Gene Cornish is fond of the time he spent in the ’60s pop band The Rascals, which he credits for having never been sidetracked or making a bad decision… until its very end.

“We had the right manager at the right time,” he said. “And we chose the right record company that put us with the right people.”

Born May 14, 1944, in Ontario, Canada, 20 years later he teamed with singer/keyboardist Felix Cavaliere, drummer Dino Danelli, and vocalist Eddie Brigati to form The Rascals. One of America’s most successful acts of the 1960s, the group recorded classics including “Good Lovin’,” “I’ve Been Lonely Too Long,” “Groovin’,” “How Can I Be Sure,” “A Girl Like You,” “A Beautiful Morning,” and “People Got To Be Free.”

This achievement is commemorated in the band’s new box set, The Complete Singles A’s and B’s – 47 tracks collecting for the first time both sides of every Atlantic and Columbia release, with early songs in both stereo and mono.

“We called those the ‘money mixes’ – made for AM radio to be heard through one speaker,” Cornish said of the latter. “The stereo mixes were taken from the original master multi-tracks, so they couldn’t be remixed… which is a blessing because flexing with magic is not an improvement.”

“There wasn’t one night we didn’t kill onstage – we never once went out there and phoned it in.”

In his years with the The Rascals, Cornish played 36 Gibson guitars, though, “Gibson never gave me a pick.” For the past 15 years, he has referred to his Fernandes with Fender Noiseless pickups and D’Addario strings as “my workhorse.” Others in his collection include a Stratocaster with Joe Barden pickups, a Telecaster, and several D’Angelicos including an Excel SS, Excel Madison, and Premier EXL-1. His current amplifiers include a Fender Hot Rod Deville with four 10″ speakers, a Supro Rhythm King with a 15″, and Fender Blues Deville with four 10s.

In 2013, Rascals superfan Steven Van Zandt managed to reunite the band for a Broadway show and tour called Once Upon Dream. When it ended, members went their separate ways.

Cornish, a survivor of two quadruple-bypass heart surgeries and colon cancer, still tears it up onstage with Rascals tribute shows. He’s also member of a The Platinum All-Stars with drummer Carmine Appice (Vanilla Fudge, Jeff Beck), keyboardist Geoff Downes (Buggles, Asia, Yes), Ron “Bumblefoot” Thal (Guns ’N Roses), singer/guitarist Phil Naro (Brian May, Peter Chris), and bassist Rudy Sarzo (Ozzy Osborne, Whitesnake).

What are your earliest memories of moving to America?

In the early ’50s, if you were from another country, you might as well have been from Mars. Kids were not as sophisticated, and they beat me up all the time because my name was spelled “Jean-Paul.” I told my mom, “I’m not speaking French any more,” and changed the spelling of my name to Gene, like Gene Autry. My dad bought me a little ukulele, and the first proper song I learned was “Singing The Blues,” by Guy Mitchell.

What was your first exposure to American rock and roll?

In February of ’56, I was at my dad’s bait store, where there was an old black-and-white television on a shelf. I looked up and there was this guy with sideburns playing a guitar, another guitarist behind him and a drummer. It was Elvis with Scotty Moore and D.J. Fontana. I turned up the volume, and that was all it took for me.

Because your mom had sung with Ozzie Nelson’s big band, did you meet Ricky in those days?

No, not until around ’68. But I used to watch “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet” all the time, and I loved [Ricky’s guitarist] James Burton. “Believe What You Say” is, to me, the ultimate guitar solo. James always played – actually mimed with – a Rickenbacker on the show because Ricky had an endorsement deal, but of course he played a Telecaster on the records.

Who were some of your other early influences?

Well, Chuck Berry, and because of Duane Eddy I bought my Gretsch 6120. I loved “Walk Don’t Run” by The Ventures, which I still play in shows. Bobby Rydell was one of my idols; I was 15 when his first hit, “Kissin’ Time,” came out. The bass was so predominant that I talked my father into buying me a Fender bass. So, I was a double threat as guitarist and bass player on the early Rascals’ records.

Along with 70 million other people in America, you saw The Beatles’ appearance on “The Ed Sullivan Show” in February, 1964. How did that affect you?

