

Have you got any future recording projects lined up?

There’s one that’s still in the works. Reader’s Digest takes a poll, asking their readers all over the world who of the older artists would they like to hear new music by, and I rated very high in their poll. Joe Allison, who was my record producer from the onset, got to talking with Reader’s Digest about the concept, but doggone if he didn’t have to have a triple-bypass heart operation, which didn’t take, and he was in the hospital four months. He’s just now back on the road to recovery, so that’s the next thing, once he recuperates.

I guess I need to ask if you’ve bought any more airplanes on impulse since the book came out.

(chuckles) I flew almost everywhere for 28 years, and just to keep my hand in it, I got a high-performance single-engine model, a Cessna 210. I can go cross-country in it if I have to. Every now and then I’ll take my airplane to a concert, but we’re on a circuit with this tour, so I’m on a bus.

I still have my old bi-wing Stearman, with two open cockpits, that I still get a kick out of flying.

Last year, you reached the age where you were fully-qualified for Social Security. I interviewed B.B. King shortly before his 70th birthday, and like Mr. King, my perception is that you won’t ever retire.

I can’t find a way to! I made the mistake about seven, eight, 10 years ago of saying that I was going to slow down. I said that in an interview, and people picked up on it; promoters said: “He’s gonna quit, so we’d better get him now!” And all of a sudden I was working twice as much as I had been (chuckles)! So I’m not saying that anymore; I’m going to keep my mouth shut.

I’ve played Lucille, by the way. It was at the Montreaux Jazz Festival; they had a country night and a blues night, and I was invited to play at both of them. Lonnie Brooks’ guitar had been broken by the airlines, and I had my Gretsch Roy Clark model, and Lonnie loved it, so he asked me if he could play it. I said, “But I won’t have one to play,” and B.B. said, “You can play Lucille.” And I said, “Awright!” (chuckles). Taj Mahal and a lot of other folks were onstage, and I leaned over to B.B. at one point and said, “Lucille ain’t actin’ right!” He said, “Just smack her one time; she’ll be alright!” (laughs).

I’ll never stop playing, but if you pull back, and you’re not visible, and you’re not accessible, the next thing you know, your fans are going to pick up and go with somebody else. So you’ve got to try to find some kind of happy medium, where you can do enough, but not too much.

But if you ever hear of an entertainer complain about being “tired,” he’s not complaining about playing; he’s complaining about living out of a suitcase, in a different bed every night.

Are you saying that’s more like “burnout” from the hectic lifestyle?

Yeah, the travel part. The travel part will start taking away from the performance part. It can sap your strength.

But I have a guitar next to my chair in the den, where we spend most of our time. I can come home after traveling for six months, and I’m not home very long before I reach over, pick up that guitar, and start picking on it – (pantomimes holding a guitar) – not really playing any tune; just picking on it. One time when I was doing that, my wife asked me “Don’t you ever get enough?”

And I said “No, I don’t. Not of this” (smiles).

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Clark’s honors and awards are so numerous that to list them here would probably necessitate another monthly installment of this interview. He’s particularly proud of an elementary school in Tulsa that’s named for him, and such an honor goes to show that Roy Clark is not only a great guitarist, singer, entertainer, and songwriter, he’s also a great human being as well. And considering how detailed and fun VG‘s dialogue with the legendary picker was, “great conversationalist” would also be an appropriate term.

On June 14 Clark was awarded the Minnie Pearl Humanitarian Award at the 33rd annual TNN/Music City News Country Awards ceremony in Nashville. He was introduced by the previous year’s recipient, Reba McIntyre, who said, “Tonight’s Minnie Pearl Award is for how Roy, not the consummate entertainer, but Roy the person, deals with people – most importantly, with people who need help! Yes, Roy loves people, and they love him back.”

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VG would like to thank Wayne Rader of the Ocean Opry (Panama City Beach, Florida) for his help obtaining this interview.

Additional commentary on Clark can be found in this month’s “Executive Rock” column.

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Photo courtesy of Roy Clark. Clark brandishes a Baldwin-ear Gretsch during a 1979 appearance on the “Merv Griffin Show.”

This interview originally appeared in VG‘s Aug. and Oct. ’99 issues.

Face it. If you’re a guitarist and listened to any music in the past 30 years, you’ve been influenced by Larry Carlton. One of the most recorded players in history, his thousands of sessions include work with Steely Dan, Joni Mitchell, John Lennon, Al Jarreau, Michael Franks, and on and on. His production credits include excellent albums by the likes of Hoyt Axton and Joan Baez. And, of course, he spent the early ’70s with Joe Sample, Wilton Felder, Wayne Henderson, and “Stix” Hooper in the Crusaders.

Throw in about 20 solo albums since the late ’70s and his recent work with Fourplay, and you have a career built on being everybody’s favorite player. This spring, Carlton released Fingerprints, and it immediately began dominating the smooth jazz charts. VG sat with him to discuss the album, as well as where he’s been and wants to go. And he talked about the return of a friend that supplied him with his nickname years ago – Mr. 335.

Vintage Guitar: The big news to everyone on the new album is the return of the 335. Did you use it a lot?

Larry Carlton: It’s the only electric I used on this album. I also used a vintage Vibrolux I used on the Fourplay album two years ago. That’s when I found that amp. Actually, I had rented it and I liked it so much that I just bought it. I don’t think I used the Dumble at all on this album. The acoustic on the album is a Valley Arts that Mike McGuire and I designed and developed. It’s the only one left. I don’t know what I’ll do when the bracing and stuff finally goes. We only made five, and I got to pick the best two. So that’s the same one I’ve played on many, many albums.

Were you using the 335 on the Fourplay album?

No, that was the Tele. I was using a ’51 Tele.

With so much going on, are you planning to tour this year, either solo or with Fourplay?

I’m going out myself; the album’s doing so well there are gigs through September already.

What will you be using onstage?

My normal rig – the 335, a Dumble with a single twelve, and a little bit of reverb.

Are you still using the Tele or any of the Valley Arts guitars?

No, I really haven’t been the last couple of years. I used the Tele on the Fourplay album and then went on tour with Fourplay and somehow it just wasn’t right for the whole show. I pulled out the 335 and seemed more comfortable playing it live. I have in the past five, six, seven years, taken the Tele on tour. I use it for blues tunes, and I actually like it for playing bebop tunes, because the maple fingerboard is so quick.

The last time I saw you live, you were playing a Strat pretty much the whole night. Did you go through a Strat period for awhile.?

I did. There was a two-year period where I was playing a ’63 Strat.

Like a lot of your work, the album has a very nice, consistent sound. Is that a conscious thing on your part, or does it just happen?

No, I think because I’m the composer of the songs and I do demos, when I go into the studio, the tunes are pretty well represented as far as the emotional sections and how they’re going to feel. I think because it all comes from my brain and I produce most of my work, it ends up sounding like Larry. I don’t just turn the work over to someone else and just play my guitar over the top of it. I think there’s a continuity.

As always, your melodies are very strong. That can’t be said for all instrumental music nowadays. How do you write the melodies? Is there a process?

No. I think me, you, and the readers would agree I’m a pretty melodic player, so my solos often sound like songs. So I think like a composer and an arranger, even when I’m improvising. Most of the time. So it’s not difficult for me to sit down and write a song, because I’m very melodic.

You have played thousands of sessions, and you’ve gained a reputation for coming in and playing breathtaking solos, as opposed to the melodic concept. Is that a conscious thing when you work for someone? I’m thinking obviously of stuff like “Kid Charlemagne” by Steely Dan

Well, still, those solos make so much musical sense, melodically, that I see the thread there. I mean, that’s a solo you can sing.

So, you obviously see that skill as being related to your melodic sense.

Yeah, I really do. I think in a live situation, because I’m afforded the opportunity to play five, six or seven choruses, you start melodic, you build, you get a little more excitement, and maybe by the end (laughing) it’s not quite as melodic. But, you’re going for it.

I was surprised, reading your bio, to see this was your 20th solo album. Any changes you’ve noticed in yourself from when you started as a solo artist to what you want to do now and what you are doing now?”

Yeah, I think when you go back to the ’78 album with “Room 335,” “Rio Samba” and those tunes on it, and compare that 22 years later to the Fingerprints album, I think you can hear a maturity in approach. It’s still aggressive, but I don’t think it’s a show-off kind of aggressiveness. I think in our youth, some place in the back of our minds, we’re wanting to impress people. And I can honestly say, with all humility now, that I’m not out to impress anybody now. I’m out to make music. It’s all about trying to get chill bumps when I’m playing.

And giving other people chill bumps.

Yeah, that’s the second part.

Any projects at this point in your career that you’d still like to do?

Yeah, I’d like to do a very focused blues album, with a singer and some horns, and really get to be the fun, consummate sideman guitar player in that project, with lots of room to stretch.

Sounds like fun.

Oh yeah, it would be, man. And then go play that in clubs…wooo!

You did the duo thing with Lee Rittenour. Anything else like that you could see doing?

Well, that was definitely just a GRP one-off marketing idea. It wasn’t really something I’d really ever looked forward to doing. Lee and I were acquaintances, but everybody assumed we were close friends. But honestly, we probably hadn’t talked a half-dozen times. We didn’t really have that camaraderie going; it was just a project.

It would be fun, this decade, if Joe Sample and I could do a special project. I think his accompaniment would draw things out of me, and my lines would inspire him. I think that would be a good marriage.

Some great stuff happened when you guys played together on the Michael Franks albums in the ’70s.

Oh, yeah. And we had made so much music together during the three years before that that Joe and I were so comfortable to sit in the same room and just play. We were a team, for sure.

Well, your time with the Crusaders had to be just incredible.

It was a great, great learning experience, too, because the guys are all eight to 10 years older than I am. Back then I was 26, and they had another decade of experience on me. I had the chance to live that. It was wonderful.

I said I wouldn’t delve much into your history, since it’s pretty well-documented, but since we started… the Joni Mtchell stuff, like Court and Spark, certainly started a “Larry Carlton sound,” whatever that is. How did that whole thing come about?

