Ten years have passed since Danny Gatton killed himself at his rural Maryland home. The reasons remain shrouded in mystery, yet his legacy is more visible than ever.
Holly Gatton has no trouble believing her father’s dazzling chops and restless eclecticism left their mark. She receives regular correspondence reinforcing that fact.
“The farthest [e-mail] was from Germany – a guitar player is selling some of Dad’s CDs on his site,” Gatton said. “I go from Germany to getting one from someone in Blacksburg who had no idea I lived here, and hoped they’d run into me at the grocery store sometime!”
Holly and her mother, Jan, became custodians of Danny’s legacy after settling a lawsuit against NRG Records, the entity Norma Gatton created to release her son’s music.
The work is now coordinated by Flying Deuces Music, a company set up by Jan, Holly, and Big Mo Records, which is run by longtime engineer Ed Eastridge and his wife, Dixie.
The latest CD is Funhouse, taken from a June ’88 gig with Danny’s nine-piece jazz band of the same name. The gig reunited Danny with pedal steel guitarist Buddy Emmons, his late-’70s sparring partner in the Redneck Jazz Explosion. Fans can decide if Danny’s well-documented perfectionism warranted keeping the tapes on the shelf.
“Well, he was really hot at the time. I think he was woodshedding a lot, and it showed in his playing,” Eastridge said.
Eastridge produced the album, on which he did no editing except trimming the horn solos. He reasoned that fans, “…don’t want to wait seven minutes before they hear the first guitar licks,” he said.
The next project may be a reissue of the Redneck Jazz Explosion’s December 31, 1978 gig. Eastridge is reviewing bootlegs to see if he can improve the existing CD.
“We’re going to try to re-mix it, so it matches the bootleg, because the bootleg is really high quality,” he said.
Holly has heard little about the lawsuit that divided her family and Washington, D.C.’s musical community. She’s more concerned about seeing her father’s legacy properly presented.
“It’s not about making money; we’re not going to get rich doing this,” Gatton said.
But the Gattons may face yet another walk through the legal thicket. Guitarist Evan Johns is planning to contest the estate’s copyright on the 1978 album Redneck Jazz, on which he wrote three songs, including the title track.
Johns asserts Big Mo cannot sell the album, for which the musicians had no contracts and he claims to have seen no royalties. If a court supports him, Johns plans on releasing Redneck Jazz himself.
“It’s my property, and [the estate does] own one-fifth,” Johns said. “But I own more than one-fifth because I’m the publisher and songwriter, not a side man.”
On a brighter note, Johns plans on releasing Showdown At The Hoedown, from an ’80s gig at Baltimore’s 8×10 Club. It features himself and Danny tearing up more rock-oriented material.
“Somebody taped the right night, because I didn’t cut him no slack,” Johns said. “I was hunting for his head. But I always went first,” he added, laughing.
Drummer Dave Elliott also continues to field questions about his 18-year association with Gatton. He holds the rhythmic fort in several bands, including Bill Kirchen’s Too Much Fun.
Playing with another Telecaster exponent like Kirchen fuels the legend and keeps everyone on their toes, including himself, Elliott said.
“Any band I play in, I can really tune in,” Elliott said. “If I watch their body language, or stare at the backs of their heads, I can follow them. I learned it from the master, which was Danny.”
Elliott also joined guitarist Dave Chappell and bassist Billy Hancock in re-formed Fat Boys, the mid-’70s combo where Danny made his mark as a bandleader. The experience has taken Elliott back to his musical roots.
“When I first went out with him, he thought I was playing too much, but he’d say, “You’re laying down something underneath it,’” Elliott said. “I didn’t know any differently; the busier I played, the more attention I got.”
Guitarist Arlen Roth has reconnected with people who shaped Danny’s legacy, including keyboardist Bill Holloman and drummer Shannon Ford. Both are in Roth’s current band.
The trio joined Danny’s longtime bassist, John Previti, in Nashville, for a project with producer Mike Campbell.
“[Previti] was working on an album in ’94 with Danny,” Roth said. “He sings a lot like Roy Orbison.”
Roth is also overseeing a reissue of his 1995 Toolin’ Around album, which features Danny on one track. The disc will also include a DVD of the sessions they did together.
A jam with Previti in Annapolis, Maryland, convinced Roth that his late friend’s legacy is in good hands, “Because the energy down there will just never stop,” he said. “You’re talking about Telecaster country, and the fans never cease to be fans.”
The experience convinced Roth to produce two albums for Hillbilly Jazz. The lineup includes Previti, plus guitarists Jim Stephanson and Chick Hall, who is, “Cut from a similar stone as Danny,” in Roth’s view.
“When I was playing with those guys, you could just feel Danny looming over the event. You could feel his presence.”
As far as Johns is concerned, the true extent of Danny’s legacy will become obvious to anyone who does their homework.
“If you have the right technique, your vocabulary is endless because you have the ability to do with it as you choose,” he said. “You have options, ya’ know?”
Danny Gatton’s Unfinished Business.
Unfinished Business Reissued
Powerhouse Records has reissued Danny Gatton’s Unfinished Business album. First released in 1987 for NRG Records, it was Gatton’s last studio album before signing with Elektra Records and boasts his typical eccelctic mix of roadhouse/honky tonk American roots music. The album has been remastered to enhance the sparkling guitar sounds that were the hallmark of Gatton’s guitar sound, and the package has new artwork and photos, as well as the original front cover art.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Jan. ’05 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Ray Davies has never been one to pull any punches. Ever since his days as the leader of the Kinks he’s been known to go after plenty of targets, both directly and with clever wordplay. Here he appears to be going after much of the world, or at least his homeland of England. He also manages to get in fine asides about his shooting during a mugging in 2004 in New Orleans, and, as you’d expect, the dynamics between men and women.
It doesn’t take long for Davies to let us know what he’s thinking. The opener, “Vietnam Cowboys” talks about globalization. The electric guitar of Patrick Buchanan matches the angst, anger, and disdain displayed by Davies. And Davies’ sentiment toward today’s world is purveyed in the title cut, where he thinks back to a time when a street may have been unique, but is now lined with the same retail stores you see whether you’re in a small town in Idaho or New York City.
Davies references getting shot on cuts like “No One Listen,” and mentions everyone from the police department to the Dalai Lama to Kofi Annan. Among the album’s biting sarcasm are pieces of genuine whimsy. “Morphine Song” is clever and funny, and goes back to his recovery from the gunshot. And while the state of the world may be his preoccupation, there’s plenty of music about relationships. “Peace in Our Time” is about a couple trying to resolve their issues, while “One More Time” is a chimey ballad with a lyric that’s both wistful and bitter.
Plenty of the rockers we grew up with have run out of steam, but Davies’ music continues to grow.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s July. ’08 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
If Martin Taylor ever decides to quit playing guitar, he can always launch a career as a stand-up comic. Asked where he grew up, the guitarist states, “I was born October 20, 1956, in England, near a town called Harlow, about 30 miles north of London. As a child, I couldn’t leave the house because my family was so poor they couldn’t afford clothes for me. I was 27 before they had enough money to buy me a baseball cap so I could look out the window.”
The truth is, by age 27 Taylor was touring the world with jazz’s greatest violinist, Stephane Grappelli, and had been playing guitar for 23 years, 15 of them professionally. Any guitarist playing with the late Grappelli was essentially stepping into the shoes of Django Reinhardt, the violinist’s legendary partner in the 1930s and ’40s. But, having toured with Steph, off and on, for 11 years, recording more than 20 albums together, Taylor’s tenure is actually the longest of any Grappelli guitar player.
When Vintage Guitar last interviewed Taylor in 1996, Tone Poems II, his collection of duets with mandolinist David Grisman, was a recent release; he was working on Masterpiece Guitars with Steve Howe, utilizing rare guitars from the Scott Chinery Collection; and his newest solo CD was Portraits, featuring three duets with Chet Atkins.