The Beatles changed my life and that of virtually every other guitar player because guitar used to be in the back of a band while the singer was up-front. All of a sudden, the bass player was also the lead singer. I had never seen that. It was just magic.

Did seeing George Harrison playing a Country Gentleman inspire you to get one?

Yes, I did buy one because of him, but it got stolen before The Rascals’ first rehearsal. I was playing a different Gretsch when I realized, “George has his guitar, McCartney has the Höfner violin bass, Buddy Holly had the Stratocaster… I gotta find my own guitar.” I found it in a Gibson Barney Kessel, a double-cutaway jazz guitar, and used it on all my records.

The Rascals were unknown when you attended the Beatles’ Shea Stadium concert in 1965, and promoter Sid Bernstein had the scoreboard flash the words, “The Rascals Are Coming.”

We had just signed with Sid as manager about three weeks earlier, and were in the visitors’ dugout, where The Beatles came out. When (Beatles’ manager) Brian Epstein saw the sign, he had a f***ing fit and started screaming, “I’m gonna cancel the show right now if you don’t take that sign down!” That was our first brush with The Beatles (laughs).

What’s the story behind the Rascals turning down Phil Spector’s offer to produce at a time when the band was still playing small clubs?

We were at The Barge, in the Hamptons. Phil had flown from L.A. to see us play. We knocked him out. When he came backstage afterward and told us he wanted to produce us, we were in shock. Felix, who was more educated and more worldly than any of us, told Phil, “You’re the greatest producer in the world, but we want to produce ourselves.” Phil said, “Do you know who you’re talking to?” We said, “Yes, but we have our own ideas.” He stormed out so frustrated that he kicked a fire hydrant and broke his foot.

Did you ever run into him after that?

Yes. Seven months later, we had the #1 record with “Good Lovin’” and were at Cantor’s Deli in L.A., laughin’ and talkin’ at four in the morning, when Phil walked in with this huge bodyguard who looked like Odd Job in the James Bond films. We all dove under the table! Phil was still walking with a cane, and he came over, tapped on the table with the cane and started yelling, “Get up here, you little c***suckers! You all got some balls. Nobody has ever turned down Phil Spector!” Then he looked me in the face and started laughing, “You guys were right. I’m proud of you. You did good.”

You also had a pre-fame encounter with Les Paul, who had one of the few eight-track recorders in ’65.

We were brought to his house late one evening and recorded a few songs – The Beatles’ “No Reply” and “Slow Down.” But we were still fresh, not ready to be recording artists.

The Rascals turned down several major labels before signing with Atlantic. What made the band realize it was their best option?

There were several reasons. Columbia was bigger, RCA was bigger, Capitol was bigger. They all wanted us, but they were just corporations who would have thrown us into the studio with staff producers and we would’ve had no say about how the music was recorded. Atlantic, on the other hand, was the most respected label. They were the top black label long before Motown, and we were going to be their first white act. They said, “We don’t have as much money as CBS, RCA, or Capitol, but if you come with us, we can get into the rock-and-roll world.” That was a real invitation for an unknown act that didn’t even have original songs at the time.

So, considering Atlantic’s history with legends such as Ray Charles, The Drifters, and The Coasters, how intimidating was it being in their studios the first time?

Well, at first we couldn’t believe that they said we could produce ourselves, and also that they wouldn’t charge us for studio time, which is the way many record companies recoup investments. But they said, “Since you don’t have a track record, we’ll let you be your own producers, with some adult supervision. ”That meant Tom Dowd, who worked with Aretha Franklin, Cream, Allman Brothers, and other acts, and Arif Mardin, who was Atlantic’s house arranger. We were really blessed to have two of the best help us along. They never demanded or tried to control anything – they just made suggestions.

What was your basic equipment during the Rascals days?

I started with the Barney Kessel and used the same Standel amp in the studio and onstage so my sound would be consistent. I then went to a Gibson Byrdland, then a Les Paul, which was too heavy – I actually herniated a disc in my neck because of it before switching to an SG Standard. I did own one Stratocaster later on, which you can hear on “See.”

