Tag: features

Trends come and go, but Canadian rockers Annihilator always deliver crushing speed metal. Their newest release, Triple Threat, is aimed at the serious fan. We recently spoke with guitarist/vocalist Jeff Waters to learn more about it.

Triple Threat is hefty.

It’s an idea that came when we touring for our last studio record, Suicide Society. There was a break around Christmas, and the A&R guy at UDR Records said they’d be into doing something before the release of the next album. We thought, “Why don’t we grab a concert that already has cameras filming – a festival in Europe, for example. But if we’re going to do it, we don’t want to throw out a boring package.” And he agreed.  So we came up with… I guess Van Halen spawned this idea and I, of course, was the first in line to buy the CD of A Different Kind of Truth with the special CD package that had, I think, four black-and-white videos of them with David Lee Roth in Eddie’s studio – just a casual jam of “Beautiful Girls,” “Panama,” with Roth’s dogs running around and they’re all relaxed and smiling. In the back of my mind, I was always like, “I wish I could do something like that.” So I said, “What if we do something similar – in color?” And that spawned the second-disc idea. We picked some older songs and new songs. I wanted to do it live, like Van Halen had done. We still had one to go, so we said, “We can do a third disc and make it a mini-documentary thing.”

You’ve been Annihilator’s lead singer from time to time, and also worked with other singers.

I started the band in the mid ’80s with a singer friend, and we wrote some songs like “Alison Hell” and a few others that became sort of classics for us. But essentially, I just wanted to be in a band. My favorites at the time were Exodus, Anthrax, Slayer, Metallica’s first albums, and the first albums from Anvil, Razor, Exciter, and Venom. That’s what I was listening to. This was my post-Priest/Maiden/Van Halen/AC/DC/Kiss/Scorpions phase that went into the heavier music.

What happened very quickly was I tried to get the band together and get the right guys, and wanted to practice full-time and I didn’t want to do anything else. So I’d wash dishes at a restaurant, then I’d spend 12 hours a day working on music and trying to learn how these great artists write songs and play solos and rhythms. I got guys, but they just wanted to go out and party. I had a different sort of drive. So I realized I had to write the bass parts and play the bass, write the drum parts, write lyrics, because certain guys weren’t showing up, and I wanted to get this going. That is essentially the whole career of Annihilator. It’s more of a solo project where I’d hire a drummer or a singer to go in the studio, and then the separate part is the album is done and the promotion happens, and I look for guys to go on tour. For me, it was normal to just hire different guys and try to keep singers for a few albums if it was working out, and then I’d move on and try a different drummer or bass player. To outsiders who don’t know the band, it looks crazy, but I think it’s the reason I’m still here.

You’ve become synonymous with playing Flying Vs.

K.K. Downing has got to be my number one influence. When [Judas Priest’s] Defenders of the Faith tour came and he used the red Hamer V with the white pickguard, that combined with the Balls to the Wall Accept tour with Wolf Hoffmann and Herman Frank, they had the white Flying Vs, and then you had Michael Schenker and his brother, Rudolf, and you had Lips from Anvil.

But the root of that was I had some basic lessons in classical guitar, where you put the guitar – if you’re right-handed – on your left leg and not your right leg. The Flying V actually fit like a classical fits between your legs – so that was a natural fit for me. And the angle of the neck would bend up like a classical guitar would. Then I met the Gibson guys, and they wanted to do a Flying V with me; it’s every guitar player’s dream if a company like Gibson says, “We would like to do your own guitar.” I didn’t see it as a limited-edition, $3,000 guitar. I thought it was going to be something you could put in the stores that kids could afford. They said, “You need to talk to our sister company.” And that became a seven- or eight-year relationship with Epiphone.

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

Over the years, there have been instances when one renowned blues-rock guitarist or another found sobriety in the nick of time and got their career back on track. Eric Clapton, Bonnie Raitt, and Stevie Ray Vaughan come to mind, and now  we can add Eric Gales to the list. With the release of his latest album, Middle of the Road, the former prodigy certainly sounds like his playing has been refocused.

What’s the story with Middle of the Road?

Man, it’s the symbolization of a new lease on life that I’ve got. I changed my life around somewhat, so that kind of follows with why I called it Middle of the Road. It’s a quote my dad always used, and it’s basically representing being centered and grounded. Life is going good, and the ideas for this record came from experiences in life. Just putting my story to a music sort of presentation. It turned out really well, we had a lot of fun with the people involved – Lauryn Hill, “Kingfish” Ingram, my brother Eugene, Gary Clark… Having Gary be  part of this record was amazing. And new gear that I’ve acquired – I’ve got a new amp coming out with DV Mark amps, it’s the signature Eric Gales model. Things are going really well, man.

You’ve referenced the album as “hands down, the best record that I’ve ever done.”

 I focused on content – songs and lyrics. I wasn’t going for commercial, but it turned out that way. And I didn’t come off my roots – it still has a blues, rock, gospel-ish sort of foundation. It just sounds really new. I respect blues and traditional I-IV-V – it’s there – but I’m influenced by multiple styles of music. So this was my chance to let my guard down and do what I felt what has been inspiring me all these years. Maybe it’s my new style of music, I don’t know (laughs).

What changed your life around?

It’s no secret I had ventured into heavy drugs for quite a while. Fortunately, it didn’t kill me. It just helped create more of a positive story to tell. I went through some things. In July last year, I threw in the towel, and it was the best decision I’ve ever made. In about a week, I’m coming up on seven months clean. That’s another representation of Middle of the Road – a new side of life. Things that are happening right now are so amazing.

How was it playing with Gary Clark, Jr. on “Boogie Man”?

I introduced the song to him, and he said, “I really like that.” He’s like, “Eric, you’ve always been a big inspiration to me.” I live in Greensboro, North Carolina, and he had done a show in Raleigh, and he called me up, I told him I was cutting this new record, I let him hear the song on the tour bus, and he said, “Man, I would be honored to be a part of your record.” I cut it in LA, and he came down and said, “Let’s get it.” I played him the new, revised edition of it, and we just sat in there and vibed it out. It couldn’t have turned out better.

Do you prefer recording live or each instrument separate?

It all depends on moods. Either way works, but separately works good for me… but live is good, too. If I had to pick one, I would pick the latter – getting the drums focused. I still manage to wind up with that “We played together” intensity.

You play the guitar left-handed, with the low string on the bottom.

My brothers play that way, too. I picked it up at four years old and by the time I came to the conclusion it was “the wrong way,” it was too late – I was committed. It’s just comfortable for me. And who’s to say that everybody playing right-handed isn’t playing wrong (laughs)? But at the end of the day, it’s whatever works for you.  I don’t think there is a right or wrong way to play.

Besides your signature amp, what else do you use?

Effects, I like to use this Mojo Hand FX Colossus Fuzz, a Brute Drive made by Xotic pedals, a Bob Bradshaw wah by Dunlop, and a Tech21 delay. Guitar-wise, there are a few – a Magneto, Xotic, St. Blues, John Page, Paul Reed Smith, and I have an Olympus custom guitar out of Italy. All are Strat-styled guitars. With the Magneto Sonnet, they made for me a limited edition Raw Dawg– which is my nickname – and it’s basically the Strat configuration with Lollar pickups. It’s my go-to.

What else is on the horizon?

I have aspirations to do symphony and orchestral stuff, mixed with guitar. And my sights are heavy on starting to score music for films.

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

When those first notes of Chuck Berry’s first Chess single came blasting out of the radio in July of 1955, many a youngster – as well as those young at heart – turned that Volume dial northward. And many others turned it way, way down. It was all a sign that something really good was happening.

Berry, that self-described brown-eyed handsome man from St. Louis, hot-rodded the hoary hillbilly tune “Ida Red” and came racing out of the gates with “Maybellene,” Chess #1604A. There was plenty of hard-charging guitar, luscious amplified distortion that you c ould almost sink your teeth into, and those crazy, wacky lyrics that were all his own – “As I was motorvatin’ over the hill….” Chuck Berry signaled nothing less than the Big Bang of guitar-powered rock and roll.

By the time of his fourth Chess single, “Roll Over Beethoven,” in May of ’56, Berry’s style was firmly in place. He borrowed an intro line from the 1946 jump-and-jive hit “Ain’t That Just Like A Woman” played by one of his heroes, Carl Hogan, guitar man in Louis Jordan’s Tympany Five, souping up its single-note line with double-stops. Berry played with fire and brimstone, blending country twang with the snarl of the blues and the swing of jazz. “Tell Tchaikovsky the news,” indeed! Those charging, aggressive double-stops would become Berry’s trademark. Popular music – and especially the guitar – would never be the same.

Anyone who doubts the hoopla surrounding Berry need only listen to Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Carl Perkins during the Million Dollar Quartet session at Sun Studios in December of ’56; between their bedrock gospel and country tunes, Jerry Lee strikes up a line from Berry’s September ’56 single “Too Much Monkey Business,” which inspires Lewis and Elvis to break into “Brown Eyed Handsome Man.” The Million Dollar Quartet was playing what they themselves saw as the rock of ages.

More proof lies in the fact that in later years, Chuck rarely toured with a backup band. Wherever he went to perform, he’d simply hire a local band to support him. Everyone, everywhere knows his songs.

Finally, consider that Berry’s March ’58 single, “Johnny B. Goode,” was the sole example of rock and roll deemed necessary by Carl Sagan and crew to be included on Earth’s postcard to the rest of the universe, the Voyager Interstellar Mission, launched in ’77. It was slotted in alongside Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Stravinsky’s Rite Of Spring, Blind Willie Johnson’s “Dark Was The Night,” and other examples of so-called “ethnic” music from around our globe. As Sagan wrote on Berry’s 60th birthday in 1986, “Go, Johnny, go.” Johnny has since traveled 20 billion kilometers and counting.