I was playing at the Baked Potato with Tom Scott, Joe Sample, John Guerin, and Max Bennett, which for a quick minute later on became the L.A. Express. Well, Joni came into the club and loved the band. She approached Tom and asked if we could go into the studio and cut some stuff. So we did. Everybody came up with their own parts…it was a total five-man contribution to the arrangements and sections, and it was one of the most enjoyable projects I was involved in during the ’70s. It was so musical, and Joni’s vibe was so good, and the tunes were so great.

I’ve told people in the past that I was very proud to be on the first major, major Joni Mitchell hit, because prior to that she was pretty much a solo act, and pretty underground. Somehow, with that sound, it became so accessible that people became aware of her.

How about Steely Dan? Obviously, a lot of people associate you with your work for them. There are horror stories about working with Walter and Donald. How did you find them to be?

Through my eyes, it was a pleasure. They’re diligent, but it wasn’t a horror story at all. I’ve read that from other people, because they are so meticulous. But for me they were just gigs that people were just trying to accomplish what they wanted to accomplish musically, and I didn’t mind cutting the same tune every other week with a different drummer until they got what they wanted. I had no problem at all.

How about Fourplay? Still going on?

Yeah, there’s an album coming out late summer or early fall.

In the past, you’ve done some producing. Do you still do any, or for that matter, do you want to?

No, I don’t choose to. My passion, because I’m blessed with a solo career, is playing the guitar. And I’m not a workaholic. I enjoy making my albums, going out and playing live, then having a number of months off during the year. It’s not like I have to fill all those months with more projects.

You’ve been in Nashville for about four years now, right?

Yeah.

Obviously, you like it. Different feel, different vibe than L.A.?

Oh, definitely. I always wanted to live a more rural lifestyle than Los Angeles. So, here I can live out in the country, but there’s still a major music scene going on. I’ve done at least 15 benefits since I’ve lived here. I try to help the city – do things for the Chamber of Commerce where we’ll put on special events.

I read once where you were a fisherman.

I love to fish! I did a lot of fishing in California, but I had to drive four hours to go trout fishing. But, yeah, I love going to the streams here, and they have ponds stocked with big catfish. That, to me, is very enjoyable.

A lot of guys are moving down there. Steve Winwood… isn’t Mike McDon ald here?

Yeah, he’s been here seven years. Peter Frampton’s here.

Obviously, there’s lots of country folks, too. Vince Gill’s on the album. Have you known him long?

Yeah, I think Vince and I met in ’91 or ’92. I was asked to come here and host two shows on the Nashville Network. I met him there shortly before he had his first big hit.

I saw you in Minneapolis 10 or 11 years ago in a small club, and in the middle of the show you asked how many guitar players were in the audience. About 90 percent raised their hands. You made a joke, saying it’s fun to be judged by your peers. What goes through your head when you’re playing.

Well, at this point I’m just flattered that the guys want to come out and check out what I do. I don’t get nervous about it. I’m very focused, and like you said, the years of experience help me be very comfortable. I can only play as good as I play. Me thinking about anything else is only going to distract me. So I guess I’m really up there in kind of a selfish mode. I’m trying to get off. If I get off, the listener’s going to know I got off. So, I’m comfortable.

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As Carlton starts the new century at the top of the smooth jazz charts, it’s good to look back on his accomplishments. There are few guitarists with a track record like his, and there are few who can burn with his intensity and play lines packed with the soul he brings to his playing. It’s no wonder he spent years in Los Angeles as the guitarist of choice.

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This Interview originally appeared in VG‘s Oct. ’00 issue.

John Fogerty’s music has always been unique. As a singer, songwriter, and guitarist that has been in the international spotlight since the late ’60s (when his band’s cover of “Susie Q” thrust them into prominence), the veteran performer is almost without peer when it comes to his abilities, and the reasons his songs have always had such staying power (in bar bands and on radio) include their simple-but-irresistible hooks and riffs, as well as their singalong sensibility. There’s probably no way to determine how many combos are playing tunes like “Proud Mary,” “Bad Moon Rising,” or “Green River” every night in clubs across the U.S.

But Fogerty has been a solo artist for over two decades, and he recently contacted Vintage Guitar when his newest effort, Blue Moon Swamp, was about to be released. We’d crossed paths with the legendary musician at more than one California guitar show, and he’d promised us an interview when his new album was ready to go. In a preliminary conversation to set up the interview, Fogerty was amazed at the growth of the magazine (he’s been reading it for many years); when informed of the newest figures regarding VG‘s circulation, he noted with a laugh: “I thought we were a cult!”

Once we were wired up for our on-the-record conversation, we figured that talking mainly about Fogerty’s love of old guitars as well as his new album would be appropriate as the main focal points of our dialogue, and as it turned out, he used a lot of old instruments on Blue Moon Swamp:

Vintage Guitar: You’ve been known to sing the praises of brands and models of guitars that aren’t as collectible as, say, custom-color Strats; examples of instruments you noted include Danelectros and Supros. Do you still feel that way about such guitars?

John Forgerty: Very much so! My first guitar was a Silvertone by Danelectro; the typical Masonite-and-lipstick-tube-pickup type. I got a Silvertone amp to go with it; they cost $88, including the interest over 10 months. That’s an American bargain! I played that outfit all through high school, and then I got a three-quarter scale Supro with one treble pickup. It was my first wood guitar, and I played it up until the time of the Golliwogs.

That Supro kind of “hooked” me into a 3/4-scale mode that I stayed in for six or seven years. I could really bend notes on the Supro, and it sounded so cool. I put light-gauge strings on it; I’d move all of the strings over and would put an E string in both the ‘E’ and ‘B’ positions; I’d throw away the biggest string. I could bend the heck out of everything, and it sounded real bluesy.

I was going to ask if you still had a predilection for shorter-scale guitars these days, or if it’s a nostalgia thing.

It’s a nostalgia thing. I stuck with that size because I could bend the strings so well, and somewhere along the line I must have gotten it into my mind that I had small hands, so I was thinking I’d never be able to play a full-scale guitar, but I also felt like I was cheating or cutting corners (chuckles).

When I was around 19 or 20, I became a Golliwog, and I got a 3/4-size Fender Mustang, then I got a Rickenbacker 3/4-size guitar; it’s a model 325, and it’s famous as the John Lennon model.

The first Les Paul I got was a Custom, and the first thing I recorded with it was “Bad Moon Rising,” in 1969. But later the same year, it got cracked by the airlines, so I got a luthier in Oakland, named Hideo Kamimoto, to repair it, and at the same time I got him to make it into a 3/4-scale instrument. That was the guitar that did the lead on “Up Around the Bend,” and it’s now in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. So all through the so-called “Creedence career,” I was into a 3/4-size mode.

Interestingly, I’m currently rehearsing for a tour, and I dug out my old Rickenbacker and my old Kustom amp, because I wanted to play “Suzie Q” and “I Put A Spell On You” on the exact equipment that got that kind of sound. And I’m having one heck of a time figuring out how my fingers ever fit into those frets. It feels like a mandolin! So I’m going to refurbish a “proper scale” Rickenbacker; the old Rickenbacker worked great in those days, but now it’s very constraining and limiting.

Many aspiring guitarists considered your guitar tone awesome on your first album, and even today it’s one of the most unique sounds in rock guitar history. Were you aware back then that your sound was that unique?

I can’t say that I was. I thought what I was good at doing was playing real simple guitar licks, since I’d cut my teeth on what Duane Eddy was doing; licks that were simple but had staying power. Even though James Burton was my idol, I didn’t think I could carry his shoes back then. I went pretty much for one tone, and I knew at that time that I wanted to play a Rickenbacker. In those days, I didn’t know how guys like Clapton and Beck were getting that searing blues lead sound, so I developed my style to be rhythmic and chord-based, with simple lead lines that you could almost hum. I think that’s one of the secrets as to why some of the songs back then were memorable, and why every bar band or garage band in the world could play Creedence songs.

In his own interview with this magazine, James Burton said that the first time you two met, you treated him like God because of “Suzie Q.”

(laughs) Well, it’s true, and I still feel that way. James was only about 15 when he recorded that, and he was already bending strings all over the place. What a sound! I’d like to think I’ve gotten better in my playing, and I’ve been woodshedding for a few years, and I’m still amazed at how many times I cross over the footsteps of James Burton. I’ll realize that I’ve pulled off something that James did years ago, and I’ll just smile and shake my head.

Considering that his main instrument has always been a Telecaster – and I’m aware that you admired another Tele player, Don Rich, as well – have you ever gravitated towards that particular model?

Yeah, recently. Right now, my favorite guitar in the world is the Custom Telecaster; the 1959 or 1960 model that had binding on an alder body and a rosewood fretboard. I think the alder body gives it more of a subdued tone, compared to a run-of-the-mill Telecaster. The ones I have got great necks; of course, all of the Fenders from that era are incredible.

The Telecaster doesn’t really sound that good for the kind of rock and roll that a lot of people played. It sounds kind of thin and without balls; I don’t think it would sound good on songs like “Louie, Louie” or “Wipeout,” for example. But if you sit down with it for a few years, thinking about the shadow of James Burton, you realize that it’s a great guitar, but it makes you work. It doesn’t sustain too good, but when you get into things like chicken pickin’, there’s no finer model.

One of the first live performances you did for a long time was the first Farm Aid concert; it appeared you were playing a walnut-finish guitar.

That was actually an off-the-shelf Washburn I bought around 1982. It’s got a wonderful, funky, “swampy” sound, and it’s still with me. I used it on the opening and the middle solo of “Swamp River Days” on Blue Moon Swamp. About five years ago, I was planning on touring with that guitar, and I tried to find a backup model; I haunted vintage stores and pawn shops, and I even got the company to make me another one, but I never found another one that sounded the same.

Washburn’s an old American name, but this one was assembled overseas. In the last two years or so, I’ve made a conscious decision to play American guitars; I don’t know of a more subtle way to say it.

Was that the Mellencamp band backing you at Farm Aid?

It sure was; the band included Kenny Aronoff, who’s playing with me now.

Of your four previous solo albums, which ones were “one-man band” efforts?

The Blue Ridge Rangers, John Fogerty, which is the one I call “the Shep album” because my dog Shep was on the cover, and Centerfield. On Eye of the Zombie, I had so-called studio musicians. If you were to ask for a value judgement about my one-man band concept, I think I probably took it to its zenith on Centerfield, but ultimately it isn’t a good idea. You should play with real musicians; the best music comes from real people interacting with each other.