Did you use effects on any of the recordings?

Only on one song – the beginning chord of the solo on “Come On Up” uses a Sam Ash Fuzzz Boxx.

How did the band come upon “Good Lovin’’’ and what’s the story behind your iconic riff on that song?

Felix and Dino went to Harlem one day with a copy of Billboard, and on the “Bubbling Under” chart was “Good Lovin’” by The Olympics. We knew these records weren’t going to get a fair chance on the pop stations, so we covered it. Basically, my guitar part was the piano part on their record. The very first time I played it was on the record, sliding the notes rather than playing straight quarter notes. I used that same style on the riff for “You Better Run.”

Besides The Doors, The Rascals were the only major band of the ’60s that didn’t use a bass player onstage. Wouldn’t you have had a fuller sound with one?

It was credibility thing. The Beatles set the bar – except for the last performance with Billy Preston, they never brought anyone else onstage. It was a sacred number. The Beatles were four, The Rascals had four.

But the Beatles had a bass player.

Felix handled the bass part perfectly well with organ pedals. He had it all down.

Was there ever any thought of having Eddie learn bass?

We actually bought Eddie a Fender Mustang Bass in ’67, which he still owns but never learned to play. He wasn’t physical like that or had the head to learn. Eddie’s job was doing what Jim Morrison did – he was the personality of the band, and the most lovable one to the fans. I was relegated to the George Harrison position, where I would get two songs on an album. When we first started, Eddie, Felix, and I sang an equal number of songs, but then Eddie and Felix became the lead singers. Onstage, they were magical. Certain songs fit each of them, but Eddie basically became the balladeer. Felix could never have pulled off “How Can I Be Sure.” That was a different world.

Would you agree that after The Rascals last big hit, “People Got To Be Free,” in ’68, the quality of singles like “Heaven,” “See,” “Carry Me Back,” and “Glory, Glory” was not up to the standard of the earlier work?

Well, all songwriters – Billy Joel, Paul Simon, Elton John, James Taylor, Paul McCartney, or John Fogerty – you’re lucky to be in a zone for three or four years, then you kind of run out of fresh ideas. You don’t connect anymore. I talk to Billy Joel. He won’t make another record – wants nothing to do with it. McCartney keeps going but he’s not writing any new classics. Smokey Robinson ain’t writing anything. If you have your time, you’re really blessed.

Why did Eddie, who was Felix’s songwriting partner, leave the band in 1970 and basically do nothing in music until your Once Upon A Dream musical in 2013?

I can’t speak for Eddie, but he had difficulties with Felix. Felix couldn’t get him to live up to deadlines with lyrics, and it was a struggle for Felix. Eddie took the idea that, “Felix is acting like my boss,” but Felix just wanted to keep the work going. The day we were signing a contract with Columbia, Eddie got into a shouting match with Felix, and when Eddie walked out of the room, that was basically the end of The Rascals. The songwriting broke down and the spirit of the band broke down with it.

In retrospect, was leaving Atlantic a bad decision?

Yes, we should have never left Atlantic. Our time to be relevant, songwriting-wise, had passed, but they still pushed the hell out of our records. They wanted to keep us alive, but spent a lot more time with Aretha Franklin, who went a from a $15,000-per-year guarantee to a million dollars. So, at the end of our five years, they were still offering us the same $15,000. Columbia offered us $200,000 and said, “Look how many records we’re selling with Chicago – 30 million on each album around the world.” So, we said, “That’s for us.” We were not thinking. We were going to lose Arif Mardin, have to produce ourselves, and be in the corporate structure. It was just a bad deal all around. Even Clive Davis, who signed us, said in his book it was one of the biggest mistakes he ever made. Felix was the guy everybody thought could carry the whole thing by himself. But, he couldn’t. It was the four of us.

The Rascals are about the only famous ’60s band that today could do a full reunion with original members.

You nailed it. We checked it out, and there are bands where members are still alive but incapable of performing. We are still capable. We showed it on the 2013 shows. I would love to play with the guys again, without a doubt. Felix wanted to continue, but Dino and Eddie were shell-shocked. The Rascals were never smart. That’s the real tragedy of the band.