When Berry died on March 18 at his home in Ladue, Missouri, it was not the end of an era. His legacy will live on every time a rock-and-roll band counts off a song.

Guitar Intoxication

Charles Edward Anderson Berry was born singing. As he recounts in his insightful Autobiography, published in ’87, he came into this world on October 18, 1926. “My mother tells me that before I was even dry, I had begun singing my first song; I started crying prior to the customary spank that brings one unto life.”

Music infused his childhood. His parents were the grandchildren of slaves, but the family was now relatively well-off, his mother one of the few African-American women of her time with a college education, his father a carpenter and deacon of their church. “My very first memories, while still in my baby crib, are of musical sounds – the assembled pure harmonies of the Baptist hymns, dominated by my mother’s soprano and supported by my father’s bass blending with the stirring rhythms of true Baptist soul.”

As a teen, Chuck served three years in the Algoa reformatory for armed robbery and hijacking a car, but served many more years in various bands, duets, choirs, and orchestras. He remembered an early infatuation with the songs of Count Basie, Glenn Miller, and Tommy Dorsey, as well as Muddy Waters.

Berry likely first performed for a public audience at a Sumner High School talent show in ’41, singing big-bandleader Jay “Hootie” McShann’s “Confessin’ The Blues” with his friend Tommy Stevens accompanying on guitar. Administrators bristled at the crude, low-down song, but it was exactly to students’ taste – an early lesson Chuck took to heart. And his vocal debut was also auspicious in another, perhaps ironic, way. “I guess the most important result of that performance was the inspiration it gave me to play a guitar,” he said.

A classmate loaned Berry his father’s “abandoned” four-string tenor guitar, and Chuck set about teaching himself how to play.

“I learned enough from Nick Mannaloft’s Guitar Book of Chords to strum out the progression to most of the popular love songs while singing at backyard parties,” he said. “Most of the guys in the neighborhood got their haircuts at the home of the three Harris brothers, Pat the barber, John the juicehead, and Ira the jazzman. Ira was the one who showed me many professional styles of execution on the guitar and reinstated my ambition to play the instrument. When it came to playing tunes by Muddy Waters, Tampa Red, Big Maceo, and Little Walter, I could shine like the sun….

“The guitar was slowly intoxicating me. Every lyric that left my lips seemed unworthy of the sound that the strings produced behind it, so I sometimes would not even sing, it sounded so good. Consequently, my picking and chording progressed far more rapidly than my voice. I was learning to play better than I could sing. I wondered sometimes if I would ever be good enough to become a professional musician, but the thrill of what was developing so far satisfied me beyond any thoughts of the future.”

While working as a janitor at WEW radio, Berry met Joe Sherman, a renowned local guitarist who played for the station’s Sacred Heart Program. Sherman sold Chuck his first electric guitar for $30, paid off at $5 per week; sadly, no record exists of what model it was. “I found it much easier to finger the frets of an electric guitar, plus it could be heard anywhere in the area with an amplifier. It was my first really good-looking instrument to have and hold. From the inspiration of it, I began really searching at every chance I got for opportunities to play music.”

He was holding down odd jobs as a carpenter, janitor, automobile-factory assemblyman, and trained beautician, supporting his wife Themetta and playing music at night. In ’53, Chuck was 27 years old when he found a place in a jazz/blues ensemble named the Sir John Trio, fronted by rocking piano man Johnnie Johnson. The two would collaborate for decades.

Berry soon began taking his place alongside Johnson in fronting the band, singing in a style that he did his best to cop from Nat King Cole, as he readily admits in his memoir. And their repertoire of music was broadening and developing as well, as Chuck remembered. “The kind of music I liked then, thereafter, right now and forever, is the kind I heard when I was a teenager. So the guitar styles of Carl Hogan, T-Bone Walker, Charlie Christian, and Elmore James, not to leave out many of my peers who I’ve heard on the road, must be the total of what is called Chuck Berry’s style.”

The Blues Had a Baby

The legend of Berry’s first recording session is part of rock-and-roll mythology – an origin story evoking a heroic time and place. In May of ’55, Berry and Johnson pointed their car toward Chicago and Chess Records – the spiritual home of Muddy Waters – with hopes of waxing a disc. Berry had met Muddy during an earlier trip, and Muddy introduced him to label owner Leonard Chess. Now, he was invited back to try his hand at recording.

The market for Muddy’s phenomenal sides on Chess was starting to dwindle and the label was eager to succeed with something new. Berry pulled out the song “Ida Red,” which had been made popular by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys back in ’38.

Legend has it that Chuck reworked the song there in the studio, but the story in his autobiography is even more illuminating about the junction of musical styles as well as the intersections of race at the time. “‘Maybellene’ was my effort to sing country-western,” he remembered – which either proves him one of the worst or best country singers of all time.

Berry enjoyed playing hillbilly tunes with the Sir John Trio for the African-American audience at the Cosmopolitan Club in notorious East St. Louis, a rollicking juke joint across the river, in Illinois, that did its best to put on upscale airs.

“The Cosmo clubgoers didn’t know any of the words to those songs, which gave me a chance to improvise and add comical lines to the lyrics,” said Chuck.

So he revved up “Ida Red” for the modern crowd and at some point was advised to change the title for copyright reasons; it became “Ida May.” But when he was ready to cut it, Leonard Chess worried it was still too close to the original. One story goes that the name “Maybellene” came thanks to Leonard, who happened upon a Maybelline mascara box in the studio; no one remembers how the spelling got transformed, which makes the tale taste of apocrypha, especially since Berry says he named the song after a storybook character: much like cats were named Tom and ducks were Donald in kid’s books, cows were always Maybellene.

Berry cut “Maybellene” with Johnson on piano, Chess stalwart Willie Dixon on bass, drummer Jasper Thomas in place of the band’s Ebby Hardy, who didn’t make the trip, and Bo Diddley sideman Jerome Green lending a hand with maracas.

“Maybellene” was one of the first true rock-and-roll songs. It had it all – a wild woman inspiring heartbreak, a hot-rod race with an elusive Cadillac, plus twang and swagger… and that guitar sound. To put it simply and bluntly, rock-and-roll guitar begins right here.

The song also marked other beginnings. Pioneering disc jockey Alan Freed had nothing to do with penning the song, but he got co-writer credits and royalties in return for radio play. It was hardly the first time a deejay pocketed “payola,” but when the song sold more than a million copies, hitting #1 on the R&B charts and #5 on the mainstream pop charts, such co-writer arrangements heralded an early tradition.

The song also marked the beginning of the end for the blues. Little did they know, but Berry would soon eclipse Muddy Waters’ popularity. Sure, Muddy continued to record stellar sides and go on performing, but the fuse under a new, younger audience had been lit. As Muddy famously said – no doubt with a hint of pride and irony and, yes, sadness in his voice – “The blues had a baby and they named it rock and roll.”

Like Ringing a Bell

Berry would go on to cut so many songs that now personify “rock and roll” that it seems superfluous to name them: “Rock And Roll Music,” “Sweet Little Sixteen,” “Sweet Little Rock And Roller,” “Little Queenie,” “Carol,” “Reelin’ And Rockin’,” “School Day (Ring! Ring! Goes The Bell),” “Back In The U.S.A.,” “Memphis, Tennessee,” “Promised Land,” “My Ding-a-Ling,” and more. And his songs have been covered by everyone from Elvis to the Beatles, the Rolling Stones to Prince, and on to most garage and bar bands that ever plugged in and cranked it up.

There is one song that stands out, of course – a song that is an autobiography, an anthem, and perhaps the rock-and-roll fable all wrapped up in one; “Johnny B. Goode.”

The song is more, though. Its currents run deeper with meaning, both personal to Berry and universal to African-American history – the story of the unshackling of chains and rising up to recognition and redemption, freedom, and promise.

Berry remembered the song “…had its birth when the tour first brought me to New Orleans, a place I’d longed to visit ever since hearing Muddy Waters’ lyrics, ‘Going down in Louisiana, way down behind the sun.’ That inspiration, combined with little bits of Dad’s stories and the thrill of seeing my black name posted all over town in one of the cities they brought the slaves through, turned into the song ‘Johnny B. Goode.’”

Berry’s ancestors had arrived in the New World via the slave markets of New Orleans; later, his great-grandfather lived “way back up in the woods among the evergreens.” And during his own childhood, Berry’s mother predicted great success for him. So he wrote the song based on “a story that paralleled.” It’s akin to Muddy Waters shouting out in “Mannish Boy,” “I’m a man! No b-o-y!” Ditto Bo Diddley’s own “I’m A Man.”

As Chuck explained in one of the most intense, vibrant, and strongly felt passages in his memoirs, “I feel safe in stating that no white person can conceive the feeling of obtaining Caucasian respect in the wake of a world of dark denial, simply because it is impossible to view the dark side when faced with brilliance. ‘Johnny B. Goode’ was created as all other things and brought out of a modern dark age. With encouragement, he chose to practice, shading himself along the roadside but seen by the brilliance of his guitar playing. Chances are you have talent. But will the name and the light come to you? No! You have to ‘Go!’”

And go he did.

Forever Duckwalking

Berry never really hung up his guitar. Whether it was his early Gibson Les Paul Custom Black Beauty, his ’50s ES-350TNs, or (starting in the early ’60s) his stream of ES-335 and 355 models, he kept playing, kept touring. In ’79, he performed for Jimmy Carter at the White House and saw his name in lights at concert halls and stadiums around the globe. From 1996 until 2004, he played each Wednesday at the Blueberry Hill club in St. Louis – 209 shows in all, duckwalking through his final show there at age 85.