And that must have been your attitude about making Blue Moon Swamp, considering the caliber of studio musicians you used, including Aronoff.

That’s one of the reasons it took so long. On Eye of the Zombie, I just got some studio musicians who were competent, but some of them weren’t right for what I was trying to do. When I made Blue Moon Swamp, there was a lot of trial and error; I was trying to find people who would be simpatico with my style, and with what I had in mind for the album.

I understand that another way you prepared for the new album was to make several pilgrimages to Mississippi.

People have always asked me: “Why is your music so ‘Southern’?” I was at the first Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction, and of the 10 people who were being honored, nine were from the South; I wasn’t sure about Sam Cooke. I rest my case! Those trips to that area were really inspiring.

On the cover of the advance CD of Blue Moon Swamp, you’re holding a Stratocaster, but at one time you had sort of an aversion to that model, didn’t you?

I now have an awesome amount of respect for Leo Fender, but at one time I identified Strats much too closely with surf music; although I love surf music now, at the time I tended to put sort of a “wimpy” adjective on it. Guys singing through their noses about a “little GTO” didn’t impress me back then, because I was more into Chicago blues. Now that I’m older, I like almost anything that’s done well, even surf music and instrumentals; I really enjoyed the interviews with the Ventures in your magazine. And I now think that Stratocasters and Telecasters are way cool.

Let’s talk about some of the instruments and songs on the new album. There’s a great-sounding steel guitar on “Southern Streamline.”

That comes from my learning how to play the dobro. When I say learn, I don’t mean I’m a master, like Jerry Douglas, who’s my idol. I was bitten by the dobro bug about four years ago; I’d get up at three o’clock in the morning to practice, and I tried to apply what I’d learned to a lap steel. I loved Western Swing and Hank Williams’ music, and I now know that it’s a 6th tuning that gives you all of those classic licks.

I needed a specific sound for “Southern Streamline” on this album, and I even went on the Internet, talking to people about steel, and I finally worked my way into “the inner sanctum of mystical tunings” (chuckles). There’s just not a lot of guys around playing like that these days; a lot of steel players are plugging into stomp boxes, trying to sound like Jeff Beck on a steel guitar.

That’s an old Oahu Tonemaster on “Southern Streamline;” it’s got rope binding and is the coolest one for that tone.

The guitar break riff on “Hot Rod Heart” is reminiscent of “California Sun,” which is a great “cruising song” itself, in my opinion. Could there have been any subliminal inspiration involved?

I don’t really think so, but it was pointed out to me later that the notes on my solo are similar to the melody of “California Sun.” Coincidentally, the Rivieras are from the South Bend, Indiana, which is where my wife is from. I think both songs have kind of a pretty, “open” melody.

Isn’t that the Fairfield Four on “A Hundred and Ten in the Shade”?

You betcha!

How’d you hook up with them?

As a matter of fact, I’d gotten to be this old and hadn’t heard of them, and I’m sort of ashamed to admit that. On two separate occasions, I was talking with other players about cool singing groups; one time it was with Jerry Douglas, the other time with Bob Glaub, my bass player. And both of them brought up the Fairfield Four, so that told me that I’d better check them out.

When the sound of that song came to me, it was the reason I took up the dobro. Bluegrass dobro can be very pretty, and I knew I wanted that sound instead of a Delta blues, National steel-body sound. But I also think that song is way better than me (chuckles).

How did you manage to get a dobro and a Farfisa organ on one tune, “Bring It Down to Jelly Roll?” The organ reminded me of the Swingin’ Medallions!

That’s me playing that thing, and that’s all of my keyboard chops; I just let it all hang out (laughs). I knew for two years I wanted to do a song like “Mendocino” or “96 Tears.” That may indeed be the first time the two instruments you cited have been on one song; it might make a good trivia question!

The first single is “Walking In A Hurricane.” Was there any particular vibe you were going for?

Just loud, “almost-sinister” rock and roll; something that would hopefully get someone’s attention the first time it was heard, like “Satisfaction” did. “Satisfaction” has been heard so many times that it’s now a cliché, but the first time you heard it, it was pretty awe-inspiring.

The song has what I might call “a mild amount of distortion” on it, like “Satisfaction” did.

Yeah, but I’ve heard that a certain category of radio programmers wanted to clip off the front part, because of certain sensitive adult ears (chuckles). I used a great old ’52 Les Paul that’s been converted with PAFs on that song; there’s nothing else that sounds like that.

You used a tremolo effect on songs like “Blueboy;” ZZ Top used that effect on their latest album.

Right; Rhythmeen. It’s still one of the coolest effects ever. That’s my Danelectro, and a ’62 brown Concert amp. Some of the Concert amps sound different; the “Vibrato” circuitry is different in a ’60, compared to a ’62. But we all know Fender’s “Vibrato” circuit is really a tremolo effect.

As for slide guitars on this album, did you use any particular guitars and/or tunings?

The only sliding I did was on the kind of instrument that you put on your lap; no Spanish electrics. “Rattlesnake Highway” has a slide part that almost sounds like a weird sitar.

Speaking of sitars, “Rambunctious Boy” has an electric sitar and a mandolin on it; another odd combination that works.

The mandolin is a 1923 or ’24 A model, but it’s not a Lloyd Loar. I picked up several instruments in North Carolina a while back; a few guitars and that mandolin. That song has the full extent of my mandolin abilities; I’m not a good mandolin player at all.

That’s a Jerry Jones sitar on “Rambunctious Boy,” but there’s actually an old Coral sitar on “Rattlesnake Highway” that’s somewhat subtle; you can almost smell the patchouli oil on it (chuckles). Those instruments have got great necks; you can play the heck out of them! I played one in a studio for a couple of days, and found that a little of that sound would go a long way.

“Joy of My Life” is a bit of a rarity for you, in that it’s a romantic song, but it’s still sort of a no-frills song with a dobro.

Well, some big Hollywood producer might say: “It’s bee-yooty-ful,” but his idea of “bee-yooty-ful” would probably be a whole bunch of keyboards, a chorus, a string orchestra, a huge drum sound, and arena echo, which would make almost any song sound really pompous.

Mantovani-ish?

Yeah, syrupy. But I think beautiful is simple and elegant, like a ballad with simple harmony. I wrote that song for my wife, and it’s what some guy who’s sitting under a tree would be singing to the woman of his life, telling her how wonderful she is. To me, that’s more lasting than something that sounds like it belongs on a movie soundtrack.

“Blue Moon Nights” has such a Sun Studio feel that it’s obvious that you went to Memphis while you were on those Mississippi pilgrimages.

Well, I go way back with that influence. I started going to Memphis in 1968; I met Knox Phillips, Sam’s son, and we talked about things like slap-back echo. I’ve since gotten to know Sam pretty well; Sam knows that I’m a big fan of his. The word “genius” gets used too much in the music business, but Sam Phillips certainly qualifies as one.

You’ve been using and collecting older instruments for quite some time; is there anything you’re still seeking?

I’m still looking for a good 6120. I have a Duo-Jet with DeArmonds, which is the way I like them; before the Filter ‘Trons. A ’57 6120 is the ultimate rockabilly guitar.

What are your tour plans to support Blue Moon Swamp?

We’ll be starting off with clubs and other smaller venues, including the House of Blues here in L.A., and the old Fillmore in San Francisco. The idea is to keep it small and work up to larger places; I think I’ve got a lot of explaining to do (laughs). For a time, people knew I wasn’t playing the older, so-called “Creedence songs,” but I am now. Those are my songs, though, so it’s almost like I’m atoning or doing some kind of penance.

I think you showed a lot of class by finally opting to renew the live performance of those songs at the “Welcome Home” Vietnam veterans benefit.

Well, thank you. That made a lot of guys feel pretty good, and it made me feel pretty good, too. I’m now comfortable playing a lot of the old songs, and I’ve gotten out a lot of the old equipment. But I think the new material from Blue Moon Swamp will show that I was taking my time to get it right; maybe if I show those songs off the right way, somebody will say (affects a Southern drawl) “It sounds like you been practicin’, boy” (laughs)!

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It’s probably not inappropriate to opine that John Fogerty writes, sings, and plays “quintessential American music.” His compositions are permanent fixtures on the American music scene, because their simple melodies and lyrics are identifiable to the average person. Fogerty’s material is as “comfortable” to music fans as the flannel shirts he favors. For all of his decades of success, Fogerty still knows how to write memorable songs, and Blue Moon Swamp should simply reaffirm such.

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Photo courtesy of Bob Fogerty and Warner Brothers Records.

This interview originally appeared in VG‘s Aug. ’97 issue.

The reality is obvious to any aspiring musi-cian, especially when another gig’s not guaranteed: compromise adds zeroes to paychecks.

But anyone who saw Danny Gatton on his Washington, D.C./rural Maryland stomping grounds knew that wouldn’t happen. In a music business long buffered against surprise, the late guitarist swam stubbornly upstream, roaming nightly across the musical spectrum – from country, to gospel, rockabilly, soul, and standards. “Redneck jazz” was Gatton’s calling card for playing whatever and whenever he wanted, as he told friend and archivist Brawner Smoot in 1977, “I have no direction and I never will. If I had to play a whole night of anything, I’d be bored to death.”

Gatton’s legend has only grown since October 1994, when he ended his life, aged 49, by self-inflicted gunshot wound at his southern Maryland home. But speculation over the tragic causes hasn’t blurred memories of his blinding speed, effortless genre-hopping, flawless technique, and never-ending appetite for tinkering and problem-solving.

Artists of all calibers have paid tribute, including country singer Vince Gill, ace guitarist Albert Lee, and avant-rocker Lou Reed, while over his last two decades, Gatton spurned calls to tour with the likes of John Fogerty, Mel Tillis, and big band titan Woody Herman, for staying home with his wife, Jan, and daughter, Holly.

Such decisions marked Gatton as a marketable commodity who couldn’t stand to be marketed. Nobody understood that better than drummer Dave Elliott and bassist John Previti, who played beside him longer than anybody else – though the ride could often be thrilling and confusing.

When Little Feat’s late guitarist Lowell George heard Gatton’s Redneck Jazz LP (1978), he made the case to Warner Brothers’ board, which ruled against it by one vote.