What about a new album?

It would be foolish to make another album, because nobody’s in the zone anymore. What are you gonna compete with, the greatness from before?  Arif Mardin is no longer with us, and he was the only person that all four of us respected totally. Sometimes it’s better to just leave things be.

What are your fondest memories of the time when The Rascals were one of America’s biggest bands?

There were so many things that went by so quickly. There wasn’t one night we didn’t kill onstage – we never once went out there and phoned it in. Even if one of us was sick, we still poured it on, and we loved each other when we were together.

Like brothers.

Totally. We’re still like brothers; sometimes we agree to disagree.

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This article originally appeared in VG November 2017 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

Musical chemistry is a special, sometimes flammable rapport between two musicians. It’s a rare thing – highly sought, difficult to attain – and you know it when you share it. Rich Robinson and Marc Ford have it, and if you want to hear what it sounds like, check out their latest collaboration.

With a past that reaches back to The Black Crowes’ finest albums – think Southern Harmony and Musical Companion, Amorica, and Three Snakes and One Charm – Robinson and Ford bring their guitar-centric chemistry to The Magpie Salute, a 10-piece group that intially featured the keyboard work of fellow former Crowe Eddie Harsch (who passed away in November of ’16) and draws inspiration from deep cuts, ensemble interplay, and the spirit of musical adventure.

You two work so well together and have made great music, but in the past there has been conflict. How have things been working out since your reunion?

Marc Ford: We’ve been able to accomplish a huge amount in a very short amount of time because of this natural thing we have. It’s flowing through the whole band. It’s Rich’s career of people that he’s played with, and now the whole band has got it. It’s incredible and a next-level thing.

What distinguishes Magpie Salute from Black Crowes?

Rich Robinson: It’s a combination of people new and old. Marc and Eddie came out and played a show my band did in Woodstock, and I was really excited about the idea of them coming to play; I wanted to hear Marc with my drummer, Joe Magistro, and with Eddie, and how the whole thing worked. Out of that idea the whole thing was born.

It was cool to bring all these people into something – new and old. Marc and I, and even singer Charity White to an extent, have a context. We were in a band together. Then you throw in me and Joe, and we’ve been playing together since 2003. We have a thing together. Then you bring in some new energy like guitarist Nico Bereciartua and some of the singers and keyboardist Matt Slocum, and it all really works so well. We’re just playing songs Marc and I wrote with some cover tunes.

It’s not The Black Crowes, but we’re honoring the things that Marc and I and Eddie accomplished as musicians in that great band – and the Crowes were a great band. Now, we’re having fun with these songs in a way that we’ve never had. It’s fun – lighter, in a sense. The music’s not lighter, but we’re just really enjoying it. But also really looking forward to making a record and going out and being our own thing.

“Everyone in this band is a good enough musician to know what they need to bring to the table.” – Rich Robinson

Marc, having led your own projects for a while, what’s it like being back in this type of musical fold?

MF: It’s just another piece of things I’ve gotten to do. It turns out that it’s a very important and very huge piece. I had forgotten about the physicality of playing the music – the posturing it takes; I hadn’t done it in so long. I had to remember how to hold the guitar that way. It all came back quickly, but I guess it surprised me how far away I got. Which is great, because now, coming back to all that stuff, it’s all kind of brand new and allows me to enter the song new. We’re not covering our old self. To me, they’re almost brand new songs because I disconnected so long ago.

Rich, what made you reach out to Marc?

RR: There’s a far deeper connection on a musical level because you’re speaking a different language. You’re dealing with raw emotions, and it’s far out to me. When the opportunity came up to do this show in Woodstock, I was like, “F**k it. I’m just going to call Marc.” He and I just had this thing that I’ve never had with another guitar player. The way that we play together is really special. It’s a rare thing. The same thing holds true for Eddie. There was a lot of sound in the Crowes and Eddie would find places to shine. I reached out to Marc first and really wanted him to come. He was like, “I’m there.” His flight was delayed and we were supposed to do a little rehearsal…

MF: (laughs)

RR: He showed up the next day in the middle of our set. He just came onstage and it was great.