On his 90th birthday, in October of 2016, Berry announced he was putting finishing touches to a new studio album – his first in almost four decades. Chuck will be reportedly be released this year and has new original songs along with backing from his children, Charles Berry, Jr. (guitar) and Ingrid Berry (harmonica). The album is dedicated to Themetta, Berry’s wife of 68 years.

“This record is dedicated to my beloved Toddy,” Chuck said when announcing the album. “My darlin’, I’m growing old! I’ve worked on this record for a long time. Now I can hang up my shoes!”

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

When Shawn Colvin’s Steady On won a Grammy in 1989, John Leventhal was instantly transformed from NYC sideman to in-demand producer, songwriter, and player.

The first to call were Rodney Crowell and Rosanne Cash, followed closely by Marc Cohn, who was working on his self-titled debut album. Leventhal’s work with Cash resulted in the introspective, pop-flavored The Wheel, and the two married in 1995. In ’96, Colvin and Leventhal reunited for A Few Small Repairs, which won Grammys for album of the year and song of the year (“Sunny Came Home”).

Collaborations continued with Joan Osborne, Michelle Branch, two more albums with Colvin, and three with Cash including 2009’s The List, based on a list of 100 essential country songs given to her by her late father, Johnny Cash. It garnered Album of the Year honors at the 2010 Americana Awards

2015 was a banner year for the team of Leventhal and Cash, as she won three Grammys for her Southern-tinged The River & The Thread, produced and co-written by Leventhal, who was subsequently awarded Instrumentalist of the Year honors at the Americana Association Awards. In mid ’16, Leventhal completed his latest project, William Bell’s This is Where I Live, for the revived Stax label. It won the Grammy for Best Americana Album and was nominated for Best R&B Performance for “The Three Of Me,” written with Cohn.

All told, Leventhal has produced work nominated for 16 Grammys to go with a catalog of hit songs as a writer, and guest spots with artists ranging from Donald Fagen to Dolly Parton.

Why did you first pick up a guitar?

The initial impulse was definitely The Beatles. They hit me pretty hard; Beatles 65, in particular.

Why do you feel it’s important that you write songs?

The realization that the Beatles wrote their own tunes might have impacted me, but I think in some fundamental way I’m just wired with a need to write music. I’m compelled… I don’t really have a choice. I suspect it even comes a step before playing the guitar. I love the guitar, but from an early point in my musical life I was also looking beyond it in a lot of ways. I could generally muster more feeling coming up with a compelling chord sequence than playing guitar licks. Plus, from a relatively early point, I started to play bass and piano, probably attempting to work out writing and record making ideas without necessarily being conscious of it.

When the opportunity arose to co-produce Steady On for Shawn Colvin, were you prepared?

Not really. I had written the tunes with her and had made the demos, which got her a deal. Naturally, I had ideas about how they should be recorded, but at that point I didn’t have enough knowledge of the studio, engineering, or mixing. I was bursting with ideas and had opinions about what everyone should play, but I hadn’t learned the art of conveying them in a way that keeps everyone and everything creative and positive. I remember putting a fair amount of effort into making the rhythm tracks fresh and different, and battling the drummer quite a bit.

By Fat City and Cover Girl, your role with Colvin had diminished. Were you too busy?

Steady On ended up getting noticed, so I did start to get busy, but Shawn and I had been a couple in the ’80s and our relationship basically came to end as we were making Steady On. We wrote a few tunes and spent a week in the studio starting what became Fat City, but it clearly wasn’t working. We needed time apart.

How did A Few Small Repairs come about?

As these things go, the air eventually cleared and she asked if I would work with her on what became A Few Small Repairs. It ended up being a great experience. I felt we were both in the zone for it. I was also starting to engineer. Probably our best work. I’m proud of it.

Were you surprised by its success and Grammy wins?

Sure. I felt good about the work, but you can’t predict that stuff. That album struck a chord, and while I was definitely attempting to craft a pop single with “Sunny Came Home.” I never dreamed it would take off the way it did. It was the second single, but I started hearing it every time I turned on the radio – a decidedly cool experience. If people think of me at all, I think it tends to be as a “roots guy,” but I’ve always respected and loved classic pop tradition, as well.

How did you meet Rosanne Cash, and end up producing The Wheel?

I met Rosanne the first time I came to Nashville, in 1990. I had written an album’s worth of songs with Jim Lauderdale and recorded demos. Long story short, Jim got signed to Warner’s and Rodney Crowell was interested in producing the record. He asked Jim, who did the demos, and the next thing you know I’m on a plane to Nashville with my Tele and Strat, then co-producing the record with Rodney. I think that record, Planet Of Love, was a bit ahead of its time. The label really didn’t get it, country radio definitely didn’t play it, and the whole Americana thing was still a few years away. Luckily, some of the songs ended up being covered by other artists – George Strait recorded two – and Jim went on to find a home in the Americana community. But more importantly, I met my future wife and she eventually asked me to produce what became The Wheel. 

The List has you reimagining iconic country tunes in very intriguing ways. What was the process? Also, was Joan Osborne’s “How Sweet It Is” the first time you did that?

I’ve always messed around with older tunes, but Joan’s project was the first effort to do it as an entire album. It was Joan’s idea, and I think I got better at the rearranging thing with The List. That record was fun; Meshell Ndegeocello played bass on a track – a very good bass player. With Marc Cohn, I did a record of songs from 1970. Of course, with these projects, you start with songs that have stood the test of time. In general, I pretend I’ve never heard the song or that I’m writing new music to a given melody and lyric. The chords, groove, and arrangement are up for grabs. I enjoy the process. It’s good to have an open mind and heart in order to find something new in classic older tunes. In my opinion, there’s really never any point in re-doing something close to the original arrangement.

“Miss The Mississippi,” from The List, has some beautiful country/jazz guitar. What was your inspiration, and which instrument and amp did you use?

I’ve always liked that nexus of country and jazz. Hank Garland is a big template there. He had an authentic jazz voice but could also play the tastiest country, pop, blues, or rockin’ guitar, if necessary. My kind of guy. Chet’s a big influence, as well. I believe I used my ’68 Tele straight into a ’60s Vibrolux Reverb with a bit of compression before going to tape. Nothing fancy. Neck pickup, in this case a mini-humbucker.

The River & The Thread waxes from swamp to folk influences, with electric guitar and acoustic instruments taking turns at the forefront. Which were your main acoustic and electric guitars on that record?

Every track has different things on it because thought went into giving each its own character. I used a Tele with an original Wide Range Humbucker in the neck position. The main electric on “Modern Blue” is a ’74 Les Paul Custom. I came late to the Les Paul thing, but I love that guitar. I used a Jerry Jones Baby Sitar on one tune and a ’60s Fender Bass VI on another. It was all pretty varied. I have a bunch of great vintage acoustics, and they all get used. I have a particularly great ’30s Gibson J-35 and a ’56 J-50, and both record effortlessly, so they get used a lot. I also have a ’64 Guild F-30 and as well as an M-20 that were both used on that album. I do love old acoustic guitars. I’ve got the bug.

How does your approach differ between playing in the studio versus live?

They’re two different mind sets. I have very little guitar ego in the studio. I don’t come at it only from the perspective of a guitar player – I’m working to support the singer and the song, and everything is referenced against that. I never listen to the guitar – or any instrument – as an individual thing or statement. The only questions are, “Is this song working?” and “Does the vocal sound great.” To that end, different guitars, amps, and approaches are used all the time. I don’t really have a particular sound or approach, and I try not to repeat myself too much. Live, on the other hand, I tend to have a more-consistent sound and try to make more of a guitar statement with a little more of me thrown in. Hopefully, I’ve developed some kind of distinctive touch.

I should say, though, that listening is crucial in both situations. I tend to say if you’re not following the lyric, you’re probably playing too much.

You’re one of the early purveyors of “ambient guitar.”

I’ve basically stopped doing the ambient guitar thing because I started hearing it on too many records. I didn’t originate the concept, but I was in early, using it subtly on singer/songwriter records. I got the idea in the ’80s, from hearing Alan Holdsworth use volume swells and delays to create these lovely orchestral voicings with a haunting quality. I do it with a volume pedal or the guitar’s Volume knob and a cocktail of delay or delays, occasionally with a touch of tremolo or a bit of modulation in the delay. The idea is to create a sense of mystery and/or depth in a track. You can sometimes achieve the same effect by rolling the treble off your guitar and subtly picking or doubling a part with your fingers.

In the beginning, I used it to create ambient drones and washes that would bring harmonic tension to chord changes and create feeling in the track. Eventually, I started using it in more-subtle ways to create little mysterious ambiences in a song or a section of a song. Singers like it because it implies a depth without getting in their way, and it sounds more organic than a synth pad.

I started to lose interest after it started to feel gimmicky. It’s generally more satisfying to create feeling and mystery with musicality and creative parts.

You played a Strat in the late ’80s and early ’90s, then by ’96 moved to a Tele. What made you switch?

I eventually just missed the Tele; it’s what I started with. I was never entirely comfortable with the Strat, even though I used it a lot for a while. It’s the main guitar on Steady On, Planet Of Love, and Marc Cohn’s first album, including “Walking In Memphis.” Apart from another Tele, it was the only other guitar I owned during that period. I couldn’t quite afford a bunch of guitars yet. That particular Strat had EMG pickups.

Who are some of your favorite Tele players?

