Tag: features

The latest album from guitarist Mark Elf shot to the top of the jazz charts, but the route to success for Mark Elf Returns 2014 wasn’t so easy.

“I was supposed to record in December of 2012, but Superstorm Sandy hit; my house and many others were flooded. I lost everything on the first floor and spent eight or nine months fixing it.”

Post-clean-up, Elf turned to Kickstarter to raise money for the album. “I’ve done most of my dates like that; I don’t want to entrust my recordings or give my masters to anyone. They’re too valuable. I keep my publishing, my masters – everything.”

Elf spent the first 10 years of his life in New York, seven in California, then moved back. He got the guitar bug as a teen; for his 13th birthday, he was given a Kay.

“I put a pickup on it and turned my dad’s Grundig short-wave radio into an amplifier, which he did not appreciate,” he said.

After playing in rock bands, he started working in a music store, which led to lessons with jazz stalwarts Chuck Wayne and Barry Galbraith. At 17, he knew he wanted to make his living as a jazz guitarist.

“I started going to a club where Billy Mitchell, the tenor-sax player in Basie’s band, had a Thursday-night gig. I sat in, and was getting exposed to all these good players coming through. That’s where it really started. Billy would take me to other gigs. It was the best ‘school’ I could go to.”

Frustration with airlines led Elf to the guitars he now plays. “When I was touring, it got almost impossible to take my D’Aquisto with me because the airlines started cracking down. I remember times I actually had to buy a separate ticket for my guitar.” A chance meeting with luthier James DeCava solved his problem. “I told him I was looking to find someone to build an instrument I’d endorse and could take on the road. He built one that became my road guitar, and recently built another for me. They’re basically knock-offs of my D’Aquisto; I didn’t want to reinvent the wheel or feel like I was playing a different instrument. He calls it the Mark Elf Custom Classic.”

Elf’s favorite amp is a Polytone Mini-Brute II he bought as a replacement for another he accidentally left on a street corner. “I realized I had left it sitting there, and by the time I drove around the block, it was gone!” In studio, he also uses a Fender Concert, citing its clean sound.

Guitar education is important to Elf, and serves as the primary purpose for his website. “I spent five years shooting and editing more than 650 tutorial videos, and I have chats with students from all over the world. It’s for jazz guitarists at all levels, and a nice way to help spread the music that was so generously shared with me when I was younger.”

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This article originally appeared in VG‘s March 2015 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

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Jazz guitarist Johnny Smith died at his home June 11, 2013, two weeks shy of his 91st birthday. Arguably the most respected and revered guitarist of the modern era (1950 to present), Smith was sincerely humble and reserved about his extraordinary talent.

In 1999, his peers and friends celebrated his career with a gala at Hunter College where virtually every big-name jazz guitarist honored him, and he graciously endured the tribute’s speeches, performances, and testimonials. Typical of his sincere modesty, Smith’s reaction to the affair was, “I wish there had been a big rock onstage so I could have crawled under it.”

One endorsement of his artistic gravitas was the bestowal of the Smithsonian Institution’s James Smithson Bicentennial Award, “…in grateful recognition for your contributions to American music.”

Smith was born in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1922. The Great Depression forced his family to Portland, Maine, and, by age 13 he had struck a deal with a local pawnshop whereby he kept the store’s guitars in tune as he used them to teach himself to play. Soon, he was giving lessons and playing hillbilly music with Uncle Lem and the Mountain Boys, a group that traveled the state and paid the youngster $4 per night. He heard his first Django Reinhardt record as a pre-teen and saved his nickels so he could buy every Django 78-rpm recording that was released. His folks had a Victrola which afforded only three or four plays before it wore out a disc. Still, that was enough for the talented youngster to memorize Django’s licks.

“I drove my folks crazy because I liked to listen to big-band music on the radio,” he said. “That was my best teacher – learning to coordinate harmonies with the big bands. And I got to where I could out-guess their modulations.”