The decade since has been his most prolific. His group, Spirit Of Django, recorded two CDs, including tracks featuring Grappelli, who died in 1997, at age 89. Taylor’s trio, Gypsy Journey, recorded a self-titled CD, and he and Grisman released a blowing ensemble session, I’m Beginning To See The Light.
Taylor also toured with and appeared on five albums by former Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman’s Rhythm Kings, and teamed with flamenco great Juan Martin, folk singer/guitarist Martin Carthy, and eclectic fingerstylist Martin Simpson, as Martins4 – releasing a live CD and DVD. He continues to perform with Simpson in Guitars3, with Neil Stacy.
Further, he recorded a CD of duets with Australian musicians, Two’s Company, and formed an as-yet unrecorded configuration, Le Nouveau Trio Gitane, with Christian Escoude and David Reinhardt, Django’s grandson. Martin Taylor In Concert, an unaccompanied live date from ’97, was released on CD and DVD. He recorded two ensemble albums for Sony, Kiss & Tell and Nitelife, but his most recent CDs, Solo and The Valley, amply illustrate why Pat Metheny declared, “Martin Taylor is one of the most awesome solo guitar players in the history of the instrument. He’s unbelievable.”
The highpoint of the latter, and in concert, is his original “Kwami,” in which he imitates a team of African drummers, playing five independent parts in a polyrhythmic display that would seem impossible for one guitarist to pull off.
Along with a couple of method books, several instructional DVDs, and organizing an annual guitar festival, he was featured in the documentary “Stephane Grappelli: A Life In The Jazz Century,” and managed to find time to recount his life in music in Martin Taylor: Autobiography Of A Travelling Musician (Sanctuary). First published in 2000 (when Taylor was all of 44), it was recently issued in paperback to include such updates as his Honorary Doctorate from the University of Paisley, in Scotland (1999), and the Member of the Order of the British Empire (MBE) he received from Queen Elizabeth in 2002, “for Services to Jazz Music.” A year later, he was awarded the Pioneer To The Life Of Nation, also by Her Majesty, for his Guitars For Schools charity.
The book is both poignant and side-splitting, and anyone who has read it could tell that the now-famous, outrageous tour rider attributed to him, which made the internet rounds, was indeed legit – albeit tongue-in-cheek, and pulling no punches (at promoters, fans, and even some fellow musicians).
In the early ’80s, Taylor considered moving to America, where many jazz and guitar aficionados are still just discovering him. “David Grisman asked me to join his band several times,” he explains. “And I was being offered all kinds of work in the U.S. My decision not to move was because I didn’t think it was fair to drag my wife and kids thousands of miles away to a foreign country, where they had no family support or friends. Kids should always come first. I can honestly say it was definitely the right decision and never harmed my career. I’ve been spoilt by the relative success I’ve enjoyed over the past 15 years or so, and I’ve got used to the good life. I still have a farmhouse in Scotland, but I now live mostly in France. I own horses, enjoy fine wines, and have a wife who has more shoes than Imelda Marcos! The fact that there are Americans out there who are only just discovering me, 33 years and 87 albums later, is actually very exciting. I think it’s fantastic being an overnight success after all these years.”
Vintage Guitar: Your family’s heritage is Scottish, but you grew up in Bath, England, correct
Martin Taylor: My family heritage is a mixture of English, Irish, Scottish, and Romany Gypsy. On my father’s side, my grandmother was a Scottish Traveler and my grandfather was an English Romany gypsy.
Until I read your book, I wasn’t familiar with the term “Travelers.” Does it connote people who lived a certain lifestyle or had a certain ancestry?
In Britain, Traveler is the general term used for gypsy. Travelers are a nomadic race; it has nothing to do with lifestyle. You cannot become a Traveler; you’re born one – it’s ancestry. Some people think if they adopt a nomadic lifestyle, traveling in a caravan, they can somehow “become” a Gypsy/Traveler. Well, I could buy a Chinese restaurant, but I’ll never be a Chinaman. Albert Lee comes from the same background as me.
There seem to be almost “rules” as to how most of the Gypsy-style guitarists play – all downstrokes, the position of the picking hand, etc. Do you subscribe to any of that when you play in that style?
One of the reasons I never really got deeply involved playing Gypsy jazz is for that very reason – just too many rules. It’s wonderfully evocative, passionate, and exciting music, but I find playing within the boundaries of that style too restricting. I want to create rather than re-create. With my group, Spirit of Django, we play music that allows us to flow over those boundaries while retaining the spirit of the music in a contemporary way. I’m really happy that the music has become so popular in the States over the past few years, and I’m excited that there are so many great players out there keeping it alive.
I owe everything to Django, but right now I’m having too much fun exploring other things on the guitar, particularly solo playing.
I attended a fascinating workshop by John Jorgenson. His knowledge of Django’s music was amazingly impressive – figuring out how Django must have fingered passages, able to play solos note for note. Did you ever go through a period of learning solos note for note?
John is an amazing guitarist. I love his playing. When Stephane and I recorded “Undecided” together in Paris a year or two before he died, we recreated the original recording from the 1930s. That’s my favorite musical moment with Stephane, but that’s only time I ever learnt a Django solo note for note. It was something I just wanted to do for fun, and Steph got a kick out of it, too. He was brilliant. As a kid I used to learn little phrases that Django played but never had the attention span to sit down and study. I don’t have a particularly analytical mind. Whenever I try to practice, within 10 minutes my eyes glaze over and I start to lose the will to live.
You play Django festivals, but you don’t seem to confine yourself to Django’s repertoire. Do you purposely avoid the Gypsy style in those settings?
I just play the way I play. Some people like it, which is great; some people don’t, which is fine, too. I only play the music that I want to play – which means if I like a Nora Jones tune, like “Don’t Know Why,” then I’ll play it no matter what the gig is. Fortunately, most people coming to hear me know what I do, so I’m not under any pressure to play something to fit the gig.
What’s your main electric archtop?
My guitars are built by Mike Vanden, in Scotland. I play the Martin Taylor Artistry, which Mike and I designed together. I have two of them. It’s a small, 15″ archtop, fitted with Mike’s pickup blend system, which comprises a magnetic pickup and piezo. I also use a Milab microphone on the guitar both in the studio and on live concerts. I don’t use or even own an amp; I always DI. I use Elixer Nanoweb Strings, .012 to .052. I play fingerstyle 95 percent of the time, but have been known to pick up a Jim Dunlop Gator Grip pick in anger on a few occasions. [Ed. Note: Mike Vanden details: “Artistry Number 2 is different, being more robust to cope with Martin’s international schedule, is X braced, and uses the current Mimesis jazz blend pickup system. Number 1 is fitted with a prototype preamp. The acoustic sound of Number 2 is rounder and smoother than 1. The top is spruce on all Artistry guitars, as they are designed to perform as acoustic instruments. For the Artistry, I buy the Fishman elements and build them into my own piezo bridges. Martin had a good deal of input into the Artistry. I was surprised initially when he wanted to go for a 15″ body, but, when he explained his reasoning – lightweight and easy to play standing – it made sense. The design has not changed at all up to the present, apart from the X bracing option, which I think is a tribute to Martin’s design input.”]
What type of acoustic do you use, for instance, on the Gypsy album with Spirit Of Django? Do you own a Selmer copy?
On the Spirit of Django albums, I played a Yamaha AEX; I can’t remember which model it was. It had a round hole in the middle and was just an inexpensive factory model with no modifications, but it worked fine. I owned a 1935 Selmer Maccaferri D-hole guitar many years ago. It was beautiful, but I lost it. Don’t ask me how; it’s something I don’t like to talk about. All I do know is that it’s now in good hands. [Ed Note: Martin and Vanden also co-designed the single-cutaway, roundhole Martin Taylor Gypsy model.]
Do you still have the W.G. Barker arch-top? What do you know about its builder?