James Burton and Clarence White made me want to own a Tele. I loved James’ playing, particularly through Emmylou’s first couple of albums. But I have to say, when I first heard his solo on Merle Haggard’s version of “Frankie and Johnnie,” it changed the way I thought about the guitar. His soul-guitar fills on the Gram Parson ballad “She” also made a big impact on me. It’s pure poetry. The intent of Clarence’s playing was always riveting to me. Hard to pick a favorite, but his solo on the Byrds’ “Truck Stop Girl” just killed me. It was so funky, in an original way.

On the blues and R&B side – neck pickup rather than bridge pickup – there’s Jesse Ed Davis and Cornell Dupree. I loved them both. Jesse Ed’s touch, tone, and time floored me. His playing on Taj Mahal’s “Moving Up To Country” basically taught me how to play blues guitar. Cornell was the master of the slinky two- or three-note rhythm thing that could uplift a track or groove. I used to go see him in New York City clubs all the time, and his whole stance left an impression on me.

What is your touring gear with Rosanne – guitars, amps, and pedals?

We travel lightly, so I bring a Tele and one acoustic. Currently, I’m using the 1970 Tele I’ve had for 40 years. At this point, nothing is original on it except the body and hardware. In the ’80s, when a Strat sound was sort of required, I put a middle pickup in it. A few years ago, I put a different neck on it, and it really became a better guitar. My pedal board consists of a FX Mirage compressor, a modded Boss Tremolo TR2, a Mad Professor Little Green Wonder for grind, Boss Analog Delay DM-2 for slapback, and a Line 6 Echo Park for longer delays. We rent a Fender 410 Deville – it’s an imperfect choice, but they’re available and relatively consistent.

I’ve been using my Collings OM1 for a long time. I play it direct with an under-saddle pickup by Shertler and through the pedals and amp with a Fishman soundhole pickup. The amp fills out the sound a bit and moves it away from the under-saddle pickup thing that I hate. These things tend to require compromise but I’ve learned how to get a decent sound out it.

Where you aware of  William Bell before being asked to do production for others?

I was very much aware of William. Growing up in the ’60s and ’70s, it was hard not to be influenced by all the incredible R&B and soul music on the radio. In many ways, it was the first music I learned to play as a professional. William wrote two of the greatest soul ballads of all time, “You Don’t Miss Your Water” and “Everybody Loves A Winner.” He co-wrote one of the best blues songs of all time and his recording of “I Forgot To Be Your Lover” is a longtime favorite of mine.

How did writing with Bell differ from writing with Shawn Colvin, Marc Cohn, or Rosanne?

It wasn’t all that dissimilar. I’ve done a fair amount of collaborating over the past 30 years, so at this point I’ve approached songwriting from every conceivable angle. I still love writing tunes and challenging myself to do interesting work. Marc and I had started about three tunes before I met William. I played them for William; luckily, he dug them, so I finished them with him. For other tunes, I had some music and/or a bit of lyric and if William liked it, we’d finish lyrics together. William brought in a couple of titles, so on those we proceeded to write music and lyrics together. Rosanne and I wrote a tune for William, as well. Apart from that, he and I spent a fair amount of time getting to know each other, during which I was secretly looking for things to write about.

How hard was it to avoid nostalgia when producing an idiom with well-defined horn lines, guitar licks, and drum-and-bass patterns?

For me, it wasn’t hard at all. I’m not interested in rehashing clichés in any genre, great as they might have been. I also consider it a losing proposition in that you’ll never create music as deep and meaningful as the originals. I trusted that our DNA had enough of the language of soul music that we could honor the tradition but still create vibrant music without resorting to mimicry or some kind of post-modern deconstructionism.

Writing meaningful lyrics was also key to keeping it fresh and real. From the beginning, I knew our lyrics had to have substance.

Describe the challenges of recording a fresh take on “Born Under a Bad Sign.”

From the start, I thought it was a good idea for William to cut it because I’ve discovered that most people had no idea he and Booker actually wrote it. The question was how to do it. Albert King’s original 1967 Stax version was so definitive, and in its own way, so was Cream’s ’68 cover, that it was hard to get out from under their shadows. Plus, you have two great guitarists really burning at their peaks.

We first cut a version indebted to the original – a bit swampier, but with the original guitar/bass line. It was a perfectly respectable version, William sang it beautifully, and I even got to play some blues guitar. But at the eleventh hour, I felt it wasn’t bold enough and didn’t achieve the goal of bringing something new. Then, I had a small insight: I didn’t necessarily need to play the original line. That changed everything. Luckily, I came up with an alternate that seemed like it could soulfully carry the original melody and bring a new perspective… sort of a trans-Delta thing. I cut it with Victor Jones on drums and me playing everything else. William really dug the first version, so I had to talk him into trying it the new way. But he was gracious enough to give it a shot – and ultimately grew to dig it.

What gear did you use for this album?

A good portion of the electric guitar was my ’77 Gibson L-5, which is a great soul guitar – clean, fat, and articulate. I wanted my sound to be reminiscent of classic soul, but not imitative. On “The Three Of Me,” I played one part with the neck pickup, the other with the bridge. It worked in a Reggie Young/Bobby Womack guitar-duo kind of way.

There are also tracks on which I used a Tele or two, “Poison In The Well” was primarily my ’68 335, and there’s a two-pickup Teisco through a Gibson GA-20 for the main line on “Bad Sign.” Mostly, I used a ’60s Deluxe Reverb or Princeton Reverb, but snuck in some Fender Vibratone on the ballad “I Will Take Care Of You.”

What’s on your docket?

Rosanne and I still do a fair amount of performing with our band and as a duo. I’ve also been compiling music for a possible solo project and talking to a few artists about producing. I want to get back to record making later this year.

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

Guitarist Larry Coryell died February 19 in New York City after performing the previous night at the Iridium. He was 73 and passed away in his sleep, from heart failure.

A pioneer of jazz-rock, Coryell was noted for being comfortable in almost every style. Dubbed “the Godfather of Fusion” after introducing a new feel to electric jazz in the 1960s, he was comfortable playing anything from distortion-laden electric work to intricate lines on acoustic, often with a cutting tone and note bending that owed much to blues, rock, and country.

Born Lorenz Albert Van DeLinder III on April 2, 1943, in Galveston, Texas, Coryell grew up in Seattle, where his mother introduced him to the piano as a child. By his teens, he’d switched to guitar and was playing rock music. At the University of Washington, he studied journalism while taking private guitar lessons. By 1965, he was living in New York City and taking lessons in classical guitar. He soon began playing in Chico Hamilton’s quintet and other groups. While citing Chet Atkins and Chuck Berry as early influences, he also took cues from John Coltrane, Barney Kessel, and Wes Montgomery and was inspired by The Beatles, Byrds, and Bob Dylan. In ’66, he formed The Free Spirits, where he sang and played sitar while also serving as the group’s primary composer. Though essentially a melody-oriented/radio-friendly psychedelic band, it foreshadowed jazz/rock fusion with soloing by Coryell and sax/flute player Jim Pepper.

“When you heard Larry, you felt pure passion about the guitar and music and improvisation.”
– Sheryl Bailey

In ’67, he began playing in a quartet formed by vibraphonist Gary Burton and featuring Roy Haynes on drums and Steve Swallow on bass. Their album, Duster, proved one of Coryell’s proudest moments in part because he fully aware that he was working with heavyweights. Further gigs at the time included Jack Bruce and others as Coryell established his musical voice via two solo albums – Lady Coryell and Coryell – that mixed jazz, classical, and rock.

In ’68, he formed his own band and began collaborating with a variety of players including flutist Herbie Mann (on Memphis Underground) Miles Davis, Burton, Alphonse Mouzon, Ron Carter, Chet Baker, and others. In late ’69, he recorded Spaces with John McLaughlin, an album cited by many as embryonic in the fusion-jazz movement.

Coryell formed the Eleventh House in ’72. A fusion band that emphasized complex compositions, flashy solos, and volume, it lasted only a few years but was seen as a preeminent force in the genre. After it disbanded, Coryell focused on acoustic guitar for several years, then by the 1980s was again playing electric, in a straight jazz context.

Coryell’s final album, Barefoot Man: Sanpaku, was released in October of 2016, and on it he used just two guitars – his Gibson Super 400 and a Martin acoustic.

“I felt they were all I was going to need,” he told VG’s Willie Moseley at the time. “I chose the Super 400 for the playing ease, and the Martin is a custom prototype Larry Coryell model. It’s harder to play [because of its] wound third string… but what a sound!”

Coryell had planned a summer tour with a reformed Eleventh House, which has a new album set for release June 2.

Being a consummate pro and highly respected amongst his peers, there was a predictable outpouring in the days and weeks after Coryell’s passing.

“Larry burst on to the scene when I was still in high school and trying to figure out what went where on the guitar,” said Grant Geissman, a first-call L.A. session guitarist. “He had it together – straddling genres, playing fiery, interesting solos, and always playing at the top of his game. I can’t believe he’s gone, but he will forever remain an inspiration.”

“I first heard of Larry in the mid ’60s, during the explosion of what was then called ‘jazz rock,’” added Mike Anthony. “Larry had an avant-garde voice in the genre. I wasn’t that into it, but I considered it my duty to be open-minded and versatile. I did enjoy Larry’s fluency and commitment to the style, and got to see him on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.

“What is most notable to me was the evolution of Larry’s playing to modern bop,” Anthony added. “I was listening to the jazz station one day and heard a guitar solo I admired, thinking, ‘That Chick Corea concept is the way I like to play.’ Then the announcer said it was Larry Coryell.”