Soon, he was in the Army Air Corps in hopes of realizing his dream of becoming a pilot. But because of a vision flaw in his left eye, he was given the choice of becoming a flight mechanic or joining the marching band. He opted for the band and was given a cornet and an instruction book. His intrinsic talent and dedication (hours of practice in the latrine) saw him conquer the horn and the Arban method in a couple of weeks.

Smith also used his time in the service to develop his guitar skills.

“From having to read on the trumpet, I learned what the notes were and was able to transfer them to the guitar,” he said. “I’d read everything from Kreutzer violin books, second and third trumpet books, and whatever I could find.

“Before the war, I met Charlie Christian when he came to Portland, and later I heard that great record he made with Benny [Goodman], “Airmail Special.” It was such an inspiration.

“Years later, after I’d gotten established, I remember when Django came to New York and was appearing at Café Society. Les Paul was at the Paramount. So I’d pick up Django, who was staying at the Great Northern Hotel, and take him to the Paramount. Then I’d take him back to Café Society, where he’d go to work. I’m so privileged that I got to meet him.”

Big-Time In The Big Apple
“After the war, I was back in Portland, working three gigs – at WCSH doing a daily show, playing trumpet in a pit band, and playing nights at a nightclub. The director at the affiliate, Arthur Owens, took a couple of air-checks to NBC in New York, and that’s how I got the call to become a staff member.”

But he still had to sweat out a Local 802 union card. “I’d work at NBC on a freelance basis because I didn’t have to have a card. I survived on baloney and stale bread for six months, but still, I was at the apex of live music in New York – not just 52nd Street, but everything. The three networks, NBC, ABC, and CBS, each had over 100 musicians on full-time staff. Everything was live music, right down to the commercials, and it was wonderful. And, of course, 52nd Street was door-to-door-to-door jazz. Then there was Birdland. I feel fortunate and grateful to have been there.”

Moonlight In Vermont
Along with Les Paul and Mary Ford, Smith’s 1952 hit, “Moonlight in Vermont” (with Stan Getz on sax), was a harbinger for the burgeoning popularity of guitar recordings. “I met Stan at a party and he mentioned wanting to get off the road,” said Smith. “I got him an appointment at NBC; at that time, there was one show with a big orchestra. The conductor, Roy Shields, asked if I could write an arrangement and form a combo for a once-a-week spot. The piano player, Sanford Gold, was a good friend of Teddy Reig, who owned Roulette Records. He took an air-check to Teddy, who said, ‘I’ll take a chance.’ So we recorded ‘Moonlight in Vermont’ and ‘Tabu.’

“Then, because I hadn’t had any time off since 1946, I headed to Florida for a few weeks. When I returned, ‘Moonlight in Vermont’ started happening – no promotion, no nothing, but disc jockeys were using it as background.”

Most of Smith’s albums were on the Royal Roost label, which in 1958 was absorbed by Roulette, which was owned by the notorious Morris Levy. “I don’t know who bought my records – jazz fans, guitar players, or perhaps sophisticated New York types – but most of them were panned by the ‘experts’ like Leonard Feather,” Smith said. “Of course, a lot of them, I hoped, would remain buried (laughs)! I did two albums with big string sections for Roost. Arranging and writing for strings was my biggest thrill – my great love. After that, I made three albums for Verve.

“The best recording group I ever had was George Roumanis on bass, Mousey Alexander on drums, and the extraordinary Bob Pancoast on piano, who had a completely different style and approach. On one of my albums, I featured Bob on Duke Ellington’s ‘Prelude to a Kiss.’ It’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever heard.”

Smith was known for not being happy with his recordings. “The truth is, the minute you record something, you look back and realize you could have done it better,” he said. “Regardless of the many gracious compliments I’ve received, mostly from guitar players, I’m truthful and honest with myself, and sometimes feel like they could have put me and my guitar in the men’s room.”

The vast majority of jazz guitarists disagree vehemently with Smith’s assessment of his playing.