Yes, I would never part with it. It was a twenty-first birthday present from Ike Isaacs. I got to know Bill Barker and his brother Jack, and visited them several times in Peoria, Illinois. He made some fine instruments, but never achieved the acclaim he deserved. (Ed. Note: Martin’s Barker is a 1964, built in Toledo, Ohio. Bill Cook, who apprenticed under Barker and bought the shop in 1987, estimates that Barker made approximately 120 guitars. He says, “We manufacture the same style guitar, but now under the Cook Guitar logo.” He adds that Barker typically used Sitka spruce for the soundboard, with curly maple back and sides, and a five-piece neck lamination of curly/flamed/bird’s eye maple with two center laminates of walnut and one of maple. The pickup is a DeArmond 1100.)
I don’t know how old instruments need to be to be “vintage,” but I also own a 1935 D’Angelico Excel, a 1929 Martin 000-45, a 1925 Gibson L-4 Eddie Lang Model, an Epiphone Deluxe from 1935, and a ’58 Clifford Essex of London. I’ve got two Gibson A-style mandolins – a 1918 and a 1908 “Plain” A-style.
Did Grappelli have any preference as to whether his guitarists played acoustic or electric, what type of tone they got, etc., or did he leave you to your own devices?
When I first played with Stephane, I played the Barker acoustically into a microphone. After a while I decided it was too much like hard work, so I sneaked a Polytone Mini Brute amp under my seat, and for quite a while he didn’t even notice that I’d plugged in. Eventually, he commented on how much he liked my sound and was amazed that it was electric. Stephane never told me what or how to play. He was always open to suggestions, and every member of the group contributed to the musical arrangements.
How did you get the gig with him?
I first met Stephane in 1975, when Ike Isaacs was working with him. In 1979 I got a call from Stephane’s bass player, saying he’d recommended me for a short tour of France and Belgium. I did the tour, and Steph liked my playing and asked me to play on a U.S. tour. On that first tour I decided to ask Stephane if he could give me any advice. He said, “Yes. Never tell your wife where you keep your money.” Those were his only words of guidance to me; I wish I’d listened to him.
Let’s talk a bit about Ike Isaacs. Was he an influence as a player or just as a person?
Both. I met Ike in 1975 when I was opening for Barney Kessel at the 100 Club in London. As a kid, I used to listen to him on the radio when he was the guitarist in the BBC Radio Show Band, and also on BBC Guitar Club. I also saw him on British TV with Stephane, so I was thrilled to meet him that night. We got talking after the show and he invited me over to his house the next day.
Ike came from Burma, and when I arrived at the house his wife Moira had made the most fantastic Burmese fish curry. We had this delicious meal, then Ike and I went into his front room and he picked up his guitar and started to play and explain things to me. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; I’d never heard anything like it. Suddenly I realized that for the past 15 years I’d just been pretending to be a guitarist and it was now time for me to start working at it. That was the beginning of my musical education.
Too proud to ask him for lessons, I offered him a weekly gig with me on a Thursday night playing guitar duets in a pizza restaurant. To my amazement, he accepted. So we used to meet at his house regularly and work on arrangements, then do the gig every Thursday. What an education – and I was being paid to be his student!
We then started doing radio broadcasts for the BBC and quite a few jazz club gigs around the country. Ike loved it. He’d been a studio musician for over 25 years, so playing in public was a real novelty. I loved it because I was getting to hang out with this old guitar master and fascinating bloke. I would hang on to his every word, like I was hearing the meaning of life from the wisest guru on earth.
But Ike wasn’t only teaching me about music; he was teaching me about philosophy, religions, languages, how to lead one’s life, you name it. I’m truly thankful for meeting him, and everything he did for me. I miss him and still think about him every day.
I assume you’re the first British jazz guitarist to receive an MBE. What was that ceremony like?
I’m not the first jazz musician to receive an MBE from the Queen, but I am the first, and only, jazz guitarist. It was an amazing experience. Going to my investiture at Buckingham Palace was a mind-blowing, surreal experience. It was like being in one of those strange dreams you have if you’ve eaten hot chili beans and chocolate ice cream covered in cheese sauce just before going to bed.
This may sound like a joke, but, honestly, this is exactly what happened. I’m standing in the State Room at Buckingham Palace and somebody announces, “Her Majesty The Queen.” There was a sudden trumpet fanfare. I remember thinking, “Wow, I didn’t know the Queen could play the trumpet!”
To cut a long story short, a bunch of those guys you see on the front of gin bottles marched into the room carrying spears, which made me realize pretty serious stuff was going on here. The Queen followed in, wearing a blue dress and carrying a matching handbag. She placed her handbag on the throne, and a very posh guy with too many last names called my name. I walked towards the throne; bowed to the Queen; she pinned on my medal; then told me how much she loved Stephane Grappelli’s music and that she had all the Hot Club of France records. She shook my hand; I bowed again; I walked out the front gates of Buckingham Palace and straight into The Old Nellie Dean, my favorite pub in London, where my sons had a pint of frothing English ale waiting for their dear, old, newly honored dad.
The whole experience left me asking myself two very important questions: 1. What does the Queen of England carry in her handbag? and 2. Why does the Queen of England carry a handbag?
Who would you list as your major influences?
Ike was my major influence, because I was so close to him. Barney Kessel had a big influence on me; we toured together a lot in the ’80s. Also, Herb Ellis was very good and encouraging to me when I was young. I think George Van Eps was one of the most beautiful guitarists. Tal Farlow blew me away the first time I heard him; I was fortunate to work with him, too. I was also fortunate to work with Joe Pass, who obviously had a big impact on me. Joe and I were planning to make an album together, but sadly he passed away – such a great loss to jazz guitar.
One of my guitar heroes is Ralph Towner – a wonderful musician. Pat Metheny is a genius. George Benson is the greatest straight-ahead jazz guitarist in the world. My God, this list could go on forever. Buy Maurice Summerfield’s book, The Jazz Guitarists; they’re all in it! I love Jim Hall, Jimmy Rainey, Wes, Charlie Christian, Teddy Bunn, Carl Kress, Eddie Lang, Dick McDonough, John Abercrombie, Bireli Lagrene. And Django should be in there somewhere.
Even prior to “Kwame,” you were one of a select few guitarists I can think of who could keep three parts going at once – melody, comping, and bassline. When and how did you start experimenting with that?
I can’t remember when it started; it was such a long time ago, and it developed very slowly. I’d always been fascinated by the guitar as a complete, self-contained instrument, like the piano, so quite early on I started to listen to piano players more than guitarists, particularly Art Tatum. Again, Ike opened my eyes to the possibilities, and steered me in the direction of George Van Eps and Lennie Breau.
“Kwame” came about when I was touring in Ghana, West Africa. I was imitating the way five or six drummers play parts that seemingly are unrelated to each other until they are all played together. It was just a groove. In fact, it was a groove in search of a melody, so I tagged on an Earl Klugh tune called “Kiko” for a while. Eventually, I came up with my own tune and recorded it on The Valley. It just evolved over the years, and is still evolving.
When you were last interviewed by VG, you had just recorded the Masterpiece Guitars album with Steve Howe and the Chinery guitar collection. Why did it take until 2003 for that CD to be released?
Well, after Steve and I recorded it, I think Scott kind of lost interest in the project. Which surprised us, as he was so enthusiastic about it. Every so often I would hear a rumor that it was going to be released, but nothing happened. Then came the terrible news that Scott had died. I really thought the CD would never be released, but there was a limited-edition release of 1,000. Following that, my son and manager, James, released it on his label (p3music.com).
The two albums for Sony seemed aimed at more of a “smooth jazz” audience than the rest of your catalog. Was that a conscious effort on your part, or something that Sony was looking for?
I never aimed them at the smooth jazz audience. I don’t like smooth jazz; it bores the s*** out of me. On the albums, I included a few instrumental versions of “pop” tunes that included lots of blowing on them. Sony edited some of those tracks for the smooth jazz market, which meant they just took all the jazz out. It was like being castrated. I hated what they did to it.
Tell us about your Kirkmichael International Guitar Festival.
I started the festival in 1999. Kirkmichael is a small village in southwest Scotland, near my house. I wanted to put something back into this community that’s been so good to me over the years. We started out with a tent on the village green that seated 300 people, and over the years it’s just got bigger and bigger, and has now become a major event in Scotland. We now attract over 5,000 people over the weekend. I also started a charity called Guitars For Schools, which buys guitars and provides tuition for all the schools in the area. We’ve bought over 100 guitars for kids so far.