“Larry was on a very short list of jazz guitarists who are the best of the best…”
– Jay Graydon

VG contributor Jim Carlton was a longtime friend of Coryell; the two were trying to coordinate slots for Carlton on Coryell’s tour this spring.

“Larry and I first connected because of our mutual friendship with Gibson product designer and clinician Andy Nelson, someone Larry admired tremendously,” said Carlton. “He even used one of Andy’s guitar exercises on his first instructional record. Larry took friendships seriously and worked at maintaining them. I received dozens of calls from him, regardless of where he was in the world. He lived in Orlando because of its climate and international airport, but considered himself a world citizen. Europe appreciated modern jazz and Larry’s innovative brilliance, so he spent a great deal of time there.

“On one June afternoon in 2007, Larry was doing a book signing near Roger McGuinn’s house and I implored Roger to attend,” Carlton added. “I said, ‘One of the world’s greatest guitarists will be appearing five minutes from your house.’ When Larry noticed him in the audience, he turned to the back of his book, Improvising: My Life in Music, and read about Roger’s composition ‘Eight Miles High’ and how it influenced him. Roger was surprised and stunned. They bonded even further six months later, in Germany, when they found themselves as serendipitous seat mates on a train.

“Roger recently told me, ‘It made me feel good that people from the real jazz community appreciated my tribute to John Coltrane, and that ‘Eight Miles High’ was an inspiration to Larry.”

“I was so saddened,” said Harvie Swartz, Coryell’s preferred bassist for sessions and gigs in New York City. “I became acquainted with his playing while a freshman at Berklee from an album with Chico Hamilton, The Dealer. He really was the first jazz guitarist to play with a rock sound; he bridged the gap with rock and jazz and helped start a new concept of music – the tradition being carried on by Mike Stern, John Scofield, John Abercrombie, etc.

“Later in my career, I got to work with him in duo, trio, and quartet,” Swartz added. “It was always an amazing experience and he was such a focused, serious musician. I hope that the public will look at his incredible discography and all the great music he produced over his distinguished career.”

“When you heard Larry, you felt pure passion about the guitar and music and improvisation,” added Sheryl Bailey, the innovative jazz guitarist. “As a teen, I was curious about this mysterious ‘jazz guitar’ music after having been a metal shredder. I’d heard Sonny Rollins and Bird, and was so mesmerized, but intimidated by this enchanting music. The LP Twin House changed my life. It had two acoustics, played by Larry with Phillip Catherine, and I’m still touched by it. Larry was the perfect crossover of jazz and rock – down-and-dirty blues with harmonic sophistication and bebop technique. At the time, it was the inspiration I sought as a guitarist playing music innovated by saxophonists.

“A few years later, I was able to see Larry and Emily Remler play in Pittsburgh, and on many other occasions when he visited my hometown,” Bailey added. “I was introduced to the Joe Zawinal classic ‘Mercy Mercy Mercy’ from a soulful, rocking version in which Larry played chorus after chorus. Those were my early influences as a guitarist and improvisor; I then knew that was the path I wanted to follow. Because what was cooler and more alive and joyous than that?”

“Larry was always moving forward as a musician and composer. He gave 100 percent at every gig and it was such an honor to play with him.”
– Vic Juris

“Larry was on a very short list of jazz guitarists who are the best of the best – he always played tasty stuff with such great notes and altered scale mode selections,” said Jay Graydon, studio guitarist and producer known for playing the solo on Steely Dan’s “Peg” and co-writing “Turn Your Love Around” for George Benson, “After the Love is Gone” for Earth, Wind and Fire, and producing and playing on Al Jarreau’s “We’re in this Love Together.”

“I was a senior in high school and attended a concert by Larry’s group, Foreplay, at Fairleigh Dickinson University in 1971,” said Vic Juris, an in-demand jazz guitarist who was close to Coryell personally and professionally. “It was a life-changing event for me, and to this day I’ve never heard any musician kill like Larry did that night. Changed my life forever. Little did I know that in another 10 years we’d tour as a duet; here I was, a neighborhood kid from a blue-collar town in New Jersey, getting such an opportunity.

“Larry was always moving forward as a musician and composer,” Juris added. “He gave 100 percent at every gig and it was such an honor to play with him. I will miss my dear friend.”

Coryell is survived by his wife, Tracey, two daughters, two sons, and six grandchildren.

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

On August 16, 1966, the Beatle-esque guitar riff that opens “Last Train To Clarksville” crackled out of radios across America for the first time. The debut single of the made-for-TV band The Monkees, the song shot to #1, matching the ratings (and timing) of the band’s new network television show. It also marked the hit-song debut of Arkansas native Louie Shelton. The young guitarist had been steadily working his way up L.A.’s session ladder; after “Last Train,” his ear for hit-worthy tones, hooks, and rhythms put him in the top tier of the city’s studio and TV musicians – and kept him there for more than two decades.

From Barbara Streisand to the Jackson Five, Boz Scaggs (Silk Degrees) to Marvin Gaye – to Neil Diamond, Lionel Richie (“Hello”), Smokey Robinson, Bill Cosby (TV), Seals And Crofts (as producer), “The Partridge Family” (where Louie brought in a young Larry Carlton as second guitarist) and many other pop icons, Shelton’s credits land him among the most-recorded musicians of pop music’s ’60s and ’70s heyday, and on the roster of the legendary Wrecking Crew.

“I went to L.A. knowing I wanted to do sessions,” he recalls. “I played steady club gigs in Little Rock, and later in and around Albuquerque. Glen Campbell was from Arkansas, too, and also ended up playing clubs in Albuquerque a little before I got there. By the time I moved to L.A., he was there and already established in the session thing. He got me subbing on a few things, but it didn’t really lead anywhere. We were good friends, though. I eventually played on his records, and his TV show.”

Shelton was balancing a busy demo schedule with club work in Las Vegas when he began playing demos for writers Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart. The pair enlisted him when they got the call to write for The Monkees, and Louie was off and running.

“I was a different kind of player than the older Wrecking Crew guys,” he recalls. They were readers – they could nail anything you put in front of them. I only read chord charts. And my influences were different. I’d played all the Steve Cropper, Curtis Mayfield, Scotty Moore stuff – I came from that. So I’d come up with intros and fills. If I heard a lick, I wasn’t afraid to play it. Other producers started working that way more, and the demand for that kind of player grew.”

Shelton began his session career with only a ’66 Telecaster and a Super Reverb.

“That was such a great guitar,” he says. “The front pickup had one of the best jazz sounds I ever heard.” As sessions picked up he added a Gibson ES-335 and ES-175, among others.

“I started doing sessions on the Super Reverb, but they kept wanting me to get that break-up, and it was way too loud. I finally got a Fender Princeton Reverb that I still use all the time. It was modified to be like a Mesa Boogie.”

By ’96, with the L.A. session scene cooling and the city feeling “too big,” Louie moved to Nashville and spent nearly a decade there. Since 1986, home base has been Australia’s Gold Coast, where he’s a fixture at the region’s many festivals and clubs, produces projects, and records his own albums.

Shelton’s latest CD is Bluesland, on his own New World Jazz & Blues label. It features guest vocals by his old pal Scaggs and longtime Wrecking Crew mate, the late Leon Russell. Throughout, the unmistakable tone, phrasing, and pocket-perfect time make two things clear; Louie is still at the top of his game, and his influence on guitarists riding the jazz-tinged pop wave of the ’70s and early ’80s was profound. Bluesland is a sampler of the just-breaking-up tones, ghosted bends, and melodic cool that inspired countless players and reflects much of what Shelton loves about the Gold Coast.

“We have a lot of big festivals, with lots of blues and jazz… that’s the best fit for me, and they’re always packed. The clubs are huge, most with casinos, and a place upstairs for music. People here still love live music. It’s a great scene. I produce independent artists, too, and like me, they can make a living if they learn to market and use the internet. The ’net is a great learning tool for musicians, too. So it’s not like the old days, but it’s good.”

Shelton’s original Princeton Reverb still gets heavy use, and his go-to guitars are a Mexican Tele and a Gibson ES-339. He’ll occasionally employ a Stratocaster, or an archtop like his Mark Lacy Louie Shelton model.

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

In 1972, one of Britain’s best bands, Mott The Hoople, still hadn’t made any impact on the charts. Its record company, Island Records, was getting impatient. Then, a future rock legend walked into London’s Olympic Studios.

“David Bowie said, ‘I hear you guys are on the verge of splitting up, but I’ve got a song you might like,’” recalls Mick Ralphs. “Then he played ‘All The Young Dudes’ for us, and we immediately knew it would be a hit.”

Born March 31, 1944, in Herefordshire, England, Ralphs started playing in bands as a teenager, and joining Mott in 1969 was his first big break. Fronted by the popular singer/songwriter Ian Hunter, the group became one of the leaders of the glam rock movement.

By 1973, Ralphs was becoming disillusioned with Mott’s musical direction, and steered his energy to a new group with singer Paul Rogers, drummer Simon Kirke, and bassist Boz Burrell. Dubbed Bad Company, all of its members had previously played in bands that achieved noteworthy recognition. Its self-titled debut album was a tremendous success and established the band as one of the world’s biggest musical attractions.
The original quartet disbanded in 1982, then re-formed four years later without Rogers. Ralphs stayed on until ’99 then returned in 2008. Another venture, The Mick Ralphs Blues Band, formed in 2011 with singer Adam Bonner, second guitarist Jim Maving, bass player Dicky Baldwin, and drummer Damon Sawyer. Its first proper album, If It Ain’t Broke, is a hard-driving mix of covers and originals. Unfortunately, Ralphs suffered a stroke three days after the final show of Bad Company’s 2016 tour (and following this interview). He is currently undergoing physical therapy in a British hospital. 