“It was Pick Of The Week in Billboard,” recalls Elliott. “I was sittin’ in my dad’s basement, not being able to afford rent, readin’ about the album I [had] just played on!”

Déjà vu struck again in ’87, when Columbia dropped hints of a deal as the boys were touring Canada. “Of course, we all called home,” laughs Elliott. “And Danny goes, ‘Don’t get too fired up, anything could happen.’ For about a week, we were on cloud nine – and something happened.”

When Elektra eventually signed Gatton, it reckoned Elliott’s services weren’t required on the next album.

“It crushed me, too. But Danny had been trying for this all his life, so I was still his friend.”

Not for nothing did fans call Gatton “The World’s Greatest Unknown Guitar Player,” or “The Humbler,” which referred to the ferocious chops and instincts that could cut veteran players to shreds. Yet calculation or competition rarely assumed a place in his lexicon; for much of his life, Gatton’s expression came on homegrown indie releases like Redneck Jazz, or his debut, American Music (Aladdin ALPS-102: 1975).

“Well, it’s funny – it’s the name of one of his albums, but he was relentless,” says Previti. “I had a real sense of tapping into an earlier era – I don’t know how to explain it, but when we did a Fats Domino tune, for instance, I just felt like it was 1956, playing with Fats Domino. It was almost a mystical experience. It probably was.”

Music assumed importance from the get-go. Born in Washington, D.C., in 1945, the primarily self-taught Gatton was playing clubs by age 14. Early in life, he discovered the gift that would drive countless studio marathons, and others to sleepless distraction – including the man who’d become his favorite engineer.

“He would erase and redo solos more than anybody I’ve worked with,” says Ed Eastridge, who manned the boards for Unfinished Business (1987), and Cruisin’ Deuces (Elektra, 1993). “He just wanted them perfect. And he had perfect pitch, which I think is an affliction – I’d hate to have it.”

In Gatton’s eyes, his “clam filter” saved many a mistake from reaching listeners, no matter how minute the differences seemed. Eastridge’s wife, Dixie, recalls hearing how a “…pretty famous guitar teacher in D.C.” told the late Dan Senior and Norma Gatton, “You’re wasting your money – everything I play, this kid hears it once, and he can play it back, better.”

Such painstaking style suited Gatton’s musical growth, fueled by the influence of guitar pioneer Les Paul, who stated for Rolling Stone‘s 1989 “Hot Guitarist” profile, “He’s taken everything I ever dreamed of, everything I’ve ever done, and incorporated it into his own thing.”

The late pianist Dick Heintze, whose passing earned him a dedication on Redneck Jazz, also provided Gatton priceless musical mentoring. So did the style of jazz guitarists like Wes Montgomery and Charlie Christian, as well as fellow D.C. hotshot country picker Roy Clark.

Yet the late Roy Buchanan may have provided the most important catalyst when Gatton followed his jamming partner’s preference for Telecaster guitars – which would endure whatever modifications he deemed necessary to achieve his most highly treasured sounds (see sidebar).

Buchanan’s Polydor Records contract also showed the possibility – if not the reality – of earning a living off music, though Gatton’s sheet metal and construction work beside his father would prove handy for their Tele tinkering.

By the time Elliott started working with Gatton and bassist/singer Billy Hancock in 1971, it didn’t take long to appreciate his new colleague’s finesse.

“I was too busy then – when Danny hired me he said, ‘Look, you’re laying down the two and four [beat], but you’re doing a lot of shit on top of it. Stop.’ The first rehearsal I had, I realized they had all this experience – they knew the way to make music happen.”

Now calling themselves Fat Chance, playing everything “…from Hank Williams to Elvis Presley to Miles Davis to B.B. King,” Elliott remembers struggling to earn $30 per night at clubs like Bethesda, Maryland’s Psychedelly, where they’d flip a coin to see who’d get the pittance.

Even when things looked up, they still went wrong.

“Roy was playing My Mother’s Place [in D.C.], we were playing these Village Inn pizza parlors – and one night, it was so crowded they fired us! I should have known, right then and there, it’s time to get out of the business!”

Ironically enough, the exact same thing happened to Gatton 20 years later, notes Elliott.

“The owner said, ‘Look, your band’s here every Thursday, but I’m gonna let you go, I can’t handle the crowd.’ And Danny just looked at him and said, ‘Why don’t you hire more waitresses?’”

But the trio didn’t stay down long. When Gatton joined the country/bluegrass Liz Meyer & Friends in ’73, he persuaded them to hire Elliott and Hancock, too. By a pure coincidence, Ed Eastridge – who’d heard about Gatton – finally met him during a brief period playing upright bass in Meyer’s band.

“The speed never slayed me, although I was impressed with the speed,” declares Ed. “And the cleanliness, the forcefulness of the phrasing – it’s so in your face it just grabbed me and took me with it, more than any player I’ve ever encountered.”

Like all local bands, however, the Liz Meyer experience ran its course; when Ed’s regular outfit resumed gigging, he jumped, followed by the Elliott/Gatton/Hancock axis, who became the Fat Boys in ’74. Buoyed by Hancock’s purchase of the long-defunct R&B Aladdin label’s moniker, they divided their time between gigging and scraping up a budget to record American Music.

In hindsight, the first glimpse of Gatton’s guitar prowess sounds like most debuts – hamstrung by low-budget circumstances, yet hardly lacking in enthusiasm, as shown by the driving title cut, on which The Clovers woo-woo through a muscular, dynamic solo. Diversity was the key, from rockabilly (“Ubangi Stomp”) to Benny Goodman (“Good Enough To Keep”) and a crystalline “Harlem Nocturne,” whose single (Aladdin 5551B) release marked Gatton’s first exposure. It remained a longtime showpiece, even cropping up again on Cruisin’ Deuces.

“Actually, I didn’t even like it,” says Elliott. “And that was the first time I’d ever been on any album. Danny and Billy had done lots of stuff like that – I surprised myself by being disappointed ’cause it didn’t sound like us live.”

Gatton seconded the emotion, as Smoot’s reissue notes hint. “It wasn’t us. We did so many things with different guys that didn’t play with us.”

According to Elliott, Gatton’s frustration over Hancock’s handling of the business side (“He got an office in Alexandria [Virginia], but didn’t have a phone for two or three months.”) also led him to pronounce the Fat Boys a dead issue by the summer of ’76.

After a short-lived Danny Gatton Band (with ex-Buchanan bassist/guitarist Tiny McCloud), Elliott and Gatton retained Hancock for the shortlived Rockabilly Avalanche. Its name proved apt, as singer/guitarist Evan Johns’ recruitment produced “…too many different personalities,” in Elliott’s opinion.

Further changes came when another Buchanan stalwart arrived in Chuck Tilley. “Hell of a singer, hell of a songwriter…had a big problem with Southern Comfort – ended his career with us,” laughs Elliott.

1976-’78s transitional confusion is why Redneck Jazz (NRG NCD 3760: 1991) lists Johns’ and Tilley’s vocals with three drummers (including Elliott) and two bassists, including Previti – whose intuitive ear would cement a relationship as Gatton’s other most valuable player.

To hear Previti tell it, his entry into the fold came naturally, too, when he debuted with Gatton at Georgetown’s Crazy Horse on December 27, 1976 – and discovered an employer who didn’t bother telling others what to play; since the players’ ears, eyes, and hands had to do the talking, anyway.

“What doesn’t get talked about much is, when he played any particular tune, he covered all the parts,” says Previti. “He could phrase like a horn player or an organist; I got used to that very quickly.

“He didn’t always play like a guitar player – he always knew what everyone was supposed to be playing. Over the 18 years I played with him, I think we rehearsed four or five times.” For that matter, adds Previti, Gatton never spoke to the audience until early in the ’80s.

Personnel aside, Redneck Jazz‘s contents showcase a quantum leap in Gatton’s style. With the “magic dingus box,” he could comp whatever keyboard parts he desired, while his deft, assertive leads spoke for themselves on “Comin’ Home, Baby,” and the 11-minute “Canadian Sunset,” which reaches beautiful, country and jazz-styled peaks, aided by Nashville pedal steel legend Buddy Emmons.

Few knew it, but Redneck Jazz‘s near-miss with Warner Brothers – which Elliott didn’t learn about until years afterward – hadn’t been the first.

“Near-miss” became a running theme, especially when George vowed to showcase Gatton in Little Feat, and let the world know what they’d been missing, according to Jay Monterose, Gatton’s guitar tech.

“And we all know what happened – Lowell didn’t make it to the next day (due to a drug overdose, in Washington, D.C.). Dead, right there, and Danny was leavin’ with him.”

“Danny just figured it was another of those promises that never came true, until he read about it in the paper or heard it on the radio,” says Elliott.

Bad as that seemed, the next break proved more crippling in the most literal sense, when an accidental cut on his right hand sidelined him for a year, into ’79. He’d only recently started what many fans regarded as his most potent ensemble, the Redneck Jazz Explosion, with Buddy Emmons and bassist Steve Wolf.

The Washington Post tagged Gatton “…preeminent guitarist of the post-World War II generation,” while the New York Times‘ John Rockwell declared, “Mr. Gatton deserves his own cult.”

A prime snapshot of the Explosion has come in his mother’s CD issue (on her NRG label) of a December 31, 1978, Washington, D.C. gig notable for Wolf’s emergence as a third soloing voice behind the Emmons/Gatton guitar team.

All sound like they’re having a ball passing melodic lines among Horace Silver’s “Opus De Funk,” an American Music standby, as well as driving, double-time takes on Redneck Jazz‘s “Rock Candy,” and “Comin’ Home Baby” – enhanced by the dingus box. Yet Gatton’s relentless perfectionism kept the tapes dormant until their ’95 reissue, as Monterose notes.

“That was the most exciting New Years’ Eve I ever spent in my life – it was incredible, but Danny could never cop to makin’ a record of that stuff.”

As the ’80s began, Gatton gradually regained his facility, gigging with Roger Miller and rockabilly revival cat Robert Gordon, whose oft-bootlegged Berkeley Square Nightclub show has been reissued as The Humbler (NRG NCD 6842: 1996). He didn’t record under his own name again until Unfinished Business (NRG NCD-04279: 1987), which many aficionados consider his best record.

By that point, the redoubtable Previti had returned after a four-year absence (“I wanted to study upright [bass] in earnest”); Ed Eastridge had become his main engineer, aided by a seemingly unlimited stamina.