Guitarists who have played there over the years include Tommy Emmanuel, Bob Brozman, Woody Mann, Alex de Grassi, Bobby Cochrane, Albert Lee, Muriel Anderson – so many great players from every musical style imaginable. The festival generates over $1 million to the local economy, and is always the last weekend of May.
Can you name a few guitarists you’ve felt a special connection with, either jamming or as part of the same group?
Emily Remler was wonderful. We toured together several times. I loved working with Ralph Towner, and I’m currently working a lot with Martin Simpson. We really connect together despite our different styles. I’ve also worked with the 17-year-old jazz guitarist Julian Lage. I met him when he was 13 years old. He played great even then, and he’s now turning into a real giant player. He’s touring as part of Gary Burton’s Generation Band. Julian and I plan to make a duo album together sometime in 2006.
In your book, there’s a picture of you and Jeff Beck together onstage. How did that come about, and what was it like?
Jeff and I met at the Royal Festival Hall in London a couple of years ago. I was a guest with Bill Wyman’s band. I was talking to Ronnie Wood and Charlie Watts backstage, and Ron told me that Jeff wanted to meet me. I’d been a huge fan of Jeff’s for many years and was amazed to hear that he was really into my playing – or that he’d even heard of me! Anyway, Jeff came along to one of my concerts, and we played “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat” together.
I sometimes go to Jeff’s house, and we have a jam in his studio. We’re planning on a recording project together. I hope we get to do it.
How did you come to join Bill Wyman’s Rhythm Kings?
I can’t remember when I first worked with Bill; it was actually before he formed the Rhythm Kings. He would get me into the studio once in while to play over some pre-recorded tracks, and kept threatening to put this band together. I think it was probably around 1997 at Jimmy Page’s old studio. He would get different guitarists in for different styles. I played on the jazzy tracks, and Albert Lee played on a lot of them and was also a Rhythm King. Mick Taylor played on a few, as did Chris Rea, Eric Clapton, and George Harrison. I first toured with the Rhythm Kings in 1999. I was on five of the albums, but I’ve never actually heard any of them.
Albert Lee, Terry Taylor and I were the guitarists. Sometimes Peter Frampton or Andy Fairweather-Low played. Guitar duties depended on the tune. I was featured on the jazz and blues tunes, and Albert played on anything that was more country or rock and roll. Albert and I used to duel on “Tear It Up,” but he used to beat the musical crap out of me every night. I can’t play that stuff!
Your infamous tour rider took on a life of its own on the Internet. First, can you confirm that you actually wrote that – and how did it come about?
Yes, that’s me. Unfortunately, someone cleaned it up by taking out all the swear words and deleting the really funny bits, because they thought Americans wouldn’t understand it. The original is the best. My needs are actually very simple, but I was getting fed up with promoters not reading my very simple and unassuming rider, so I made up this outrageous one. I wrote it on a flight from Tokyo to London. I got the idea from a band that insisted that an oil drum painted in a certain shade of red be on center stage when they arrived at the venue. The oil drum served absolutely no purpose but to inform the band if the promoter had actually bothered his ass to read the rider. I played at Yoshi’s [in Oakland] a couple of years ago, and the promoter actually went to great lengths to provide all the stuff on the rider. What a great guy!
When you decide to add a song to your repertoire, how analytical is your thinking? Do you work out entire arrangements, just a basic outline, completely wing it, or what?
I’m not at all analytical. My brain just doesn’t work like that. Sometimes before a gig I just imagine in my mind that I’m playing the most amazing stuff, and that gives me ideas. I don’t work too much on arrangements; they just evolve over a period of time. I’m never conscious of technique; in fact, most of the time I’m not even conscious that I’m playing a guitar. There have even been times onstage when I haven’t been conscious at all, but that’s another story.
Your tone is more “complete” than a lot of jazz guitarists, electrically or acoustically. Unlike some jazzers, you’re not afraid of having some highs. What do you strive for in terms of tone?
Purity, warmth, and breath. You’ve got to make the tone breathe.
What’s your next project?
I just finished working on a BBC TV documentary about Gypsy music, culture, persecution, and prejudice – “What The Gypsies Did For Us.” I have a new double CD out soon, The Best of Martin Taylor, which includes tracks from 1978 to 2004. It’s now released in Europe and Japan on The Guitar Label, and a U.S. and Canada release is planned for early 2006. And I’ve got a very exciting recording project that will be launched on my fiftieth birthday, next year. Unfortunately, I’ve been sworn to secrecy, and if I told you I’d have to kill you.
For more information on the Kirkmichael International Guitar Festival, visit kirkmichael.org.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Jan ’06 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
However you say it, “echo” or “eek’-oh,” these Italian guitars from the early 1960s, along with Hagstrom from Sweden and Framus from Germany, represent the strongest European contenders for a share of the American guitar boom of that swingin’ decade. Indeed, there may have been a stronger connection between Hagstrom and EKO than just being from the Continent.
The story of EKO (and Hagstrom) guitars is inextricably tied to the story of accordions. The accordion began to become popular in the U.S. during the 1920s and ’30s and was taken up with gusto by middle-class children. After a wartime hiatus, the accordion came back even stronger in the 1950s, abetted by popular television variety shows such as the “Lawrence Welk Champagne Hour.” Accordion studios sprang up throughout the country’s urban areas, and there was a brisk demand for instruments. Chicago, already a major hub of instrument production, provided a major nexus for accordion activity. Hagstrom and Hohner (Germany) were significant accordion manufacturers, but the real center of accordion making was (and is) in and around Castelfidardo on the northcentral eastern Italian coast. One of the larger companies was owned by Oliviero Pigini in nearby Recanati. One of Pigini’s biggest American customers was the LoDuca Brothers in Milwaukee, owned by two Italian performers and teachers, Guy and Tom LoDuca, who distributed Pigini-made LoDuca accordions throughout the Midwest.
Alas, the accordion boom of the mid 1950s ran out of steam, and sales began to sag. Fortunately for the accordion makers (and us), the fabled post-war Baby Boom was just beginning to hit adolescence, and along with it came a taste for guitars – electrics for playing like Duane Eddy or the Ventures, acoustics for joining the emerging folk revival. Labor was still relatively inexpensive in Europe, and accordion makers turned to guitars to pump up profits. Hagstrom switched first with its sparkle-plastic-covered De Luxe guitar in 1958. According to founder Karl Erik Hagstrom, its Italian distributor, Binson, ordered a large number of De Luxes. Binson manufactured electronic echo devices. Shortly thereafter, Pigini was named the representative for Binson echo effects, and shortly after that, introduced its own line of plastic-covered EKO guitars.
That accordion makers should cover their solid guitars with plastic was both natural and logical, since they’d been laminating their accordion chambers with thin sheets of flexible celluloid in sparkle “tinsel” and “mother-of-toilet seat” for many decades prior to producing guitars.
Whether or not Hagstrom guitars actually inspired the appearance of EKO guitars, Pigini found a willing and able American distributor in the LoDuca Brothers, who worked closely with the Italian supplier to develop models. In 1961, the LoDucas got a contract to supply Sears with EKO acoustics, and they were off to the races, with a distribution network and established music studios already in place.
The first EKO solidbody electrics began to be imported into the U.S. in 1962 and actually featured lacquer-finished maple bodies, however, by ’63 they were available in a variety of textured and sparkle plastics. Finish options included a hazel top with mahogany back; white “motherpearl” top and black back; silver sparkle top/black back; blue sparkle top/black back; gold sparkle top/motherpearl back; red sparkle top/motherpearl back; and striped brown top with striped mahogany back. There were two basic shapes, the famous tulip-shaped “triple-cutaway” 700, with a scoop taken out of the lower bout, and the more conventional 500, both equipped with from one to four pickups, with or without vibratos. All except the single-pickup models had sliding pickup selectors. All came with the “exclusive 8 way adjustable roller bearing bridge,” high-fidelity magnetic pickups, and a 25″ scale. Fingerboards were bound and had the famous airplane propeller inlays. As their advertising boasted, “Cutaway Styling Combined with Graceful Flowing-Curved Head – Provides the Ultra-Modern Shape Most Preferred by Today’s Professional.”