“We want Mick to fully focus on his recovery, and we have made the decision as a band to wind things up,” Baldwin said in a statement, adding that Ralphs was grateful to fans for their good wishes.

“I’d seen all the Kings live – Albert, Freddie, and B.B. – and they were all my heroes in the day, but Albert was my favorite.”

What was the first record you heard where the guitar really caught your attention?

Oh, the song that really inspired me to want to play was “Green Onions” by Booker T. and The MGs. Besides the groove, the guitar playing on it is really nasty. That record really got me into rhythm-and-blues music, along with soul – the sort of music I really liked at the time, and still do.

Around the same time, in 1962, the Beatles released their first record in England, “Love Me Do.” As a teenager, how did the Beatlemania phenomenon affect you?

I actually saw the Beatles play live before they were big, and thought they were really good. It was at a little club in Carnaby Walls. I thought it was really cool the way George, Paul, and John were in the front line, and Ringo was at an angle at the back of the stage, so he could see everybody and they could see him.

Do you recall what kind of guitar Harrison was playing? Was it the black Gretsch Country Gentleman?

It might have been, or the Duo Jet. In those days, it was hard to buy American guitars in England, but you could get them in Germany, which is where McCartney got his Höfner violin bass. Also, because they were from Liverpool and played Hamburg, which are both big seaports, they’d buy stuff off American sailors – guitars, records, stuff like that. As they say, they stole the march on everybody, because they were the first to really get into the American R&B. Their first album was almost all covers, as was the Stones’ first.

Songs on those early albums by the Stones, Yardbirds, or Cream showed composer credits with names like Ellas McDaniel, Chester Burnett, and McKinley Morganfield – performers who’d always used the pseudonyms Bo Diddley, Howlin’ Wolf, and Muddy Waters.

I know. Great names, weren’t they? Years ago, I did an interview at a radio station in Chicago, and they asked, “Who were your influences?” I mentioned a few then added, “Muddy Waters.” The bloke said, “Where is that?” (laughs) I said, “It’s a person, from right here in Chicago – a blues writer, singer, and guitar player.” 

British musicians took to that music more readily than the Americans did. They put their stamp on it and sent it back to America in versions by the Stones and other British bands.

So, when did you seek out the original versions?

Well, you couldn’t really get those records in England until the embargo was lifted in the late ’60s. Then you could buy American imprints. The first time I went to America in 1970 or ’71, I’d go to all the record shops, buying all the blues and soul albums I could find – Otis Redding, stuff like that. I’d read all I could about the artists, but information was not as easily available. If you wanted to talk to someone who had a really good album, they’d try to explain to you who was playing on it, but it was all a bit of an unknown quantity, which made it quite exciting.

The new album has an authentic feel, like a band playing a small club.

Yeah, the whole idea was to capture what we sound like in a club. I don’t like to waste a lot of time in the studio. Get in, lay it down, and nail it as soon as you can, you know? We play mostly small venues, but it’s good for me to keep my hands in and play songs I like. It’s all good fun.

There are two Freddie King tunes – “Same Old Blues” and “Going Down.” Was he was one of your heroes?

Yes, he was. But I was also a huge fan of Albert King, who I saw many years ago when he was on the same bill as Mott The Hoople at the Fillmore West. I went backstage, and was just in awe of him. He was a huge guy, maybe six and half feet tall. I’d seen all the Kings live – Albert, Freddie, and B.B. – and they were all my heroes in the day, but Albert was my favorite. Those Stax records had such a great groove and feel. I also had a Flying V like Albert played.

What gear did you use on the album?

These days, I’m mainly playing my ’02 Les Paul reissue and ’57 Fender Esquire, which is a wonderful instrument. 

Do you keep a collection of guitars?

Probably 25. I haven’t counted lately, but I used to have a lot more.

Any particular favorites?

A vintage Gibson Everly Brothers, which is great. Also my ’58 Les Paul Junior and a ’59 Epiphone Coronet. Most of the others are reissues or new-ish. If I find a new-ish guitar I like that sounds good and plays good, I’ll buy it rather than spend thousands on something that might not be as good. 

There are good guitars coming out these days, Fenders especially. We all love vintage guitars, but to me, the prices are ridiculous when many cost around $200 when they were made. I’ve had vintage Les Pauls, but they go for silly money. You have rich people paying $300,000 for a Les Paul or Jimi Hendrix guitar. You know it’s just going to be hanging on a wall somewhere and never get played, which is sad, really.

What’s in your typical effects/amp setup?

I like going straight to an amp – no pedals, nothing, just right into the amp and make it work. I’ve played that way since I started. On club gigs with the blues band, I use a little Holland combo that’s based on an old Fender with two 10″ speakers and about 50 watts output – a bit like a Victoria or Matchless. It’s perfectly adequate for the club gigs, but for bigger shows with Bad Company, I use 100-watt Marshalls.

What was behind the formation of Mott The Hoople?

Guy Stevens was a talent scout for our label, Island Records, and he wanted to form a British version of Bob Dylan and The Band. We went along with it to a degree, but kept our own identity. Mott went through a lot of changes trying to get acceptance. We weren’t really a glam band – we evolved into that because of our association with David Bowie. When we started, we were more like a punk band, a really hard, heavy rock band.

Ian played amazing piano on Mott’s records, especially “All The Way From Memphis.”

He was a big fan of Jerry Lee Lewis. I did a couple of tours with him a few years ago and he still really rocks out on the old piano. When he auditioned for Mott The Hoople, he didn’t play guitar at all. He only started that with us.

Mott was a very successful band, yet you left to help form Bad Company, which ultimately became much bigger.

Well, when I was in Mott the Hoople, Paul and Simon were in Free. We were signed to the same label, and we would go on tours together. So I got friendly with both… well, all of the band, really. I remember talking with Paul about songs, and I said, “I’ve got these songs I’ve written. Ian doesn’t want to do them, or he doesn’t feel he can sing them.” I later played them for Paul, and he said, “Well, I can sing that” and “I can sing that…”  I said, “After we finish touring, let’s do some writing and work together on a project.”

So, it came together as easily as that?

Well, I didn’t actually intend to form a group at that time. I was still in Mott The Hoople when Simon dropped in Paul’s house one day. We had just been chucking around songs, and Simon said, “Do you mind if I play drums on them?” We said, “Great!” I immediately said to Paul, “All we need now is to look for a bass player.” We tried out a lot of people before we ended up with Boz.

Did Bad Company offer more artistic freedom than Mott?

It was really just more my cup of tea because it was a blues-rock band. Paul and Simon were also into blues, so we had common ground, whereas Mott had become a glam band, which was groovy in Britain at the time, but I wanted to get into something simpler – more rock-and-roll, less flashy.

Its first album was a big hit, and songs like “Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love” had a very underproduced, almost demo-like quality.  

Yes, on the first two we were keen on keeping it simple, bare, and minimalistic, so it would sound like a live album. Actually, a lot of it was live because we’d all been in situations in studios where people said, “Oh, let’s overdub this. Let’s overdub that.” So, Paul and I made sure to keep the songs in their bare-boned state, and only add what was really necessary. A lot of the backing tracks were done quickly because we didn’t see the point in spending months in the studio. We just wanted to get in there and lay down the tracks quickly, as long as they sounded good.

How does Led Zeppelin fit in the picture?

Peter Grant was Zeppelin’s manager, and he managed us. Then we got on the same label, Swan Song, and got to know all of the Zeppelins as individuals. They became great friends, really. I’m still friends with Jimmy and Robert, though I haven’t seen Jimmy for awhile.

What special memories do you have of those first American tours?

Oh, they were great. It was all a runaway success that we weren’t really prepared for.  It was all a bit of a shock, but we went along for the ride because I remember saying to Paul, “This will never last, so let’s enjoy it while it does,” but here we are 40 years later, still touring.

Who were some of the best-known bands Bad Company toured with in the ’70s?

The first time we came to America we supported Edgar Winter’s White Trash, who were great. The next tour we were headlining, but in the Mott days we toured with Traffic and Mountain. Those were great days. The Humble Pie were up and coming, and it was a really good time for bands.

What did you think of the emergence of punk in England in 1977, when people like John Lydon referred to the older British bands as dinosaurs?

Well, by that time, Bad Company was well-established and we were also spending a lot of time in America, where the punk thing didn’t really take off. So, it didn’t really affect us at all. I think their comments were really aimed more at those self-indulgent prog-rock bands I never really liked anyway. Punk was the antithesis of that. It stirred things up, getting back to more simplistic stuff which, I think, was a good thing.

The music business has changed so much since the ’70s, when Bad Company was distributed by a major label selling millions of albums, to your now being on a small indie.

It is different, but that’s fine. These days, people don’t actually buy albums. You sort of rent the music online. In my day, it was nice to save up to buy an album you really liked and to physically hold it and read the sleeve notes while it was playing. For kids today, music has become very transient. Bands come and go much quicker than they used to. I don’t see any long-lasting bands, but change is inevitable, I’m afraid. When I started in music, it was a strange hobby to have. It was more of an exclusive club, where now everybody is into music because, with the internet and downloads, it’s all so instant.

Are there three or four Bad Company songs you tend to favor after all these years?

“Can’t Get Enough” has to be one because I wrote that in the Mott The Hoople days. I also like “Ready For Love,” another one I wrote. “Shooting Star,” which was written by Paul, is another favorite, as was “Bad Company,” which Paul and Simon wrote. I mean, they’re all good. They still stand up, which is great, and half the reason we still tour. The thing is now we can do a whole set of songs that everybody knows without having to say, “Here’s a track from the new album,” because we haven’t done one for years. We all live in different countries, so we don’t see each other that much.