“He was ruthless in the studio – most people get worn out after about three hours,” Eastridge said. “Not him! He could sit there with headphones on, cranked up, chain-smokin’. ‘Have at it!’”

Even so, the endless hours didn’t make one particular anniversary night easier, as Dixie Eastridge attests.

“Danny would work on stuff forever – he’d spend weeks just getting snare drum sounds,” she said. “He wouldn’t quit, and Ed kept saying, ‘I gotta, go’ and Danny would say, ‘Okay, let’s do one more take.’ Next thing, Ed threw a chair – Danny thought it was pretty funny.”

As Gatton albums go, Unfinished Business is pure as they come, opening with his Les Paul tribute, “Cherokee,” while “Nit Pickin’” saluted jazz saxophonist Cannonball Adderley. “Lappin’ It Up” harked back to Gatton’s days with Emmons, followed by the down and dirty “Notcho Blues” (the title reportedly slapping away at Buchanan: “It’s not yo blues”), and the frantic rockabilly of “Fingers On Fire.”

Previti himself got a kick out of Jackie Gleason’s “Moonlight Serenade.”

“I’m amazed it didn’t get more acclaim because it’s one of the best things I’ve ever heard. He played it as a chord melody, and I always liked ‘The Honeymooners.’”

For insight into the guitarist’s composition methods, look no further than “Sky King,” a tribute to late saxophonist King Curtis.

“I said, ‘Hey, man, did you get that from the ‘Superman’ [TV] theme? He said, ‘I think I did.’ Danny did that a lot – you hear a lot of quotes from various other songs,” notes Ed Eastridge.

When the Elektra deal happened, Gatton appeared to have finally won a shot at some measure of the acclaim he should have enjoyed all along. The ’90s promised renewed musical energy, as shown by topping Guitar Player‘s Best Country category for 1990-’94, and being named Rolling Stone‘s Hot Guitarist for ’89. His Elektra debut, 88 Elmira Street – named for his birthplace – received a Grammy nomination, but lost out to Texas guitarist Eric Johnson.

Elmira Street and its follow-up, Cruisin’ Deuces – on which Eastridge literally spent a year and a half working beside Gatton – are considered triumphs in commercial record-making. Behind the scenes, however, Elektra decided Elliott wouldn’t be needed on the next album.

“Danny played some tapes, stuff he’d been doing with Shannon Ford – real funk stuff,” says Elliott. “And they liked that better, evidently, than the stuff we’d been doing. So Shannon got my position.”

Similarly, the late Billy Windsor – who’d held the singer/rhythm guitarist slot in several late-’80s Danny Gatton bands, and had known Gatton since high school – saw no demand existed for his talents, either. Too polite to push the issue, Windsor exited the picture (later becoming Gatton’s manager, though Previti recalls him saying, “I’ve really been beat up over this”).

Finally, Eastridge recorded what became Elmira Street at his Kensington, Maryland, studio, only to have all but one track rejected, “…’cause [A&R man] Howard Thompson wanted to do it at Bearsville, ’cause he thought they’d get a bigger drum sound.”

“[The Bearsville experience] was such an expensive thing – Bearsville was an estate – with houses – and Danny would just stay in there, hours and hours and hours,” says Previti. “But certainly not longer than he did with Eddie. And he always loved the sound Eddie got – especially the Tele sound.”

From Elektra’s viewpoint, Gatton’s reluctance to live out of suitcases made their job tougher, since restoring antique cars at home seemed far less troubling to him. Eastridge recalls Thompson declaiming, in his clipped British accent, “If we could just get him to tour… “

“I used to badger him about it. I’d say ‘Man, I know it’s a bummer, you’ve gotta support this second album or you’ll be dropped,’” the engineer says. “I think he was marketable – he was just a homebody, a country guy. He hated being in the city.”

Not surprisingly, when Thompson left Elektra, his label’s support for Gatton went with him. Elliott remembers the next phone call.

“Danny asked me to come down, ’cause he’d recorded 40 songs for almost a solid month, and they turned ’em all down.”

In Previti’s eyes, leaving had only been a positive move, freeing Gatton to pursue the angular instrumental muse major labels often pronounced “unmarketable.”

“I went to his farm that day I found out. I said, ‘I’m sorry.’ He said, “Well, I’m not.’”

Weary of the major-label circus, Gatton returned to the Eastridges’ Big Mo label for Relentless, a joint album with New York organist Joey DeFrancesco, and In Concert 9/9/94 (Big Mo 2028: 1996). According to Dixie Eastridge, her husband suggested the former album’s pairing, since the 23-year-old Francesco didn’t know Gatton.

“The two of them really hit it off – they were so similar, they sold cars. ‘Kindred Spirits’ – Danny wrote it about that experience,” says Dixie.

Eastridge also remains proud of the New York Stories Volume I (Capitol) album that paired Gatton with hornmen like Joshua Redman and Bobby Watson.

“It’s mostly Danny’s songs that they do,” he said. “We overdubbed. They did the rhythm tracks in New York. Somebody scored this stuff, just workin’ from tapes, and Danny was playing by ear, but always wanted to overdub his part. He got the producer to bring it back to my studio, and we overdubbed all the guitar solos.”

For 9/9/94, the object boiled down to taping a hot gig that would merit a release, something Gatton’s nature had never permitted (see sidebar). Previti remembers feeling less than impressed with the gig at Alexandria’s Birchmere, whose roof Gatton had raised so many times before.

“None of us thought we could hit our asses with our hands that night,” he said. “I just felt like I was ruining everything. It sounds like a really nice performance; I’m really glad it’s captured on a CD. We weren’t being falsely modest; we thought we were stinking up the joint.”

Between those upcoming releases, Gatton had no shortage of projects to corral his restless energies, including an R&B album, production work, possibly demoing material for Gordon’s sister, and a joint project with singer/organist Tommy Lepson. The world seemed limitless when Previti last spoke with Gatton on October 4, 1994, at 7:30 p.m. Two hours later, he was gone.

“Obviously, I didn’t get any indication he was feeling that way,” says Previti. “He was talking about future plans; it was actually a great conversation. Some people have surmised that he had had a stroke – he never said anything to me, but there seems to be other evidence. Whether that had anything to do with it, I don’t know. He didn’t sound inordinately depressed.”

Other bits and pieces gradually emerged. Windsor’s sudden heart attack death in the previous year had deeply affected Gatton. Who would handle the business since his friend had done that job so well? Previti also remembers Gatton saying that maintaining his farm for seven years had been difficult, a hint of the depression he’d long battled.

Without Gatton to say, a definitive answer may never emerge. But nobody thinks, as some press reports have speculated, that losing Elektra was the final straw, since he’d left them without any money.

Given time, Elliott guesses Gatton might have shelved his trio with Previti and drummer Timm Biery to re-form the Fat Boys.

“The last band he had, I almost left after the first set one night, it was so intense,” he said. “It didn’t focus on Danny, it focused on the whole thing – too many people playing too much at once.”

Now back after a long layoff, Elliott finds the circle closing again by playing with Hancock and guitarist Dave Chappell in Falls Church, Virginia – covering vast musical terrain he might never mastered had he not met Danny Gatton.

For Elliott, those experiences were like “…going to grad school for 18 years.”

“For me to have the opportunity – and him to let me do it – shows something about his character, too, because he could have picked any drummer he wanted,” Elliott said.

For Eastridge, working with Danny Gatton made him a better engineer, simply because they pushed each other’s talent past all previously accepted limits. He cites Gatton’s cover of Gene Vincent’s “A Lotta Lovin’,” on Big Mo’s upcoming CD demo/outtake compilation Portraits, as one example.

“He did the snare drum track, and wanted a real swingin’ feel – a snare goin’ bop, bop, ba-ba-bop. I think we worked on that track for 10 hours. I wanted to shoot myself at the end of that session; ‘Wait, back up! We’ve gotta fix that one!’ ‘Which one, man?’”

For Previti, playing with Gatton amounted to a loop that would never end, because of the guitarist’s endless capacity for surprise, which reminds him of the bebop players he works with today.

“I play with a few guys in their 70s who are great jazz musicians – as good as anybody; they’re the real deal,” he says. “The uncanny thing about Danny is that he was relatively young, and whatever he played – from Charlie Christian to anything before or after – I have never heard any single musician play all the things he played, so many styles authentically at one time.

“People talk about his speed, and ability – chops are measured in different ways. It wasn’t speed, it was control. With him, every note was controlled, authentic.”

In whatever way people discover Danny Gatton, Previti has only one wish when they do.

“I just hope they hear his music, and let it register,” he says. “Because they’re hearing the real deal. He was a lot of fun, and when I miss him, it’s [for] a funny thing he would do or play. Among the great music we played, it was his sense of fun that I really miss.

“I was just a little punk when I started playing with him, and he could have fired me, but he never did. He saw something and he just helped me out.”

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Big Mo Records, RR1, Box 389C, Thetford Center, VT 05075, phone (802) 785-4225, http://www.bigmo .com, e-mail big.mo.records@ valley.net.

NRG Records, c/o Norma Gatton, PO Box 100, Alpharetta, GA 30009. To order CDs Toll Free: 1-888-4GATTON.

The Official Danny Gatton Website: http://www.bandpages.com/gatton.

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The author would like to thank Joe Barden, Dixie and Ed Eastridge, Dave Elliott, Norma Gatton, Jay Monterose, and John Previti for their time and contributions.

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Photo: Jay Monterose. Gatton lets rip with the ol’ beer bottle slide – with a full beer for effect, at the Montreal Jazz Festival in 1992.

This article originally appeared in VG‘s Apr. ’99 issue.

One of the most anticipated rock shows of the summer of ’99 was the Poison reunion tour, which brought back together singer Bret Michaels, bassist Bobby Dall, drummer Rikki Rockett, and guitarist C.C. DeVille – the group’s four original members. The original lineup split following the release of Swallow This Live in ’91, and had not performed together since.

After the split, Poison continued without DeVille, replacing him with Ritchie Kotzen and releasing Native Tongue in ’93. That lineup was short-lived and he was replaced by Blues Saraceno. However, with grunge, techno, and rap on the rise, and declining interest in ’80s-related music, the transition into the ’90s was not easy for Poison. The album recorded with Saraceno was never released and the group went on hiatus.