The 1963 Model 500/3V features a laminated wood body, with the front covered in a natty striped brown-grain faux-wood plastic and the back in golden mahogany grained plastic, joined with gold plastic braiding on the sides. The top is set off by a laminated tiger-striped brown pickguard. The bound fingerboard is rosewood. Like most early EKOs, the neck is heavily lacquered in black. The three single-coil pickups are probably Alnico V and are controlled by the slider button switches above the strings, offering the player the choice of all pickups; neck; neck and bridge; bridge; middle; and (my favorite) off. When you push one down, the others are all returned to the off position. As you might guess from an accordion maker, early EKO guitars favored push-button type controls. The knobs are for volume and tone.
EKO pickups, as on this guitar, actually pack a nice punch, although they tend not to be very balanced, so the volume increases slightly the more you activate. It’s a little weird, but once you get used to it, it’s fun. Most EKO guitars are poorly set up, but can be adjusted to play very nicely. They tend to be pretty lightweight, so you can twang out “Walk, Don’t Run” all night long. If they have a weakness, it tends to be in the switching, which frequently ends up having trouble making contact as they age. Also, EKO may not have used the best aged timbers because an awful lot show definite shrinkage.
By ’64, with a huge boost provided by the advent of the Beatles, the EKO network had expanded, with East Coast distribution handled by Harris-Fandel, in Boston, and the West Coast served by the legendary Radio-Tel company in California, parent of Rickenbacker.
EKO’s sparkle and textured electrics were still around in the ’65 line, but were replaced by Dura-Glos finishes in ’66. EKO guitars were pretty much in the beginner-grade class. The only band of note to play them was the Grass Roots, who strummed matching violin-guitars and basses – EKO’s most popular models.
Oliviero Pigini liked fast cars, and was killed in a crash circa 1967, marking the end of the glory days. European labor had begun to get more expensive, and the American market had gone soft by ’68. EKOs continued to be produced until 1985, but while some were of excellent quality, none ever equaled the cool of these early-’60s plastic-covered wonders.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s April 2005 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Creedence Clearwater Revival
Bayou Country
Green River
Willy And The Poor Boys
Cosmo’s Factory
Pendulum
It’s hard to imagine that anyone isn’t intimately familiar with Creedence’s catalog of seven albums, but that string began with their self-titled debut 40 years ago. That’s roughly the equivalent of two generations! So an entirely new audience wondering what “Creedence Song” John Fogerty is singing about could be introduced to one of America’s greatest-ever rock bands via these reissues. There are also the original CCR consumers, who seem to be equally in Fantasy’s sights, judging by the packaging.
Let’s address the latter group first.
These albums were released on remastered CDs in 2000. But then dangled in front of the same audience most likely to gobble them up was 2001’s six-disc Creedence Clearwater Revival box of, essentially, their complete recordings – going all the way back to the pre-Creedence Golliwogs and Tommy Fogerty & The Blue Velvets, and including two live albums. Decisions, decisions.
Now, to further work CCR completists into a lather, the band’s first six albums are remastered yet again, this time with previously unreleased bonus tracks on each, but their substandard swan song, Mardi Gras, isn’t invited to the party.
Those bonus tracks include live performances from ’69 to ’71; alternate takes; an experimental, promo-only single; and, most interesting, two studio jam sessions of CCR with Booker T. & The MG’s, from a 1970 TV special. Of course, these 22 tracks could have been pared down a bit to a single disc of rarities or expanded to a double-set – but that would be too easy.
Are they enough incentive for you to buy the Creedence catalog yet again if you already own the rest of it? Not really. Plus, although Mardi Gras was, as allmusic.com’s Stephen Thomas Erlewine accurately put it, “an unpretty end to a great band,” it’s got enough strong cuts (“Someday Never Comes,” “Sweet Hitch-Hiker”) to steer diehard fans towards the aforementioned box – especially considering the bargain price it can be nabbed for on Amazon.
Now to the uninitiated.
Do you start at the start or start with the best? That’s a tough call. But this many years after the fact, chronology isn’t as crucial. Creedence crammed a lot of creativity and evolution into a ridiculously short time span, reaching their high-water mark with their fifth effort, 1970’s Cosmo’s Factory. After hearing Fogerty-penned classics like “Who’ll Stop The Rain,” “Travelin’ Band,” “Run through The Jungle,” “Long As I Can See The Light,” and “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” (not to mention killer Bo Diddley, Elvis, Marvin Gaye, and Roy Orbison covers), you’ll probably want to check out the rest of the catalog – either an album at a time or by diving into the boxed set.
During the era of Clapton, Bloomfield, and Hendrix, Fogerty was somewhat of an odd man out on guitar. His tone was thin and trebly, not fat and sustainy, and paid homage to earlier rockers like Carl Perkins, Duane Eddy, and Steve Cropper. “Tombstone Shadow,” from Green River, is but one definitive example. His solos (as on the mega-hit “Proud Mary”) were worked out mini compositions, not extended improvisations. But in hindsight, while Clapton & Co. were rewriting the blues, Fogerty was the keeper of the rock and roll flame.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Dec. ’08 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Gibson K-4 Mandocello photo: Kelsey Vaughn. Instrument courtesy of Walter Carter.
Gibson was founded as a mandolin builder in 1902, and from the outset it promoted a standardized, wide-ranging family of instruments, all featuring Orville Gibson’s revolutionary carved-top design.
The family extended beyond the mandola and mandocello, which had existed in one form or another as Italian-style bowlbacks, to encompass a mandolin-inspired guitar (the Style O Artist) and a mando-bass. Of all these new instruments, the most successful was the mandocello, and the pinnacle of Gibson mandocello design was the K-4.
The K-4 was not the biggest or most innovative of Gibson’s mando-family creations. The Style J mando-bass and Style U harp guitar were larger, but they were large to the point of being unwieldy curiosities. The mando-bass was arguably the most revolutionary of all of Gibson’s instruments, being the first plucked/fretted bass (at a time when the typical “combo” bass instrument was either a bowed upright or a tuba). The harp-guitar’s extra rack of sub-bass strings looked like a good idea on paper but proved difficult to navigate, and not as effective as Gibson had envisioned. Gibson’s mandola was innovative in that it established the tenor mandola, tuned the same as a viola, as the standard for the instrument. Unfortunately, the mandola’s connection with the viola extended to the viola’s status as an instrument that has always been lost in the shadow of the violin. The mandola lacked the high-end response of the mandolin, and the existence of its low-C string was often ignored by arrangers, who typically wrote mandola parts that could be covered by a third mandolin.
The Gibson mandocello, on the other hand, worked quite well. Although the early A-style models had a smaller body than a guitar, the scale length was the same as a guitar, and the range was slightly lower (two full steps). However, the mandocello’s double-string setup gave it more cutting power on single-note passages and more depth in the lower register than any guitar could muster. It had – and still has – a unique voice. Gibson sales manager Lewis A. Williams, whose prose in Gibson catalogs often reached evangelical fervor, called the mandocello “the richest in tone of the plectrum instruments.” Just as the cello – not the bass – is the anchor of a string quartet, so the mandocello became a vital component of the mandolin quartets and larger ensembles that sprung up in the first two decades of the 20th century.
Gibson’s first mandocellos featured the symmetrical pear-shaped body of the A-style mandolins. The K, K-1, and K-2 mandocelllos, all introduced in the company’s inaugural catalog in 1902, differed only in degree of ornamentation. The mandolin offering, however, included a series of models with “F-style” bodies, featuring a scroll on the upper bass bout and three (later just two) body points. By 1911, Gibson was at the leading edge of the mandolin craze, and expanded the F-style design into the mandola and mandocello line (and adapted it for guitar).