You’ve been in two bands many believe should be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame…

Well, I think we should be in there, because as you say, having been in two big bands of the ’70s, it would be a nice accomplishment. I don’t really know how they go about the vetting process. If you’d like, put in a good word for me!

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

Lungs burning, sweat soaking their shaggy hair in the Arizona sun as miles passed beneath their feet, Dennis Dunaway and Vince Furnier shared endorphin highs along with an appreciation for surrealist art and deep cuts by the Beatles.

Stars on the track and cross-country teams at Cortez High School, both were imports to Phoenix; Dunaway’s family moved from Oregon when he was four years old, Furnier’s came from Detroit. After meeting in art class in the fall of 1962, they’d hang out and discuss whatever was “cool” – music, television, art, movies. “We wanted to be connected to that big world out there,” Dunaway recalls. “Vince always knew what was hip.”

Being letter winners in their sports, during Furnier’s junior year they talked the Lettermen’s Club into including them as a spoof Beatles act for the annual talent show. They enlisted a fellow runner along with a real guitarist (to create a sense of realism!), then took the stage dressed in warm-ups and wearing ratty wigs while singing sports-themed lyrics set to Beatles songs. 

The act, called Earwigs, was an absolute smash, and while they were amused by the attention, the boys had bigger plans. Wanting to play for real, they bought instruments, learned a handful of songs by the Beatles and Rolling Stones, and a few months later performed at a school dance. 

So went the baby steps of what would become the pioneering “shock rock” act known as Alice Cooper.  

By late 1965, the band had changed its name to The Spiders, ramped up the theatrics and stage decor, and began to extend its reach to regional audiences. After learning another band was using the name, in ’67 they became The Nazz. The gigs got better and eventually included major L.A. clubs, sharing bills with Buffalo Springfield, the Doors, and others. Eventually, they grew weary of confused cross-references to Todd Rundgren’s group and in ’68 came closer to their artistic vision with the adoption of the name Alice Cooper.

From the band’s beginning, Dunaway played a crucial role in developing the Alice sound, helping compose the hook-heavy licks that have placed “I’m Eighteen,” “Is It My Body,” “Under My Wheels,” “Elected,” and “School’s Out” among rock’s most esteemed tracks.

Today, Dunaway remains active in music and life. His jam jones are fulfilled in Blue Coupe, a band he formed with Blue Oyster Cult co-founders Joe and Albert Bouchard. And in 2015, he related the many fascinating tales of Alice Cooper in his book, Snakes! Guillotines! Electric Chairs! We recently spoke with him to learn more about his personal story and the instruments that helped him create Cooper tunes.

What spurred your appreciation for music? 

When I was very young, my family would get together on Saturday nights to play guitars and sing songs by artists like Bob Wills and Hank Williams. Even then, I saw the enjoyment that music brought to people. And whenever we’d take drives in the car, dad wanted the radio on, but he listened only to country stations. I liked a lot of that music, but every so often I’d ask if we could tune-in Wolfman Jack. I’d hear that howl and be in rock heaven! I later fell deeply in love with do-wop and rock and roll. Elvis was the embodiment of that excitement.

Was there a particular event that nudged you beyond being a casual listener? 

There was! In 1963, I caught a surprise performance by Duane Eddy and the Rebels at a theater in Phoenix. When I saw that raucous band with the sax, the drummer yelling “Go, man, go!” and that low, twanging guitar, I wanted to create that kind of excitement. Then and there, I knew I was going to start a band – I didn’t even think about what instrument to play!

What trained your ear and interest on the bass?

I loved Paul McCartney’s ability to change rhythmic patterns within songs while keeping a natural flow, but I really enjoyed imitating the Stones and Animals, who were imitating American music that hadn’t gotten much attention on U.S. radio. I fell in love with how the bass moved through those chugging R&B guitars in that thundering blend that moved the whole room, and how the bass and kick drum hit you in the chest.

In 1964 came the Beatles, then the Stones. Bill Wyman was the first guy I emulated. That led to the Kinks, the Zombies, and the Who. Then we discovered the Yardbirds, and while everyone else was drooling over the innovative guitar players, I was inspired by Paul Samwell-Smith’s progressive bass style. His patterns would change completely for various songs, yet it was still blues-rooted. That freedom of exploration and invention set my chickens free! I started forging my own style based on that.

What influenced the band as its music advanced?

I’ve always been a conceptual thinker, influenced by people other than musicians. Vince and I loved pop-art movements like surrealism, dadaism, and we later noticed things like the eerie, futuristic sound track for Forbidden Planet, Morton Subotnick’s Silver Apples Of The Moon, and other electronic music pioneers like Karlheinz Stockhausen, who did “Gesang Der Jünglinge” (“Song of The Youths”). Those avant-garde sound collages were as much an influence as any musical scale or riff; I thought in terms of lyrical statements, visual impact, and unique sounds in a way that would impact people, emotionally. It was a complex approach, but a lot of fun. And we had five guys who were game to pursue it. The group’s collaborative willingness to go way out there is what gave us our uniqueness. We were so deep into it that we had little time or interest to look for outside ideas, though in our work you can find influences from the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, the Beatles, and the Who. Sticking to it required strong chemistry. 

As the crusader for originality, I always tried to alter those influences into something new. That was my goal for our music, and to that end I had control over the bass parts; I began with improv then I’d reel it in until it did what the song needed. 

Were there quirks to the way you composed bass parts?

I’ve always liked to begin creating a part without knowing chord changes. That way, I’ll stumble across notes I might not have used otherwise. I love when a mistake works.

Describe your playing style.

I like to play counter melodies to the lead vocals, which often makes it harder for me to sing while playing. Still, I keep a close eye on the vocals, bass drum, and guitar patterns – in that order – and let the bass intertwine those elements. Neal and I were always keen on complementing each other, musically – lots of Gene-Krupa-style floor toms with supporting bass, or melodic, up-the-neck interludes with bell tones on the cymbals. “School’s Out” is one example. We wanted a militant, Bolero feel on the choruses and a little-kid feel on the “no more pencils” sections. “Halo of Flies” is a marathon of that approach. Sometimes, I follow drums specifically, or I might do something independent that complements whatever else is going on I deem as most important to reinforce. Sometimes, I’ll stop everybody and make the bass part dictate what they should play.

That’s the magic of music – the possibilities are limitless. You can write a song while walking your dog. A song can start with a bass pattern, guitar riff, the telephone ringing, or the fact you can’t think of a word that rhymes.

The other big factor, going back to that excitement of Duane Eddy, is that I’m lively onstage, and I’m a physically aggressive player. I enjoy playing hard, and I sweat rock and roll sweat!

As teenagers intent of forming an actual band, how did you and Vince connect with the rest of the players?

Glen Buxton was part of our Beatles spoof; Vince, John Speer, and I told the Lettermen we’d fake playing guitars, but we still wanted someone who could actually play an instrument. We didn’t know Glen, but heard he played guitar. Glen had a buddy named John Tatum, who could also play – and get beer. So of course he was in the band. 

Because the show was a huge success, the Earwigs became the adorable pests of Cortez and we “played” everywhere on campus – the cafeteria during lunch, in study hall while students were trying to do homework. Vince and I worked on the school newspaper, and it didn’t hurt that we weaseled-in stories about the Earwigs’ early days in Cesspool, England (laughs).

But then you actually started to play for real…

It didn’t take long to acquire instruments and learn to play well enough to become the house band at the VIP Club, which was a popular teen hangout. When we changed our name to The Spiders, we underwent an overnight transformation. We were a hit! John Tatum left, so we got Michael Bruce, who we’d seen perform at a local battle of the bands. He learned our cover songs in a rush but also pushed us to start writing originals, so Vince and I wrote “Don’t Blow Your Mind,” which made it to #11 on KFIF in Tucson. We were fresh out of high school, and because of radio, television, and our knack for promoting ourselves, we became known throughout the Southwest. Our show incorporated theatrical props and we kept pushing boundaries, becoming unpredictable to the point of threatening, yet audiences knew we were nothing but a ton of unbridled fun. Our shows were bold and increasingly abstract, and so was our music.

How well did your tastes in music mesh with those of Vince?  

We were all into the obvious hitmakers of the time – the Beach Boys, Jackie Wilson, Little Stevie Wonder. Vince liked Burt Bacharach, John Barry’s James Bond soundtracks, and the Pink Panther theme. I favored do-wop, rock, and novelty songs like “Please Mr. Custer,” “The Battle Of New Orleans,” and “Surfin’ Bird.” Then West Side Story became our big favorite. Mostly, we were looking for cool things that most people didn’t know about. While 45-rpm singles were the norm, we favored B-sides and album cuts.

How did the band decide on individual roles?

Vince could never keep track of his belongings, so we knew he couldn’t be relied on to keep track of any equipment other than maybe a harmonica and a tambourine (laughs). But he could learn lyrics fast, so he was the singer. John Speer chose drums, and bass is what was left. I got a bass and dove in, heart and soul. Glen Buxton taught me how to play blues patterns. He’d often say, “Feel is the most important thing,” which later evolved into, “Never let the correct notes get in your way.”

How would you describe the band’s first efforts?

British Invasion all the way. Our goal was to learn a few new songs each week, so nobody would get tired of seeing us, so we learned almost every song by the Animals, Rolling Stones, Kinks, Pretty Things, the Who, and the Yardbirds. Paul Butterfield Blues Band was big, too; stretching out “East-West” led us into the wonderful world of improvisation. 