Years may have passed, but the original members of Poison still had a soft spot in each of their hearts for the music and their friendship. It wasn’t preposterous to think that one day fate would offer them another chance to work together. It was Dall who took the first step in bringing them together for a summer tour. And the timing couldn’t have been better. Audiences across the U.S. proved hungry for America’s ultimate party band, making the tour one of the summer’s top-grossing. The group put together a 90-minute set that included all of its greatest hits and concert favorites.

Now fully-recovered from his indulgence in the excesses of the ’80s, DeVille has claimed his sobriety and emerged looking like a new man. Buff and toned, he has dedicated hundreds of hours to improving his physique and honing his chops.

In the ’80s, mainstream guitar mags focused on players with

His name may be unfamiliar to even the most shrewd audiophile and TV/movie buff, but his clean, economic, and tasteful guitar style has filled the ears and hearts of millions. Bob Bain was there when the guitar slowly emerged from its status as a rhythm instrument to a viable, natural, melodic voice.

When rising through the ranks of studio performers, Bain worked with players and arrangers who were no less important than our finest contemporaries. These musicians laid the foundation for what would later become America’s popular music. His career could serve as a musicians’ bible – he started by playing in the school band and eventually performed with the most popular big bands of the 1940s – artists like Tommy Dorsey, Bob Crosby, Buddy Rich, Louie Bellson, and Harry James. These are the folks who helped Bain pull the guitar from the rhythm section to center stage.

With his ability to sightread music (rare among guitarists at the time), Bain earned his place as the number one guitarist for many Hollywood studios in the 1950s and ’60s. He played on countless jingles, albums, and soundtracks for television and movies. There were also many years of live radio.

Records by Frank Sinatra, including “Young At Heart” and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin“, featured Bain on guitar, as did records with his favorite male vocalist, Nat King Cole (including “Unforgettable“). He also played on albums by Mel Torme, Peggy Lee, and Rosemary Clooney.

In the ’70s, a young, talented crowd of guitarists raised their axes and slowly began to dominate. Bain continued to record, write, arrange, produce and for 22 years he held the guitar chair for one of the greatest television orchestras of all time – The Tonight Show Band. Through the years, Bain’s talent, respect, and generosity opened the doors for many other studio guitarists, arrangers, and musicians.

The following merely scratches the surface of…

The Musical World of Bob Bain
In the late 1930s, while attending Hamilton High School, in Los Angeles, Bain played bass with the school orchestra and played guitar on the side. In 1939, he bought a Gibson Charlie Christian model from a teacher who didn’t like it. He still owns that guitar, and once lent it Jim Hall, who used it on the road for a year.

After graduating, Bain hit the road playing bass with a trio. One of the guitarists, Joe Wolverton, acted as teacher. They would sit up all night when the job ended, playing and learning.

When that gig ended, he came back to town working local night clubs, like The Tom Tom on Sunset Boulevard. The band included Les Paul on guitar, and pianist Paul Smith. Smith later became a major player in the L.A. studio scene. We all know what Les accomplished.

In 1942 -’43, he joined Freddy Slack’s band. An excellent pianist, Freddy was featured in the Ray McKinley band for several years. Bain recalls Barney Kessel, who he first met in 1941 in Los Angeles, sitting in with the band at Casa Manana, in Culver City.

“Barney was just great,” he says.

Kessel would later break into the recording studios, and Slack did a picture called The Sky’s The Limit with Fred Astaire.

Another musician Bain worked with was Phil Moore. Very well known in town, Moore wrote many significant arrangements for Slack’s band, including a concerto for barroom piano and symphony orchestra. It was a marvelous piece. He formed a group, the Phil Moore Four, with himself on piano, Marshall Royal on clarinet, Lee Young (Lester Young’s brother) on drums, and a bass player named Joe Comfort.

“When I joined, he called it The Phil Moore Four and One More,” says Bain. “It was great because back in those days I was the only white guy playing with four black guys. You just didn’t see that too much, you know.

“One day we did a record date when bebop came out,” he added. “Sinatra wanted to record a bop record, so they decided Phil’s group was the one. So we did this record with Sinatra called ‘Bop Goes My Heart,’ a sort of novelty bop recording. Sinatra had a little trouble hitting the flatted fifth.

“We worked at places like The Macambo, on the Sunset Strip, all the really nice night clubs There was one club called La Papillon. When Phil worked there, Howard Hughes had a table – best table in the house, and it was reserved every night for him. Nobody ever sat at that table. No matter how crowded the place was, that table was empty. One memorable night, about midnight, Hughes, wearing a sports coat, tie, and tennis shoes, sat at the table. He requested ‘I’m Gonna Take A Slow Boat To China,’ which we played. He stayed about 30 minutes, then left.”

When World War II began, Bain ended up in a U.S.O. group in Europe with actor George Raft and singers Louise Albritton and June Clyde. The troupe toured England and North Africa, and spent time in Italy. George fell ill and returned home, but Bain and the ladies stayed. What a trooper!

Bain eventually came home, and in late 1945, he received a call from guitarist Dave Barbour. Dave played in the Benny Goodman Band and later married the band’s singer, Peggy Lee. He also worked with xylophonist Red Norvo and his sextet. Barbour told Bain he was working with Tommy Dorsey at the Casino Gardens in Los Angeles, and that he was going to stay in town when the band went on the road. Barbour arranged for Bain to sit in with the band one night and when Dorsey asked if he would like to play with the band, Bain responded with a resounding, “Sure!” He finished the remaining eight weeks at the Casino Gardens and went out on the road. Included in that band was Nelson Riddle on trombone, Buddy DeFranco on clarinet, and Buddy Rich on drums.

“I sat next to Buddy Rich for almost two years,” Bain explains. “He was the highest-paid member of the band, by far, and he had a feature spot in every stage show. It would just break the place up. There was nobody like Buddy. But he and Tommy would get into personality clashes, especially if Tommy made a motion that the tempo was not right. Buddy would get really upset with him for that. When Tommy called a ballad like ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’ or ‘There Are Such Things,’ which were very slow, Buddy would put his sticks down. He had a newspaper and he’d put it on the tom tom and while reading it, he would look at Tommy. That left guitar, bass, piano, and this big band. Tommy would be looking at me, and so the rhythm guitar had to move the band. It really got to be not funny. It was a constant bickering.

“Tommy’s gag was to walk off the stage while Buddy was playing his drum solo and walk next door to have a drink. He’d come back and Buddy would still be playing his solo. Buddy would play until he dropped. Tommy had to bring the band back in to get Buddy to stop his solo. It was that kind of a thing.”

Tommy was a strict leader, a great player, and a perfectionist who expected perfection.

“He could grab the trombone cold off the stand and hit the high C sharp every time,” Bain recalls. “Tommy might not be on the stand and in the audience, sitting. He would tell Al Beller, a violinist who led the band when Tommy wasn’t there, to pick one of the other trombone players to play the theme, and boy would they sweat it.” His band was very popular. One-nighters, theaters, whatever. They always had huge crowds.

When Bain joined Tommy Dorsey, a recording ban was in effect. On August 1, 1942, James Caesar Petrillo, the elected national president of the American Foundation of Musicians, ordered his musicians to stop all recording. His argument was that if the record companies could not create some system whereby musicians were paid for the use of their recordings on radio programs and in juke boxes, he wouldn’t let them record at all. Practically all the big band leaders disagreed. Thus, there were recording marathons scheduled to beat the ban deadline, and many arrangements were done on-the-spot. At Decca Studios, Bain and Hoagy Carmichael recorded many tunes in this fashion.

For more than a year, no major company made any records with instrumentalists. Singers, however, were allowed to record, usually with chordal backgrounds. Peggy Lee and Nat King Cole would use “vocal ground” in the background to substitute for the band. Bain recalls a lot of “illegal” after-midnight recording happening with Hollywood big bands in 1943.

Finally, in November 1944, when the recording companies agreed to pay a union royalty, the strike ended. Unfortunately, the singers had taken over and the recording field would never be the same for the big bands.

During the ban, Tommy Dorsey compiled many good tunes written by Sy Oliver, including “Opus One,” “Chicago,” and “Sunny Side Of The Street.” These and many other songs and new arrangements in the book that had not been recorded were part of a studio marathon that lasted two weeks, two sessions per day, at RCA.

Bain left Dorsey and toured with the Bob Crosby Big Band. This was a more relaxed band, in contrast to the tight ship run by Dorsey. Crosby had a good book, a good band, and good arrangers working for him. And like his famous older brother, Bing, Bob sang ballads with the band.

The original band consisted of many good players from Chicago. It was at the Windy City spot, The Blackhawk Restaurant, the band played some of its greatest music.

“He had a great show, was a great Master of Ceremonies, and told jokes about Bing,” remembers Bain.

While working with Crosby, Bain used his Charlie Christian model exclusively.

“Bob loved it. Once I played a different guitar and he told me, ‘Geez, I sound terrible with that guitar!’.”

The Christian had all the low-end Crosby preferred. Bain still remembers the intros he played behind Crosby. However, in these great bands, the guitar was restricted to rhythm parts.

“There wasn’t an electric part in the book, not even with Tommy Dorsey,” Bain laments.

Bain has always believed Les Paul was responsible for bringing guitars to the forefront.

“With two Ampex (microphones) in a room in Las Vegas, he and Mary Ford performed, and made records in their hotel room, going from one machine to the other,” Bain remembers. He often drove by Paul’s house on Sunset Boulevard.

“You could see Les’ garage from Sunset because it was right on the corner,” he said. “His light was always on and I’d just pull into the driveway, go back, and there’d be Les in his shirt sleeves, with two turntables, going back and forth, overdubbing. He was always wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and he was covered with solder burns. He was always tinkering with something. He was one of those guys, when you were talking to him, he’d pick the scab off. I’d say, ‘Les, that thing!’, and he’d say ‘I know, I can’t help it.’ He just kept doing it.”

Bain’s own band, The San Fernando Playboys, made recordings in Les’ living room. He later played local gigs and recorded with Harry James and his big band and then with Andre Previn and his trio.

At that time, Previn was working at MGM Studios and was one of the first film composers to write parts for the electric guitar. Fortunately, Previn brought Bain in to play them. The guitar intro section to the song “Mona Lisa,” recorded by Nat King Cole, was Bain’s idea.