The K-4 mandocello had the same style number and appointments as the F-4 mandolin: scrolled, two-point body with oval soundhole; bound ebony fingerboard with an upper-register extension over the soundhole on the treble side; tuners made by the Handel company of New York, with buttons inlaid with floral patterns; scrolled peghead shape with “double-flowerpot” pearl inlay and “The Gibson” logo; and rich “red mahogany” stain finish lightly shaded toward the center of the top and back to create a hint of a sunburst effect.
Although the K-4 differed from the F-4 only in size, it made a much stronger visual impression, like a full-size work of art compared to the miniature version represented by the F-4 mandolin. And the K-4 carried a premium price in 1911 of $70 wholesale, compared to $55 for an F-4. The comparable guitar – the scroll-body Style O “Artist” – was only $42.50. Even the gigantic mando-bass was cheaper at $50. Only the Style U harp guitar cost more, with a wholesale price of $80.
The K-4 appeared just as Gibson was hitting its stride as the leader of the mandolin movement in America. Gibson published manuals on how to form mandolin orchestras, promoted music publishers who offered orchestral arrangements, and participated in the activities of the American Guild of Banjoists, Mandolinists and Guitarists. Surprisingly, the mandocello and tenor mandola appear to have been a hard sell, and the reason was music notation. Apparently, most manufacturers and music publishers took the easiest course of action and promoted the octave mandola, whose music could be read easily by a mandolin player, while they ignored the mandocello and the tenor mandola, which required transposing.
Gibson’s Lewis Williams attacked the notational issue in Catalog H with a warning about a mandolin orchestra that could be “defeated through its own stupidity.” He went on to extol the mandocello and mandola as saviors of the mandolin group; “The jaded, listlessness, drying-up, dying out Mandolin Club without tenor or bass voices when once jacked up with the tenor mandola and mandocello will give every player such brimfulness of fire, life and musical vigor as to make the fingers impetuous in their eagerness to turn the pages ahead of the hurrying eyes.”
The K-4 remained Gibson’s fanciest mandocello through the 1910s and into the early ’20s. Its price increased steadily, peaking at $195 wholesale ($345 list) in 1920, then falling back as the mandolin began to fall out of favor. In 1922, Gibson attempted to revive the mandolin orchestra with a new family of instruments designed by acoustic engineer Lloyd Loar. Although Loar’s F-5 mandolin and H-5 mandola were based on the scroll-body designs of the F-4 and H-4, respectively, Loar made a dramatic departure from that tradition with the K-5, for which he simply appropriated the body of his L-5 guitar. While the K-5 sounded great, it took away the mandocello’s visual identity. And although the red-finished, scroll-bodied K-4 cut a more striking appearance than the Cremona brown sunburst, symmetrically shaped K-5, the K-5 was priced at $275 (list) and the K-4 was dropped to $200.
In the end, it didn’t matter, because the end of the mandolin era was imminent. Gibson listed the K-4 through 1939 but few if any were made after the 1920s.
Today, the K-4 remains the pinnacle of Gibson’s mandocello design. Just as oval-hole mandolins have a different sound than f-hole models, so the K-4 speaks with a more clearly defined “cutting” quality than the f-hole guitar-bodied K-5 or the modern f-hole scroll-body models by other makers. It is one of those rare instruments with a unique look, a unique voice and a continuing appeal to players.
Above Photo: Walter Carter
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Jun. ’06 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
If you’re a blues fan and left-handed guitarist Eddie Clearwater’s name has remained unfamiliar over the course of his six-decade career, now’s the time to rectify that grievous error. If you’re looking for an introduction to great blues, West Side Strut is an excellent place to start.
Unlike blues giants who came north after World War II and electrified their rural music, Clearwater’s blues roots are wired directly into the power line. His fat, voluptuous tone shows a masterful command of the guitar as an electric instrument. He’s scary-swift, but his playing is deft and clean; never sacrificing emotion or depth for speed. Every note can be heard when Clearwater lays into a solo built of points on a line rising to a feverish peak. It’s hard to believe he can reach such heights in a recording studio without the extra juice the give and take a live performance provides.
Melody is an element that isn’t always a priority in contemporary blues. Clearwater makes it one, and his grasp of it, his ability to make complete songs – almost any of which here could be done as instrumental – elevate this album above the pack. Tempo is no obstacle; the fast ones are as tuneful as the rest. Listen to West Side Strut just once and you’ll wonder why Clearwater’s name isn’t respectfully spoken in the same breath with those of contemporaries Freddie King and fellow southpaw Otis Rush. But time spent contemplating the inexplicable justices of life and showbiz will just frustrate. That time is better spent under the spell of this great record. When that happens, a more easily answered question is bound to come up: how do you keep your feet from tapping when your heart is beating so fast?
This article originally appeared in VG‘s July. ’08 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Fender Bass V photo: VG archive. Instrument courtesy of David Brass.
Like any other group of gearheads, bassists love to rap with peers about their stuff.
One classic debate compares five-string electric basses to standard four-string instruments. The bottom line in the “4 vs. 5” confab should be that the four-string electric bass is alive and well, but the five-string – with its extra string usually tuned to low B – has made significant inroads in contemporary music. And if there’s a fan of vintage gear in the group, they might go historic and bring up the original five-string electric bass, the Fender Bass V. Developed in the “pre-CBS” era by Leo Fender and associates, and made from 1965 to ’70, the Bass V was the fourth bass marketed by Fender, following in the footsteps of the groundbreaking Precision Bass in late 1951, the more-engineered Jazz Bass in 1960, and the six-string Bass VI in ’61.
However, the original five-string bass’ extra string was tuned higher rather than lower – C above the standard bass’ G. But the extra string was just the beginning of the Bass V’s unique approach.
The instrument has the classic Fender headstock silhouette, with a string retainer securing the D, G, and C strings. And at only 15 frets in length, the fretboard appears strikingly odd. The notion behind the innovation of a high C string on a bass was that a player could reach higher, guitar-like notes by playing the C string instead of fretting up the neck. This, in theory, rendered the upper-octave frets unnecessary… or so its designers thought at the time.
The scale was still the industry standard 34″, just like the Precision and the Jazz (the Bass VI’s was 30″). However, the noticeable distance between the end of the Bass V’s fretboard and the bridge on the body looked awkward.
Early examples of the Bass V had dot markers inlaid on their rosewood fretboards atop a maple neck. But about one year after its introduction, the V acquired block inlays and a bound neck, as did the Jazz Bass, Bass VI, and Jazzmaster, Electric XII, and Jaguar guitars.
The body of the Bass V had traditional Fender contouring, as well as a slimmer, “stretched” appearance, compared to other Fender basses, perhaps to give it some kind of visual “balance” with the abbreviated neck. The body on this example is alder.
Like all Fender electric guitars and basses, the Bass V was available in standard and custom colors. The one shown here is a rare Candy Apple Red variant with the even more collectible matching headstock.
A multi-laminated pickguard and finger rest were also standard on the Bass V, as were Volume and Tone knobs for the unique, split-oval pickup that is much like the pickups on the Electric XII guitar introduced about the same time as the Bass V. The bass side portion of the Bass V’s pickup handles the E and A strings, while the treble side takes care of the D, G, and C strings. Curiously, the split-oval pickups on the Electric XII were installed in a reverse configuration to the Bass V’s pickup.
Some early photos of the Bass V show it with a handrest covering the pickup, just like the Precision Bass and Jazz Bass. The bridge cover looks like a cross between the bridge covers found on the Precision and Jazz. While it’s shaped more like a P-Bass bridge cover, it still has the “Flying F” logo as seen on the large Jazz Bass bridge cover. Like other Fender basses, a foam mute was installed on the underside.
The bridge has five individual, intonatable saddles. The strings install through the rear of the body, and its holes are reinforced with ferrules that are countersunk (the Precision originally used a similar string-through, but changed to being anchored at the bridge when the P-Bass was revamped in 1957).
The Bass V has the dubious distinction of being the first Fender bass that was discontinued, as it exited the market in 1970. Surplus Bass V bodies were subsequently used to make the Fender Swinger/Musiclander, a single-pickup “floor-sweep” guitar designed to “use up” parts from various production instruments.