It helped a lot that we had connections with local DJs who would give us promo singles before songs were officially released on the radio; we played things like “19th Nervous Breakdown” before people could buy the 45. And, to give the illusion we were doing originals, we played a lot of deep album cuts and B-sides. When we opened for the Yardbirds in September of ’66, we did some of their new songs, naively thinking we were doing a tribute. But it turned out some of our followers thought the Yardbirds were doing our songs (laughs)!

In ’68, you went for the big-time when the band moved to L.A.

Well, our original music had become extremely avant-garde by the time we moved to Hollywood and changed our name to The Nazz. We were obsessed with making a shocking artistic statement – visually, lyrically, and musically. Good or bad, we believed that forging a style was worth sacrificing a few followers. John Speer didn’t agree; he thought we were alienating our following and wasting our success. So, he got frustrated and quit. Coincidentally, Neal Smith had just quit his band in Berkeley and was staying at our house. Michael, Glen, and I had jammed with him, so we knew he was willing to explore uncharted musical territory with the same commitment. At that point, the chemistry was complete. We dove in and created the songs that got the attention of Frank Zappa, who recorded our first album, Pretties For You, which was a great abstract statement but didn’t put food on the table. So, after it barely made the charts, we decided to write songs that were more relatable.

But that didn’t mean you backed away from what made you unique. A lot of your stuff still had a pretty dark theme.

The dark element actually started back in high school, and horror movies were a big influence; Vince and I saw three films together – The Tell Tale Heart, Premature Burial, and The Pit and the Pendulum – that inspired the theme for the Earwigs’ first real show – The Pit and The Pendulum Halloween dance at Cortez in ’64. Vince and I made giant spiderwebs, tombstones, coffins, and a friend’s father built a guillotine – at a time when the Beatles were still shaking their moptops.

My lyrics for “Black Juju,” “Luney Tune,” and “Killer” were inspired by the tone and mood of old movies along with Edgar Allen Poe’s dialog. Our first “dark” song was “Fields of Regret,” and when we played it live, our Alice creation would take on this dark persona. The people who hadn’t run for the exits loved it, and I saw that as the direction to pursue. As our songwriting abilities improved, we became better equipped to achieve that goal. I’ve always favored minor chords and odd lyrical subjects, so I was the dark element of the group – Vince nicknamed me “Dr. Dreary.” I summoned the darkest tone I could muster when I wrote “Black Juju” for the Alice character.

What was your first bass?

It was an Airline from Montgomery Ward, and had a very short neck. But it sounded decent and the action was good, so it wasn’t bad for learning. I bought it in September of ’64, and when the Spiders evolved toward a scruffier image, I hack-sawed the treble horn and sanded some of the finish. Then, when The Nazz tuned in and dropped out, I painted it fluorescent colors – it still looks like it’s been in an explosion in a psychedelic factory – and switched the pickup to some off-brand deal.

The band had an accident one day on the L.A. freeway. Our van, loaded with equipment, rolled three times in rush hour traffic and slid to a stop upside-down. Miraculously, we were all okay, but Neal’s drums were smashed and the Airline’s neck was broken. I took it to a music store in L.A. and the repairman turned out to be Barney Kessel, the guitar legend! I felt guilty handing him my pathetic beginner’s bass, especially since he made a derogatory remark about the pickguard, which I’d made out of an optical illusion that had circular patterns that spun whenever it moved. I guess he could tell by my shabby clothes and how skinny I was that I was flat broke and couldn’t afford a new bass, so he said he’d try to fix it using a metal pin when he re-glued it. When I came back to get it, I paid him and he told me not to come back because the pickguard gave him a headache (laughs)! 

What was your earliest amp rig?

A Fender tweed that my cousin’s husband loaned to me. He’d used it when he played pedal-steel in a country band in Oregon. It wasn’t a bass amp, so it couldn’t keep up in a rock band with two guitars. But then my dad helped me build an amp – mom did the vinyl covering for the cabinet. It was okay, but we didn’t know about matching ohms or anything, so it was a bit mushy-sounding. Then I bought a Fender Bassman.

What’s the story behind the Gibson EB-O “Frog Bass,” which now resides at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Museum?

I bought that in 1969. I used model-car paint to spray it Emerald Green with a silver undercoat, then glued mirrors and Swarovski crystal rhinestones all over the body. I added a Fender Precision pickup in the bridge position. Cindy, my girlfriend at the time and now my wife of many years, always thought I looked like a frog when I smiled, so she gave it the nickname.

For most Alice Cooper recordings, you used a black 1970 Fender Jazz with some of that personal decorative style…

Yeah, the Gibson sounded great onstage, but in the studio we had trouble with the boominess of its E string. So, we rented a ’70 Jazz with a maple neck and block inlays, which I liked because I could see them when the lights went down during our shows. I’d resisted getting a Fender because so many people used them, but it proved more reliable, so I glued mirrors and crystals all over it and later named it the Billion Dollar Bass. It has a DiMarzio P-Bass neck pickup that, with my hard picking, gives it a growly tone. I searched for years trying to find someone to re-fret it because replacing the binding on the neck was such a challenge. Then, a friend took me to Tommy Doyle’s workshop, where I met Jimmy Millenchuck, who did an amazing job – he still has the old frets framed on the wall of his shop. Tommy Doyle was Les Paul’s guitar repairman, and while I was there, Les called on the speakerphone and complimented Tommy on some adjustment he’ done on a guitar. After he hung up, Tommy laughed and said, “I’ve been working with him for a lot of years and that’s the first time he’s ever complimented me!”  

Another of your Jazz basses is on display at the Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix.

There was a stretch when we suffered a rash of stolen equipment, so I bought that as a backup. It’s also a 1970, but it’s white, and I used it with LaBella flat-wounds for ballads like “Hello Hurray” and songs that required smooth slides, like “Billion Dollar Babies.”

And your third ’70 Jazz is finished a funky green…

Yes. I liked the white Jazz so much I bought another just like it. It was white until 1976, when I had it painted fluorescent Lime Green for the Billion Dollar Babies Battle Axe shows. The neck-position EMG pickup gives it a rounder tone. I once loaned it to “Rockin’ Reggie ”Vinson, who was at the Record Plant in New York recording with John Lennon for the Rock and Roll album. It’s on “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” “Stand By Me,” “Peggy Sue,” and “Bring It On Home To Me”/“Send Me Some Lovin.”’

Given your influences, it’s probably not all that odd that you have a 1984 20th Anniversary Special Edition Höfner Beatle Bass…

Höfner asked me to endorse the Beatles bass, and in the discussion asked what changes might make it appeal to more players. I suggested an adjustable bridge, and they had me meet their production guy, who seemed insulted. He said the bass was “as perfect as a Stradivarius!” They gave me two fancy versions made with decades-aged wood in exchange for me doing an ad for them. I later traded one for a Teac reel-to-reel four-track recorder, but I still have the Anniversary model. It’s great for coming up with parts I wouldn’t normally gravitate to. It’s bubbly. I played a Höfner that belonged to the Cowsills on the Alice Cooper group’s second album, Easy Action; “Shoe Salesman” and “Laughing at Me” are bubbly.

How did you end up working with the Fender Custom Shop to build the replica of the Billion Dollar Bass?

When we found out that Alice Cooper was going to be inducted to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2011, I approached them about doing a signature model. Thinking they must get thousands of requests every year, I thought, “I better pitch something memorable.” So I suggested building a Billion Dollar Bass covered with real diamonds, and for the night of our induction ceremony it should be insured for $1 billion (laughs)! To my surprise, they flew me out to meet their team. 

Master Builder Paul Waller makes exact replicas of my original – every scratch is duplicated. I play my replica all the time and it sounds and plays every bit as great as the original. The Fender team and the Custom Shop are amazing. 

You still gig a lot. What’s your approach toward physical health and keeping up with demands of playing live? 

I’ve always watched my diet and practiced moderation. I eat fish and eggs, but avoid red meat. I favor fresh veggies – organic whenever possible. I work out, swim, and walk the dogs. I don’t do drugs and I rarely have a drink before I play – I get my rush from playing music.

In the mid ’90s, your life was a bit limited while you dealt with Crohn’s Disease…

Yeah, it caused a lot of pain for a lot of years – got so bad my diet was down to soup and noodles. But, since my surgery in 1997, it’s been under control.

How did Blue Coupe come together and what is its musical focus?

In 1972, Blue Öyster Cult toured with the Alice Cooper group and we’ve been friends ever since. Occasionally, we’d jam or write songs and record demos for fun. Then, on one of the final weekends of CBGB’s in New York City, I found myself onstage with Joe and Albert. There was a guy in the audience who owned a club in the Poconos, and he approached us with an offer we couldn’t refuse. Before we knew it, without any rehearsals, we played three sets for an enthusiastic crowd at his resort and had so much fun we decided to continue.

Since then, we’ve played opera houses in England, France, Corsica, and the Thousand Islands, in upstate New York. We toured with the Animals and Steve Cropper, played to millions in the Halloween Parade in New York City, and even played at Lincoln Center. We also opened for Alice on several occasions. We have two CDs – Tornado On The Tracks with special guests Robby Krieger and Goldy McJohn, and Million Miles More, which was mixed by Warren Huart and Jack Douglas and with special guests Alice Cooper and Buck Dharma.

Tish and Snooky Bellomo sing backup vocals. They’re known worldwide for their Manic Panic hair dye company. We all love music and enjoy meeting fans, so we’re ready to play anywhere that makes us another offer we can’t refuse.

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