“In the early studio days, the orchestrators would have the violas pick afterbeats with the horns arranged symphonically. Then they began to use rhythm guitar, which sort of got popular. At MGM, they were still using only one microphone to get the whole orchestra and one microphone on the piano. I had to sit on a riser. I needed a small ladder to get up on the riser, which gave me a shot at the microphone hanging from the ceiling.”

Bain played a blond Gibson L-5 with high action because its sound cut through the orchestra. He recorded several albums on RCA with Previn, still using his workhorse, the Gibson Charlie Christian model. The combination of his adept sightreading and studio finesse quickly put Bain in the first chair at several major Hollywood studios.

“Originally, in motion pictures, the only things you played were rhythm parts, which were chord symbols. A banjo part might have the melody written out. You would rarely get a mandolin part because most of the time, a violin player would double on the mandolin. Most guitarists tuned their mandolins like the first four strings of the guitar.”

Later, Bain began to record more mandolin and banjo. Examples of his banjo picking can be heard on the soundtracks to Thoroughly Modern Milly and Around The World In 80 Days.

In 1953, Bain received a call from Tommy Tedesco, a hungry East Coast guitarist who decided he belonged on the L.A. studio scene.

“He said he was new in town and looking for work,” Bain says. “I asked him if he would want to work an automobile show? He responded ‘I’ll work anything.’ I sent Tommy on his first job in L.A. Then he began to get work in the studios, a little bit at a time. Eventually, Tommy and I worked many dates together.

“He was an unbelievable gambler. He would play poker all night – all night long – and just come right from the poker game to work. On every intermission, he’d just fall asleep and you’d have to wake him to get him to come and sit down. Then he would do the same thing the next night.”

After that phone call to Bain in 1953, Tedesco became the most recorded guitar player in history.

From Stage to Studio
Most of Bain’s early studio dates were for jingles, about one to two hours each. A studio call could last two to three hours. In the 1950s and ’60s, records really went crazy. Bain was working so much at Capitol that he would leave his instruments at the studio to facilitate his busy schedule. One day, he received a frantic phone call from a music contractor who had called 21 other guitarists, but they were all booked. This was not uncommon.

Al Hendrickson, another great studio guitarist, shared the majority of work with Bain at Universal, Fox, Columbia, and Warner Brothers. When they wrote for two guitars, Bain and Al did most of the work. It was not uncommon for Bain to write the guitar parts for many of these sessions.

Other studio first call guitarists included Alan Reuss at Disney, Tiny Timbrell at Warner Brothers, Barney Kessel, and Howard Roberts at Columbia.

“There was one session Howard was playing on that came to an abrupt halt. Why? Howard forgot his pick and refused to record without it. Mrs. Roberts personally delivered the pick to the studio.”

The session resumed and Howard was a happy camper.

As the guitar became even more popular, leaders often incorporated several guitars for the sessions. Producer Jack Marshall did a TV show called “The Deputy” with Henry Fonda. He had five guitars as the main sound of the orchestra. “Bonanza” featured the big guitars of Bain, Tommy Tedesco, Al Hendrickson, and Laurindo Almeida.

“Eventually most dates would consist of a bass guitar, rhythm guitar, and two electrics. The guys really began to write for guitars. You did doubles, where two people would play rhythm guitar, then they’d switch to electric and so forth. It got to be very nice for guitar players in that time. If a three-hour session paid $100. If you played electric and rhythm, it was $150. If you played electric guitar, rhythm guitar, and banjo, it was $175. It wasn’t uncommon to make doubletime in the studios.

“Then, as the work got busier, the fellas who were really in demand asked for time and a half even if they didn’t play another instrument. That’s kinda how it got to be. The first trumpet player, the first trombone, and concertmaster also received a guaranteed double. It wasn’t unusual for a studio guitarist to make a six-figure salary.”

In fact, during Bain’s nonstop work at Capitol, he had to turn down a personal request from Frank Sinatra.

“I did all the early stuff with Frank. When he wanted to do a concert tour of Europe I told him, ‘You can’t pay me enough to go, Frank. I’m making too much money here.’ Frank understood, and Al Viola went on the tour. Once Al did that, he continued working with Frank.”

With such a demand on individual players, a call that went out even a month in advance would often have musical contractors playing musical chairs with the session men to accommodate such demands and find a replacement for that date.

Much as there were preferred guitarists at each studio, certain players were requested by individual leaders.

“Jerry Goldsmith, at Fox, would have an orchestra of 70 to 80 individuals,” Bain recalls. “The first cue would be simple. Then the second cue would be an elaborate gut-string solo with strings underneath. The inherent string noise problems made this work very tough. And they usually would want one clean take right off the top. And nobobdy told you anything. Until you got there, you didn’t know what was gonna happen.”

Henry Mancini was another leader who preferred Bain.

“Hank would always ask for me. If he used two guitars, he’d ask for me and Al Hendrickson. If he were to use three guitars, he’d ask for me, Al, and either Tommy Tedesco or Dennis Budimir or Alan Reuss for the third chair. Now if I did a date with, say, Percy Faith and Al Hendrickson was there, Al would play the first chair and I would play second. You just knew when you went in who would play first guitar. Tommy worked for a lot of leaders, and he would automatically play first guitar. There were never any problems with this arrangement. These guys were all so friendly, they were happy not to play first guitar. Being the first chair, you are responsible for all solos, and you’re out in the open.”

In the 1960s, Bob Bain’s association with Henry Mancini was extensive. Mancini played piano with the Tex Beneke Band, and Tex once played tenor for Glenn Miller. The band had a vocal group called the Meltones, featuring Mel Torme. When Mancini left, he moved to L.A. to get work as an arranger. When the Glenn Miller Story was being filmed, Mancini was hired as orchestrator. He knew the Glenn Miller sound because of this association with Beneke.

“The first record date I ever did with Hank was on his first album for Liberty Records. Liberty was just getting started then,” Bain recalls.

The record featured Bain on guitar and Dominic Frontiere on accordion. Frontiere was destined to be a composer, and he had achieved the highest BMI rating of any composer to date.

“Hank became very popular and everything he did featured guitar, especially the ‘Peter Gunn Theme’,” Bain said. “I would get calls from New York. Somebody you never knew. The guy would say, ‘Are you the guitar player that works with Mancini?’ Yeah. ‘Well I got a leader coming out there and he wants Mancini’s guitar player for this record date. Would you hold it for me?’”

This sort of thing happened a lot.

Even though Bain and Mancini would see each other two or three times a week, they never socialized. In fact, he never got involved with leaders or guys he worked for, except for Nelson Riddle.

“The only guy I hung out with was Nelson. We worked in the Dorsey band together and had already been friends before he became a well-known arranger. He and I would hang out all the time. He’d call me at 9 a.m. and say, ‘Hey give me a call about 11 and ask me to go out to lunch. I gotta get out of this office.’”

In 1958, Mancini became friends with producer Blake Edwards, who had this idea for a television show that eventually became the “Peter Gunn” series. Hank wrote all the music. The show sold and became an immediate bestseller. The session musicians were John Williams on piano, Rolly Bundock on bass, Jack Sperling on drums, and Bain on guitar. The same lineup was featured on the “Mister Lucky” series as well. Other great Bain/Mancini partnerships include Breakfast At Tiffany’s, accompanying Audrey Hepburn on the timeless classic “Moon River,” and The Great Race, with Natalie Wood doing “The Sweetheart Tree.”

Bain fondly recalls a memorable date with the late Laurindo Almeida.

“A great thing happened on the ‘Peter Gunn’ show one time,” Bain said. “There was an episode where there’s a murder in the balcony of a concert hall. It was like Segovia or somebody was giving the concert. So, I get to the show. It was always Wednesday at 8 p.m. at MGM. When I got there, Laurindo was there. I said, ‘What are you doing here?’ He said, ‘I don’t know, I got a call to be here.’

“Well, we scored the thing, and at the end, Hank had this cue for Laurindo to play. He was going to be emulating the concert guitar player on the stage while the murder is going on in the balcony. Hank and Laurindo had worked together before and naturally, we were all friends, so Hank tells Laurindo he has this little thing he wants him to play. ‘It’s about 32 bars and we’re gonna use whatever we need of it.’ It was a traditional D minor Bach piece. Laurindo looks at it and says, ‘Oh, how nice Hank. Good. I need two weeks to prepare.’ He put the music in his guitar case, put his guitar in it, and closed the case.

“Hank said, ‘Wait a minute!’ Then Laurindo said, ‘I don’t play Bach without having time to prepare.’ So Hank says ‘Well, what can you play?’ So he ended up playing some Villa Lobos he’d been practicing for something else. It was great! He just said, ‘I need two weeks to prepare,’ that was it. He didn’t even say ‘I’ll look it over,’ or ‘I know it.’ He knew it by heart, but he hadn’t practiced it in the last month or so and you don’t play Bach without practicing. The look on Hank’s face was so funny.”

The first time Bain and Laurindo worked together was on a TV movie about Abraham Lincoln. Paul Gregory, a famous television stage producer, didn’t want an orchestra or any ponderous music. Filming would move from one studio to another at different locations, and the entire production was recorded live.

“Laurindo and I were just sitting in a small room with a microphone and a monitor. We just made up the music to go with each scene. There was no composer, Gregory told us to just play what we feel. So we just played some stuff and it came out very well.”

Bain and Laurindo made several records together that were never released.

Bain also performed on many radio shows over the years, usually with a small orchestra. These included “The Jack Benny Show,” “Fibber McGee and Molly,” and the “Judy Canova Show.” He played the Canova Show for 39 weeks – every Saturday for three or four years. There would be a Saturday morning rehearsal, one show at 5 p.m. for an 8 p.m. broadcast in New York, a break, and then record the show again at 7:30 to 8:30 p.m. for the West Coast. All were done live.

Bain later became adept at writing and arranging, as well. A pianist named Junior Mance was getting ready to make his debut on Capitol. Mance, a trained musician who studied seriously for years, toured with Gene Ammons, and was a house musician at the Bee Hive, in Chicago. He later toured with Dinah Washington, The Cannonball Adderly Quintet, Dizzy Gillespie, and Joe Williams. This new recording featured some of the finest West Coast musicians, including Pete Candoli on trumpet, Vern Friley on trombone, Shelly Manne on drums, and Joe Comfort on bass. Dave Cavanaugh, a popular producer, penned the arrangements.