MF: The record sold me when I listened to it. It’s as if that nine-minutes of “Wiser Time” just tells the whole story musically in a sense. You can hear it. We’re meeting each other for the first time, literally, on the record. There was no rehearsal needed. It’s like we’ve come full circle.

John Hogg is a very talented singer. Where did you find him?

RR: John was in a band that opened for the Crowes in ’98 called Moke. They were signed to a subsidiary of Columbia. When we were on Columbia, our product manager told us about this band. We checked them out and thought they were great. I asked them to come on tour. They were kids – really young – but John and I hit it off immediately. I really liked what he did. He’s a great musician – plays guitar, drums, bass, and pretty much anything you throw in front of him. When the Crowes first split in 2001, I called John and started a band immediately. It was great. We had so much fun, and then the Crowes got back together. Things happened and that didn’t really work, but we always stayed in touch and were ready to get together at any moment to start working together again.

He’s under a lot of pressure… got a lot to deal with. He’s not trying to be Chris Robinson. He’s trying to honor the song. He’s singing the melodies. He naturally, like anyone, brings himself to the song. But he’s got by far the hardest gig because he’s got to learn melody, timing, and lyrics to 160 songs, which is how many we’re doing on this tour.

There are 10 people in this band. How do you find your sonic space on guitar?

MF: You keep trying over and over again (laughs). It’s physical. That’s what’s challenging to me. I become a better musician because I’m a better listener. I listen more, adapt, and provide what’s needed. I listen to the holes, what isn’t being done, and just be there. And sometimes you’ve got to pretend you’re a trumpet or something and get in the part.

I don’t get to do that stuff when I’m singing or leading a band. Now I’m more into the details, which is really fun. We have all these incredible musicians and we just weave through it, and it’s happening to the whole band. It’s really amazing.

Why so many people in the band?

RR: Because it’s more about inclusion than exclusion. I looked at it like, “I love these guys and I want to bring these other guys in that I love.” We have singers who are really cool and give us an element that could take us places we normally couldn’t go. It was literally more about the sound. When you have 10 people onstage working in a unit together and everyone’s doing their part, there’s something really powerful about it. It’s not unlike two drummers. There’s something so subtle, cool, and powerful about that.

MF: It’s a language.

RR: It is a language. Nico can pull out an acoustic guitar or mandolin or lap steel. When Marc takes a solo, Nico will switch and play a rhythm part that Marc covered on the record.

I also really like that Marc, John, and I sing. It gives the band a whole other layer to be able to dig into.

MF: Harmonically, as well as vocally.

“The most exciting part of this band is the possibilities. We’re trying to get through 160 tunes and we get to explore.” – Marc Ford

How do you decide what works best in terms of gear?

RR: Early on in the Crowes, Marc and I use to “coordinate,” where he’d play humbuckers and I’d play a Strat or a Tele. Innately, we always tended to go down that road. For this band, Marc plays his Asher guitars, which have their own sound and frequency, which is really cool. We also need to be flexible. We’re playing festivals on huge stages, and we’ll also play some smaller places. We bring out these really cool small amps for smaller places. If we need bigger oomph for a big stage, we’ll bring it out. I like having that flexibility and everyone in this band is a good enough musician to know what they need to bring to the table.

MF: Part of what you’re bringing to the part is the tone of the part as well as the sound of it. Sound, to me, takes on shapes. It could be slow or fast or fill a wide space. It’s all shapes and shades to me. That’s part of the part you’re creating – what kind of voice. The Asher guitars are really well-made. It’s a tool. If I had to, I could do it with just about anything, but Bill Asher takes care at every step – quality all the way through. It’s not your average sound. I’m using Satellite amplifiers, made in San Diego by Adam Grimm. They’re pretty much bullet-proof, straight-ahead dragster funny cars. There’s no extra business. It’s just pure muscle, with two knobs.

RR: I don’t have a main guitar, but it’s mostly one of my Gretsches, a 335, or a Tele. I have a White Falcon and a ’58 Streamliner that are really cool, a Black Falcon, and a ton of other guitars. Tonally, the generality of these guitars is my go-to. I have a 25-watt Reason amp, a ’50s tweed Deluxe, and a Vibrolux. They’re the same size and sit right next to each other. I run all three at the same time.