In the decades after the demise of the Bass V, Fender reissued several versions of the Precision and Jazz Bass, and examples of the Bass VI have been marketed, as well.
However, just as the unsuccessful uniqueness of the Bass V led to its demise after a half-decade, stringed-instrument enthusiasts aren’t particularly interested in a comeback for the Bass V; i.e., such an oddball status apparently hasn’t generated enough nostalgia or enthusiasm to merit a modern reissue.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Aug ’07 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
Buddy Guy, Bayfront Blues Festival, 1997. Photo by Ward Meeker.
When referring to the all-time great legends of the blues and the guitar, the formidable Buddy Guy comes to mind every time.
His peers – from Eric Clapton to B.B. King – tip their hats in praise and regard to this esteemed musician, and many of today’s young-gun players cite him as one of their influences, often requesting and partaking in the honor of touring or collaborating with him. One of the blues’ most influential players and interpreters, this four-time Grammy winner is internationally acclaimed not only for his many classic albums on the Chess, Vanguard, and Silvertone labels, but for his tornadic virtuoso live performances. Guy is renowned for setting the stage afire, coiling his testifying, soulful vocals around his six-string ferocity on his beloved Strat.
Guy has just released his first studio album in three years, Sweet Tea, an organic, vivid exploration into the old-time hill country blues of North Mississippi. The album was conceived by producer and Mississippi native Dennis Herring, known for his work with The Counting Crows and Jars of Clay. Herring selected an atmospheric, inspired collage of music for Guy, most of which was popularized by artists on Fat Possum Records, including Junior Kimbrough, T-Model Ford, and Robert Cage. Herring then assembled a sterling ensemble of artists to support Guy; keyboardist Bobby Whitlock (of Derek and the Dominos), Squirrel Nut Zippers’ rhythm guitarist Jim Malthus, and a trio of respected session drummers. And to Guy’s delight, Herring implemented a selection of classic, vintage amplifiers for the esteemed tone aficionado. The record is essential Buddy Guy, through and through.
Born July 30, 1936, in Lettsworth, Louisiana, Guy may be approaching 65 years of age, but those years have infused the firepowered blues rocker with a lightning vibrancy, transforming this latest record into a remarkable interpretation of this traditional roots music form. From his elegiac, lamenting vocals and acoustic guitar on “Done Got Old,” to the Strat-scorched blues rock of “Look What All You Got” to the smoldering lyrics and his searing fretwork on “I Got To Try You Girl,” Guy’s expressive reading of the music is evocative of his gift as a storyteller, the stuff of the crossroads, one might say.
The self-effacing Guy sat to discuss the making of Sweet Tea and elaborated on his music, his career, his charity organization benefiting less fortunate blues artists, and unraveling the tale of the blues as only he can!
Vintage Guitar: Sweet Tea is your first recording exploring the hill-country blues of North Mississippi. What was the impetus for pursuing this artistic direction? Buddy Guy: Well, the record company came in, plus I’ve been talking to some people…and every time you talk to someone who explored the roots from whoever played the blues in the early days before me, they talk about Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, and all throughout the South, which all had great blues players. But Mississippi’s got great ones, too.
You know, I think I only played in the state of Mississippi twice in my life – unbelievably – because I’ve played in Africa, all over the world. So the record company came to me and said, “We want you to go down to Mississippi and this guy, Junior Kimbrough, has got this great thing.” He was one of the artists who never left Mississippi. Someone recently asked me why a lot of these blues players didn’t leave Mississippi and get recognition? Well, 50 years ago you couldn’t make any money as a guitar player. You just played it for the love of the music.
How did you become involved with producer Dennis Herring?
My record company found him, and he’s been affiliated with some pretty big records. They sent me the demos and I said, “Wait a minute! What am I gonna do about this (laughs)?”
And they said, “Look, we want you to go down to Mississippi to play ‘Buddy Guy plays Junior Kimbrough’ with these guys.” I told them I’ll do anything, because after Chess left and I did records with Vanguard and Atlantic, they said, “Well he’s not good enough to record.” I went to Europe and recorded a few things.
Even though the blues was born in this country, so many artists had to go to Europe to be appreciated and recognized, then America started jumping on the bandwagon.
I remember when the Rolling Stones came here and started smashing big on the “Ed Sullivan Show.” There was also a show called “Shindig,” and the Stones said, “We’ll do ‘Shindig,’ but you got to bring on Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters.” And the people from the show said, “Who in the hell is that?,” and the Stones were offended. They said, “You mean to tell us you don’t know who Muddy Waters is? We named ourselves after one of his famous records.”
So, yes, we were recognized more in Europe than we were here. Then after the Stones, Clapton, and all of them came to the States and said, “These blues artists’ music…” That’s when Muddy started showing up at some of the bigger places, and he still didn’t get the exposure a blues player should get. We still don’t get that, and there’s not that many of us left now to keep carrying it on.
Describe the creative process in the selection of the music for the album, and what your collaboration with Herring brought to the record.
I had the demo and I didn’t know much about this stuff, but naturally, it’s a part of what I’ve been trying to study and refine. Dennis and the record company said they wanted me to be Buddy Guy on top of this stuff these hill country artists had been playing. I got there, and each time the guys Dennis put together played something, I felt better and better, because I don’t read music – I’m self-taught. Nobody ever taught me anything.
You know, I was born so far in the country myself, it was like Mississippi. Not to get off the subject, but in the early ’60s a lot of people started listening to the blues, and we started playing the colleges. And Dick Waterman found Fred McDowell, Son House, The Reverend Gary Davis. I got a chance to meet those guys and they were 80, 85 years old and drinking early in the morning! As a matter of fact, the first time I met them, they offered me breakfast, and I said “Yeah! Let’s have breakfast!” and they brought out a shotglass (laughing)! They told me I wasn’t a true blues player ‘cuz I wasn’t up in the morning drinking with them!
Can you detail the elongated lines and the one or two-chord structures of hill country blues, and how you develop them on guitar?
The best way I can explain that is I just did Buddy Guy. I didn’t go down there and try to learn what those guys were doing because if you go back far enough, it hasn’t been too many years where people had a way to write blues music. People claimed it was unwriteable. The notes on a guitar are not like a keyboard. You hit one, you hit another, and no in-between.
When B.B. starts squeezing the strings on a guitar, it’s like running one note into another one. Used to be people patted their feet to the drummer’s beat and the music just changed when the singer changed it. Going through the bars, counting like that to get a groove. James Brown did that in the ’60s. You get a groove and you just stay there. The blues players were doing that all the time.
So this wasn’t so much of a learning or studying process for your guitar playing – it just came naturally?
Yes, it was just something that brought me back home. When I learned to play, they didn’t know anything about the electric guitar. I’m from Louisiana and my parents were sharecroppers. I didn’t go anywhere. There was no television. Guitar players would pick up things from people they’d watch or they’d learn by picking up a 78 record and listening to Junior Wells or Fred McDowell.
That’s why I started with B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf – people like them.
Do you find the Mississippi hill-country blues style somewhat liberating from standard 12-bar?
I’d say the 12-bar blues you hear now actually came from and was liberated by this hill-country stuff!
How much did you use your Strat on the album?
About 98 percent of the album.
What year is it?
Oh, I got the old one. I didn’t have it down there. Somebody stole the one they gave me, which was the original.
Fender’s doing a great job now. They’ve got a Buddy Guy signature model, and I used it on the album. They’ve been making a guitar for me at least nine years or so, so my Strat’s probably about an ’89 or ’90. The polka dot one is mostly what I used.
Is that your guitar of choice in the studio?
That’s always been my guitar of choice.
And for performances?
Yes! In fact Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck told me they didn’t know anything about the blues or the Strat until they saw me jumping around with Rod Stewart in 1965 (laughing)! Every time I see Eric, he says, “You convinced me that this guitar could sound as good as it does!”
What acoustic guitars did you use on the album, especially on “Done Got Old”?