The tracks were reviewed by jazz critic Leonard Feather, who wrote, “The fine Hollywood studio guitarist Bob Bain lately has been earning an auxiliary reputation as a skillful writer for both singing and instrumental groups.”

In 1963, Bain and Dave Cavanaugh went to Abbey Road Studio, in London, to do arrangements for George Chakaris, a popular singer and dancer. They also met George’s friend, producer George Martin. Bain did the arrangements in a little room in the Leeds Building on Tin Pan Alley. The orchestra consisted of 16 violins, four cellos, four violas, and trombones. All woodwinds, no trumpets.

During one of the dates, George Martin asked Bain to come down the hall and check out a young group from Liverpool. So Martin, Cavanaugh, and Bain watched as a bunch of guys named John, Paul, George, and Ringo rehearsed. Martin commented that it was hard working with them, but he thought they had something – a style of their own. “We’re going to record them and see what happens,” he said.

Bain and Cavanaugh completed the album with Chakaris. Then, in early ’64, while attending a family function, they watched the ‘Ed Sullivan Show.’ There they were – The Beatles.

Bain continued his busy studio regimen, recording some of the most memorable television themes to date. The theme from ‘M.A.S.H.,’ written by Johnny Mandel and originally recorded by Bain and Howard Roberts, “Mission Impossible” (played on a Silvertone bass), “The Munsters,” “The Ozzie and Harriet Show,” and countless others.

These themes were more like anthems for a generation; who can forget the melodies? The guitar’s perfect voice calling out, pulling us away from whatever we were doing, sitting us down in front of the TV, and preparing us for the drama, suspense, or laughter to follow. Bain’s guitar did just that.

Speaking of Bain’s guitars, compared to the arsenal of instruments and equipment brought to most of today’s sessions, Bain’s covey of songbirds filled his needs quite nicely. A 1953 Telecaster (the “Gunn” guitar) did the bulk of his film work. Its distinctive tone, combined with Bain’s touch, gave personality to the characters it supported. Think about it; Peter Gunn, Herman Munster, Batman, and the Pink Panther, can you think of another tone that would work?

A Gibson ES-175 handled the jazz calls. A Yamaha 12-string and a Martin gut-string, given to him by Jack Marshall, covered everything from gritty westerns to hauntingly beautiful stories of love. He also owns a Rodriguez given to him by classical guitarist Christopher Parkening. A Silvertone bass and a 1935 Gibson L-5 were used most.

His amplifiers consisted of a Fender Twin, a Benson (which Howard Roberts gave him), and a Fender Princeton Reverb. Effects were usually no more than a fuzzbox and a wah wah pedal.

Bob continued working in the studios until 1972. When they got word “The Tonight Show” with Johnny Carson may come to the West Coast, all the guys who had taken that job were already working in the studios. A few of the original members were Pete Chrislieb and Tommy Newsom on tenor, Ed Shaughnessy on drums, Ross Tompkins on piano, Jimmy Zito on trumpet, and Joe DiBortolo on bass, all under the direction of Doc Severinsen.

While working on “The Tonight Show,” Bob mostly played the Gibson 175 and a Fender Telecaster. Switching became to be a problem, so Bain put a humbucker in the neck position of the Tele. This way he could use one guitar for rock or jazz, thus pioneering the Tele/humbucker combination.

“When the band would rehearse in the afternoon, no matter how long of a break we would have on the show, we would all always go across the street, and Doc would practice. He would practice until he just had time to change his clothes and start. I would say Doc practiced four or five hours every day. And if he could, he’d practice eight hours.

“When ‘The Tonight Show’ started, Tony Mottola did it in New York in 1962. At that time they had staff orchestras. They probably had three guitar players on staff at different times – Tony Mottola, Gene Bertoncini, and Jay Berliner, or perhaps in the early days, Karl Kress.”

Viewers may remember hearing, at the end of the opening theme, two signature wah-wah guitar chords.

“At that time, the wah wah pedal had just gotten popular with Shaft and the other ’60s stuff. So Tony would do that because he said when they would repeat the show, you knew if it was a rerun. And you knew if you were gonna get paid and then you didn’t have to watch the rest of the show to see if you were on it just for the hell of it. Tony told me that over the phone one time, so I continued to do it.

“There were a lot of funny things that would happen that you wouldn’t even believe,” he added. “Doc was such an ad-lib guy to start with – a funny guy, with a great sense of humor. If a guest didn’t pan out the way Johnny thought they would, he would just look at the director, Fred DeCordova, and he would give a cue to Doc for the band to play a tune.

“One day, the famous opera singer, Beverly Sills, who’d had an operation a couple of months before, was scheduled. She had done a concert in Texas and flew in that day. During rehearsal, she walked out and said to Doc, ‘I really don’t feel like rehearsing, I’m just a little tired. I think I’ll lie down and I don’t think I’ll sing today. I think I’ll just be on the panel. But if I do sing, I’ll sing “Estrellita” in the key of F and I know Bob will be able to follow me.’ And that was it. With no rehearsal, I just figured she’s not gonna sing and didn’t think anything about it. So later, she’s on the panel talking, and Johnny asks if she’s going to sing and she says ‘okay.’ And she walked over and we did the tune. She is such a marvelous singer. She knew exactly when to let you make a fill and so easy to accompany we did it and we never rehearsed it.”

Bain played with “The Tonight Show” band for 22 years. Today, he continues to write, record, and produce. Recently, he has been performing with the legendary George Van Eps, and as always, thoroughly enjoys his family and remains a humble, gentle man.

How does one survive such a vast and extremely demanding musical career? Just take a listen.

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A Few of the Hundreds of Motion Pictures Bob Played On
Airport ’75
Alvarez Kelly
Baby The Rain Must Fall
Batman
Blazing Saddles
Breakfast At Tiffany’s
Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid
Bye Bye Birdie
Cape Fear (Original ’62 Version)
Cat Ballou
Cincinnati Kid
Conrack
Days Of Wine And Roses
Doctor Dolittle
Dr. Zhivago
Escape From The Planet of Apes
Finians Rainbow
Gidget Goes To Rome
Hatari
Hello Dolly
High Plains Drifter
How The West Was Won
Hud
Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte
In Harms Way
It’s A Mad Mad World
Jaws
Jumbo
Lillies Of The Field
Love Story
Madame X
Magnificent Seven
Midway
Nightwing
Ode To Billy Joe
Omega Man
Our Man Flint
Paint Your Wagon
Play It Again Sam
Ride The Wild Surf
Rosemary’s Baby
Sand Pebbles
Silver Streak
Stagecoach
State Fair
Summertree
The Dirty Dozen
The Green Berets
The Longest Yard
The Pink Panther
The Sting II
Thomas Crown Affair
Tom Sawyer
Tora Tora Tora
Under The Yum Yum Tree
Valley Of The Dolls
Wait Until Dark
Walking Tall
Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Wolf
Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory
10
Yes Giorgio
Thornbirds

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Some of the Hundreds of Artists Bob Recorded With
Nat King Cole…. Unforgettable”
Frank Sinatra…. “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”
Rosemary Clooney…. “Come On A My House”
Doris Day…. “Que Sera Sera”
Henry Mancini…. “Peter Gunn”, “Pink Panther”
Tommy Dorsey…. “Opus One”
Dave Rose…. “The Stripper”
Nelson Riddle…. “Lisbon Antigua”
Percy Faith…. “The Summer Wind”
Peggy Lee…. “What’s New”

Other Artists Include
Elvis Presley
Barbara Striesand
Tony Bennett
Perry Como
Kennny Rogers
Lou Rawls
Linda Ronstadt
Ella Fitzgerald
Quincy Jones
Sarah Vaughn
Glen Campbell
Vicki Carr
Four Freshman
Hoyt Axton
Roger Miller
Hi-Lows
Ray Charles
John Williams
Andy Williams
Sammy Davis Jr.
Doris Day
Shelly Mann
Bill Conti
Lani Hall
John Mandell
Petula Clark
Nelson Riddle
Michel Legrande
Dionne Warwick
Sam Cooke
Bobby Darin
Connie Francis
Ricky Nelson
Mamas & The Papas
Nancy Sinatra
Tom Jones
Anita Kerr

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Some of the Television Shows Bob Played On
“Daktari”
“Bonanza”
“Dallas”
“Dynasty”
“Medical Center”
“Academy Awards”
“Quincy”
“Mash”
“Happy Days”
“Kojak”
“Incredible Hulk”
“Starsky & Hutch”
“Bob Newhart”
“Laverne & Shirley”
“Carol Burnett”
“Ozzie & Harriet”
“Benson”
“Bionic Woman”
“Waltons”
“Mary Tyler Moore”
“Hart To Hart”
“Barnaby Jones”
“Rhoda”
“Charlies Angels”
“The Fugitive”
“Checkmate”
“Mission Impossible”
“Peter Gunn”
“Mr. Lucky”
“Emergency”
“The Deputy”
“Lou Grant”
“Wonder Woman”
“Six Million Dollar Man”
“My Three Sons”
“Trapper John M.D.”
“The Munsters”
“Fantasy Island”
“Bewitched”
“Alice”
“Adam 12”
“Family”
“Batman”
“Columbo”
“Rockford Files”
“Baretta”
“Wild Wild West”
“Adam’s Family”
“Andy Griffith”
“Beverly Hillbillies”
“Hunter”
“Highway To Heaven”
“McMillan And Wife”
“Get Smart”
“Twilight Zone”
“Little House On The Prairie”
“Alfred Hitchcock”
“Lawrence Welk”
“Mr. Belvedere”
“Gunsmoke”

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Jim LaDiana is a guitarist and writer/composer living in Ventura, CA. E-mail lizzard55@juno.com. Tracy Longo, Guitar Tech Corner, Ventura, California, has been working on Bob’s guitars for the last several years and helped compile this article.

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Photo courtesy of Bob Bain. Bob Bain and Lynn Murray work on a track in the studio in the 1960s. Murray, a freelance composer for Universal, RKO and MGM Studios, listed among his credits the score for Alfred Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief.

This Article originally appeared in VG‘s Nov. and Dec. ’97 issues.