You also perform some interesting covers including War’s “War Drums” and songs by Pink Floyd and Bob Marley.

RR:I was putting together the set list and it was really just a show for my solo band. When Marc came out, I wanted to find songs that would be cool that we had in common or a connection. We were like, “Oh, I love Bobby Hutcherson’s ‘Goin’ Down South.’ I would love to hear Eddie’s take on that.” “War Drums” was one of the songs where I was like, “Wouldn’t this be cool? I would love to hear Marc play on this one.” It was one that I’d done during my shows, but it’s such a cool message. I love the sort of militant discipline of that band. They were so disciplined. The guitar player would ride a part for a f**king 100 bars or something and never vary. And that rhythm section was phenomenal. We’d done “Gun” off of The Black-Man’s Burdon, which was kind of a challenge, but it was f**king cool. I was trying to come up with a broad stroke, dynamic of a song, that we could all play on and bring something to.

MF: The most exciting part of this band is the possibilities. We’re trying to get through 160 tunes and we get to explore.

RR: Getting through a 160 tunes requires stretching before we run (laughs). And once we’re well stretched, we get on the track and go.

MF: Right (laughs).

How did you decide which Black Crowes songs to cover for this project?

RR: I’d thought of “Wiser Time,” in particular. I always loved what Marc and I did. It was an example of no matter what was going on in the band or going on with us, when a song like that comes on you can hear the connection between us. And for Ed to come in there with that brilliant Fender Rhodes solo that no one could ever re-create… I was like, “This will be the one that will do it.”

Then I had this other song called “What Is Home” that was on another Black Crowes record, and again I thought, “I really want to hear Marc and Ed on this.” That’s really what it was. “Hey, we haven’t seen each other in a really long time. What would be the most fun thing to do in the most rewarding way.” That’s how I saw it.

MF: It’s like having old family friends get together and say, “Hey, remember when we use to kick the can around?” Immediately, we start playing, then we say, “Now what?” What we bring is a lot of love and loss. It requires some responsibility to know when you’ve been gifted something so special. As long as we keep our stuff together, the music can work. There’s a genuine sense of joy and celebration onstage.

What’s next?

RR: In January or February, we’re making a double studio record of all new material, then we’re going to tour all next year.

MF: I’ll be there doing the same thing (laughs)! One band is enough when you have a family. We’ll take it one thing at a time and see where we’re at.

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This article originally appeared in VG November 2017 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

The wah pedal is one of the most widely used effects in popular music, employed by artists playing rock, blues, funk, disco, and other genres. One of the most expressive sounds in the world of electric guitar, it turns 50 this year. But things might have been very different if not for its inventor, guitarist Del Casher, wrestling it from marketers focused on horns.

Born of a bygone era, wah is one of a handful of the first successful “pedals” enabled by the transistor revolution of the mid 1960s. And it’s still going strong. The wah needs no resume; for his own part, Casher, having been a first-call session player for many years, continues to work on the sound side of the movie and TV industry, welcoming clients to his thriving mix stage at CDP Sound in Burbank, California.

Casher was intimately involved in the So-Cal music scene throughout the ’60s, particularly known for his contributions to TV and film scores. In addition, he was one of a handful of guitarists working with Los Angeles’ legendary Wrecking Crew, a crack outfit of studio musicians that played on countless hits by Frank Sinatra, The Beach Boys, The Monkees, The Mamas and the Papas, Jan & Dean, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, and many others. And part of his value to the Crew was that Casher was not only an ace guitarist, versatile in several styles, but a sonic pioneer who was always reaching for the next new sound that could make a record pop.

It’s worth laying down some more back-story to help assemble the pieces, especially if you’re thinking, “I thought the Thomas Organ branch of Vox invented the first wah-wah?” As is often reported, Vox did develop and manufacture the first commercial wah-wah pedal via its U.S. partner, Thomas Organ, but Casher himself was at the center of that confluence of art and technology, and the several moving pieces that coalesced to get it done came together specifically on behalf of his vision. As such, the genesis of the core circuit came from famed Vox U.K. engineer Dick Denney, the reinterpretation was undertaken courtesy of Thomas Organ engineer Brad Plunkett – and several others contributed here and there – but it was Del Casher who conceived the wah and made it sing.