Some that were in the studio, I’m not sure what they were. You know, I was just sitting there trying to listen to a playback and they brought this guitar and I picked it up and started strumming on it. Next thing I know, a mic was at it, and it was recorded!
Photo: Ken Settle
So you were just rehearsing and relaxing and they said, “This is good! Let’s record this!”?
I guess people know this, but every chance I get now, people come up and throw a guitar in my hand. Sometimes I’ll just be sitting there and I don’t even realize what I’m doing. But Dennis brought the lyrics of the song to me and I heard them and I just started playing. I don’t even know if they intended for me to do the song on an acoustic guitar or not, but Dennis gave me the song to look at that night and I’m back there the next morning singing, “…I’m an old man…” on an acoustic guitar they brought out. I wasn’t even in the studio. I recorded it sitting on a couch in the engineer’s room.
What do you look for in a guitar to achieve your classic tone?
I can explain that like an automobile. When I go look for an automobile, I don’t look for looks. I look for something that’s going to run. I was down at Fender about three weeks ago and they said, “We want to know what you want, Buddy.” I said, “I want a guitar that sounds good, not that looks good. I’ll make it look good if you come to see me play, and if you got the sound I want, that these guitars had when they came out in the ’50s, ’40s…” That old equipment didn’t have all the technology they’ve got now. In the ’60s they made guitars bigger, good-looking, all different colors. When the Strat came out, they only had a sunburst, but then they wanted to go into all different colors and things and they started losing the original sound.
So your preference is for vintage guitars and equipment?
If I’d have known it was going to be like it is now, I would have bought up all those original guitars (laughing)!
Every year, you tour with many venerable artists, from B.B. King to Jimmie Vaughan. Do you exchange creative ideas and teach each another?
To be honest, when I go out with B.B. King or whoever else, they call me out and say, “When are you all gonna jam together?” (laughing). I say, “You know, I can’t learn when I’m jamming. I like to get out there and watch B.B., Eric, or whoever, play”. But they’ll start laughing and say, “Well, we want to watch you, too!”
When I’m onstage I don’t learn, because I learn by listening and looking. But we have fun every once in awhile. Sometimes I go out to jam because the fans want us to jam together. They want to see us all play together. People love watching several guitar players out there.
Who are your influences?
B.B. King, Muddy Waters, T. Bone Walker, Lightnin’ Hopkins – all those great guys whose music you don’t hear much anymore. B.B.’s still around, but you don’t hear Lightnin’ Hopkins, T. Bone Walker, and Guitar Slim on the radio much. But when you come see me, you’re gonna hear it because I go back and say, “Here’s where we all got it from,” and I’ll play a few licks from some of those great people.
You’re not only renowned as a blues player, but you’ve also often crossed into the boundaries of blues rock and straight-up rock. How does your blues rock playing differ from your traditional blues and the heavy blues rock of “Look What All You Got,” on Sweet Tea?
What rock is…from my point of view, rock came out when the amplifiers got bigger, louder, with all the effects. You just turn it up with distortion and feedback and you get rock. In other words, if you turned the volume down on your guitar and amplifier, you have what you hear on Sweet Tea.
So it’s not so much in terms of your picking technique and how you play the guitar, but the effects and the amps?
Yes, but the guitar player does have something to do with it, too. You can’t take a rock player and put him on a vintage blues amp and make him sound like he does when he’s got all those effects. No. I don’t think he can get that out of a guitar.
If you go back to the roots, you got B.B. King licks in all rock guitar players. I tell him every time I see him, we all should put two Bs on our guitars because he’s the first one that started squeezing those strings! And the rock players do it, the blues players do it, we all do it. But special effects and special people create rock.
Jimi Hendrix was wild, but he had to go to London before they recorded him. That’s where they signed me. This label I’m with now, a guy out of London signed me.
What creative paths or projects do you hope to explore in the future, and as one of the great craftsmen of the blues, how and what roads do you hope to pursue in continually redefining and developing the blues?
I hope this record opens up a few more young people’s eyes, and if it does, I want to just say, “Wait a minute! Bring me the vintage stuff back!” Let’s go back and do that because actually, out on the road, B.B. and myself, it’s all about the vintage stuff. If somebody could go in and make those amps like they were in the ’40s and ’50s…you got a tone there you can’t find in an amplifier now. And that’s what Dennis did in the studio on Sweet Tea. He had these old amps and he plugged them up. I said “You guys! All I want to do is play!”
You’re renowned for performances and regular touring. How do you creatively, mentally, and physically prepare for your live shows, and how do they differ and challenge you artistically, from recording in the studio?
Eric Clapton made a comment once, “I don’t know why Buddy Guy doesn’t make hit records, but if you come see him in person you’d say he should have a hit record every time you go hear him.”
When I go out and play in person, I learned from Guitar Slim and some of those guys to add a little showmanship. They didn’t just stand there, and I think that has something to do with it. I have to move. I’m from the Baptist church!
When I get happy I have to shout. That’s what my family used to say, “You have to shout and let it all come out!”
It’s ironic, they call it the blues and some of it is sad, but some of it’s the reverse. It’s really embracing life – it’s joyful, actually.
When I started coming to New York I had a ring on my finger that said “Blues” and a husband and wife was checking me into my hotel and they saw it and said, “Blues makes you cry.” It just hit me and I said, “Okay, you guys come on out and cry tonight. I’m gonna give you two free passes.” The next morning, I got ready to check out and they said, “Now we’re gonna cry ‘cuz we danced all night! We thought blues was sad.”
That’s the saddest part about not letting people hear Muddy Waters on the radio anymore, singing “Got My Mojo Working.”
Who does your charity organization benefit?
I’ve been trying to find out everything I can about the artists that were never discovered or had any hits. I found out that quite a few of the great blues players who are no longer with us are forgotten and don’t have decent headstones on their graves. Guys like Dick Waterman went and found out who was who and what was what. I hadn’t heard of some of these people, and the first time I ever saw a Strat was when I saw the great Guitar Slim and even he didn’t have a headstone. And when I found out, he was the first one I wanted to do. You not only have to locate the gravesites, but you have to get permission from their families. Myself and The Buddy Guy Charity also give concerts once a year for Lou Gehrig’s disease, cancer…
Clapton has spoken of you with very high regard, even proclaiming you one of the greatest guitar players ever. How emotionally and artistically satisfying is that for you?
Coming from Eric… we’re good friends – the best of friends. When he says something like that, it’s almost like, “You did a good job. I’ll pat you on your back,” and I thank him for that. But that means I got to step out on the stage now, and when I go out there, I can’t make audiences listen to me from what he said. I got to make them listen to me, for what I do. I still got a job to do, and I got to go out there and prove to whoever heard or read that…I want them to say, “Well, Eric didn’t lie.”
This article originally appeared in VG‘s July 2001 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited. Eric Clapton & Buddy Guy – Sweet Home Chicago
On one of this album’s best cuts, “Gas Can Story,” Mac Arnold tells of how his then 10-year-old brother, William, so desperately wanted a guitar he made one from a gasoline can with “strings from the windows” and frets fashioned from coat hangers. When his brother moved on and (we hope!) up to a real guitar, five-year-old Mac picked up the homemade instrument and began teaching himself to play. Showing a determination at least equal, Mac – a lefty – flipped the guitar over and learned to play it upside down. No wonder this album is called Backbone & Gristle!
Grown-up Mac follows the story with a song played on a similar gas-can guitar made a few years after the first. The story is touching, the guitar surprisingly tuneful, and the satisfying results of Arnold’s dedication are here to be heard.
The album includes live and studio versions of Arnold’s message to youth, “I Can Do Anything.” It’s hard to argue the claim when it comes from someone who has gone from woodshedding on a gas can to playing in a high school band with James Brown to playing bass with Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker to working as an associate producer on “Soul Train” and news correspondent for the Ford presidential campaign. A man with a genuine connection to some of American music’s immortals, Mac Arnold is also worth paying particular attention to when he steps out front.
This article originally appeared in VG‘s Aug. ’08 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