In August of 1964, Tom Jennings, of Jennings Musical Instruments (JMI) in the U.K, penned a deal with California-based Thomas Organ to give the company exclusive rights to the distribution of Vox amplifiers and products in the U.S. When Vox U.K. was unable to keep up with demand in the wake of Beatlemania and the British Invasion, that deal morphed into Thomas Organ manufacturing its own home-grown Vox-branded products – to the eventual detriment of JMI. Still, the cooperation resulted in a lot of shared technology – solidstate technology, in particular. Thomas Organ was already a pioneer, and by this time JMI had been aggressively exploring transistorized amplification for a couple of years. It was via one such creation from Denney – known mostly as the designer of the resolutely tube-based Vox AC15 and AC30, among others – that the voice for Casher’s wah-wah would emerge.

In 1966, Casher’s central role in the L.A. music, TV, and film scene hadn’t gone unnoticed, and he was hired to consult for the Thomas Organ branch of Vox, and also to perform in the Vox Amplifonic Orchestra headed by Bill Page, whom he’d met while performing on Lawrence Welk’s TV show. This Vox performance group was essentially a promotional outfit for the brand and, rather unusually, every member was Vox-equipped.

“The plan was to use the new U.S. Vox amps for all instruments, including trumpets, saxes, percussion,” Casher told VG. “Every instrument had its own amp built into its music stand, so each player could control their volume with no outside house system. As I was rehearsing using the new amp with the band, I noticed my amp had one control that said ‘Tone’, but had an interesting sound; as I turned the knob it made a ‘wah’ sound, which was exactly what I was looking for.”

The circuit behind this tone control was a reworking of the MRB switch (for “mid range boost”) Denney had developed for Vox U.K.’s transistorized amps; it emphasized three frequency ranges within the guitar’s midrange to do exactly that. Thinking to simplify the wiring, engineers at Thomas Organ had converted Denney’s work from three-way switch to rotary potentiometer, and in the process opened a new world of possibilities.

“I knew I had stumbled onto something revolutionary and wanted that circuit converted into a pedal,” Casher said. “But it had to be a powered circuit, and required engineering. I went immediately to Stan Cutler, the head of Thomas Organ engineering, and asked how big the circuit was, whether it could be powered with a 9-volt battery, and could it be put into a volume pedal. Stan said ‘Yes, yes, and yes.’”

Cutler brought in one of his young engineers, Brad Plunkett, to do the converting and compacting work, along with help from fellow engineer Les Kushner, and this small team set about to get the project just right.

“This was in late November of ’66, and Brad was a great engineer, but not a guitar player,” Casher noted. “After he installed the circuit, I played my guitar with the pedal, making an awesome wah sound, but it was a little too harsh. I asked Brad to change the values of caps and resistors several times that day to mellow the sound. He was a little annoyed because he did not understand what I was doing or looking for, but I got what I wanted. The pedal made the guitar go ‘wah,’ and I could control it with my foot while playing blues licks! It was a smooth ‘wah’ like a trumpet mute. I still have that pedal in my collection as my prototype.”

The resultant circuit was extremely simple by today’s standards – just about a baker’s dozen of components on the small circuit board – but that wouldn’t stop players, years down the road, from arguing incessantly about the merits of this inductor or that capacitor, parts central to enabling the pedal’s infectiously vocal sound.

So far, so good before the first fly buzzed into the ointment when Casher demonstrated the new creation for Thomas Organ CEO Joe Banaron, who’s new vision for the big-band sound dictated that every instrument would have its own amplification.

“Joe was impressed, and he saw this as a breakthrough for the Vox Amplifonic band. He said, ‘Every trumpet player would want the wah pedal instead of a mute!’ I told Joe this was for guitar – a new voice. Joe, however, believed bands with four trumpets and five saxes, like Lawrence Welk, were the money maker. He figured bands only had one guitar player!”

It was this frustration at the CEO’s misinterpretation of the wah’s utility that the early production model’s oft-puzzling name was concocted.

“I jokingly suggested that Joe should call Clyde McCoy, who in the ’30s had the famous trumpet hit ‘Sugar Blues’ with a muted-wah sound,” Casher relates. “Well, Joe did call him and offered Clyde $500 to use his name. That’s how the Clyde McCoy name got on the pedal!”

In an effort to dislodge Banaron’s entrenched views, Casher argued that plenty of bands – from Phil Spector’s wall-of-sound sessions to those of the Wrecking Crew – had several guitarists working together, and pleaded again that guitarists badly needed a new sound. He eventually figured music might speak louder than words, and offered to produce a wah-guitar demo record to display the pedal’s new glories as applied to the six-string.

“I produced it in my garage studio in the Hollywood Hills, late in ’66 using the only wah pedal that existed, my prototype made from a converted gray volume pedal,” says Casher. “I thought at the time, ‘This is going to be the most revolutionary sound that will change the world!’ I knew I had something great.”

Casher and drummer Jimmy Troxel laid down tracks displaying 10 different styles of music guitarists could play with the wah, using Casher compositions penned specifically for this purpose.

The effort worked.

Thomas Organ released the 10-track demo on vinyl in February ’67, and the Vox Wah-Wah itself went into production around the same time. The circuit was sent to Vox U.K. for Dick Denney to (purportedly) adapt to local componentry for a short run of pedals made in JMI’s Dartford plant before being jobbed out to Jen Elettronica, in Pescara, Italy, which manufactured several other products for JMI/Vox. Meanwhile, Thomas Organ seems to have begun making some McCoy wahs – with the trumpeter’s name and photo on the bottom – before likewise farming out manufacture to Jen. It’s worth noting, though, that the early evolution of the respective Vox/Thomas models and the where’s and when’s of their manufacture are difficult to track precisely; as reported in existing histories and published interviews with those involved back in the day, the story seems to vary a little each time.

What is entirely clear, though, is that Casher’s instinct was right. Guitarists took to the wah great-guns and the invention proliferated as a result. Early adopters included the Electric Prunes and Frank Zappa (with whom Casher had recorded prior to the wah’s inception), then Eric Clapton with Cream and Jimi Hendrix. The wah rapidly became a must-have for any respectable psychedelic rocker, while more clean-cut session players from pop to country were also finding it useful for producing that “badly needed” new sound.

In 1968, Thomas Organ introduced the Cry Baby for U.S. sale, in an effort to differentiate between renditions of the pedal on either side of the Atlantic. Some slight changes in circuit and rocker travel came with the new name, and in the years that followed, different players would express preferences for different renditions. By the end of the ’60s, every music-electronics maker worth its salt was putting out its own wah – Maestro/Gibson, Fender, Colorsound, Marshall, Sound City, Kay, DeArmond and others all leapt into the arena, and this list would only expand in the early ’70s as the wah assault continued. By this time, the effect was also becoming central to the hottest funk and R&B guitar sounds, and would soon help lead the disco boom, too.

Tremendously popular these 50 years and showing no signs of waning, the wah pedal has proved far more enduring than its early roots might have promised, becoming equally as iconic and remaining still as viable as the fuzz pedal that arrived somewhat before it. When Thomas Organ filed for the wah’s patent in February of ’67 (granted in September of ’70), the names Bradley J. Plunkett and Lester L. Kushner were listed under “Inventors” with no direct mention of Del Casher. Never mind, though, the little sketch of a stylized guitar in the upper-left corner of the first of the two-page application tells us all we need to know.

Casher – guitarist and inventor – had the vision to see what this creation could do for the six-string, and should rightly be remembered for wrestling it away from the horn section. If he wasn’t rewarded financially, he has at least made creative use of the sound throughout his career. It looks like all the cash went to the suits anyway, as usual; Plunkett later told Casher that despite having his name on the patent, as his employers owned the rights to any invention he concocted while working for Thomas Organ, he was compensated only $50 for his contribution.

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This article originally appeared in VG November 2017 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.