“Johnny was simply pristine in his melodic attack,” said Sheryl Bailey. “He could play three-octave arpeggios with joyous ease and create the most gorgeous closed-position chord voicings that even the best of us develop a sweat over. But he played with a warmth and ease that was spellbinding to musicians of all instruments and styles. He transcended the guitar, and his pure and beautiful lines and harmonies were stunning. His influence will live on because it was honest and from the heart in its precision and perfection.”

“Johnny was so very important,” added Larry Coryell. “His playing was melodic, romantic, and economical, and his chord concept was unique. He played chords that were like piano voicings, with such close intervals. And his career as a studio musician in New York City is legendary. He loved classical music and incorporated it into his overall attitude. When I visited him once in Colorado Springs, he taught me a section of Ravel’s ‘Mother Goose Suite’ that was a real finger-stretcher. I mean a real stretcher – and painful! But I loved him. He was a gentleman and an enlightened soul. Plus, his version of ‘What’s New’ – those chords again – is unsurpassed.”

Smith said many times he never considered himself a jazz guitarist. “Let’s start with a category like Segovia,” he said. “Segovia was a dedicated classical guitarist. That was his whole life. The great jazz musicians I know have jazz as their only life. So that lets me out because I was involved with and loved so many different kinds of music that I couldn’t stay focused on one.”

Asked if he considered himself a commercial artist, he responded with, “No, I didn’t think in [those] terms. I could be commercial with the rest to a point, but I couldn’t go and play bad just for the sake of making a few dollars.”

All of the players queried concede Smith was a comprehensive player capable of delivering whatever a session needed, and was indeed a jazz guitarist of the first magnitude.

Hank Garland, the great Nashville session guitarist, played the lick on Elvis’ “Little Sister”– hardly a jazz song – though he also recorded the landmark Jazz Winds From a New Direction. It inspired a young George Benson, another noted player among many, such as Lee Ritenour and Earl Klugh, who can play superb jazz but produce music consumers desire. In fact, most any jazz-oriented session players, from Howard Roberts to Dennis Budimir to Bucky Pizzarelli, have recorded everything from klezmer to doo-wop. Carlos Barbosa-Lima, one of the world’s most-revered classical guitarists, said, “I admire Johnny immensely. He could play very difficult classical pieces with a pick, which was seemingly impossible. I think he could play anything on the guitar. His innate facility and plectrum technique was like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Guitars, Amps, Strings – and Attitude
For someone so identified with archtop guitars, Smith had a checkered, often unfortunate, history with his instruments. When he got the letter in Portland to report to NBC, his Gibson L-5 had been stolen from a check room. So he arrived in New York with no guitar. He met Harry Volpe, a guitarist on staff at Radio City Music Hall who also owned a music store.

“Volpe had Gretsch make me a guitar, but within a couple weeks, the neck was a roller coaster,” recalled Smith. “Then, Volpe went to Epiphone and they made me a guitar. After that, I went from unconscious ignorance to conscious ignorance (laughs) when I heard about John D’Angelico. He made me a guitar that was absolutely beautiful. But the house I was renting on Long Island burned down and, unfortunately, took my guitar and my dog.”

The predicament led to a series of Smith-designed instruments – all indicative of the guitarist’s rigid standards. “Johnny created a genre of guitars,” said studio guitarist and guitar historian Mitch Holder. “I’ve read his correspondence with Gibson’s Ted McCarty, and Johnny accepted the contract but refused the JS prototype because it had 22 frets. Just like with his D’Angelicos, he wanted only 20 frets so it would facilitate his playing style, which employed long stretches and created a mellower sound.” (Ed. Note: See sidebar for Smith biographer Lin Flanagan’s overview of his impact on guitar design.)

“John Collins had a D’Angelico that he let me use while (D’Angelico) was building me another guitar,” Smith added. “It had a neck like a plow handle, but I fell in love with it. So I had D’Angelico build him another guitar.”

By this time, Smith was a recognized guitar figure. When Gibson approached him to design and endorse a guitar, he sought advice from John D’Angelico. “He said, ‘I think you should, because I can only make so many guitars in a year.’ So I did, and Gibson released the Smith model. But I became disenchanted because they weren’t doing it right.”

Heritage, a group of builders who took over the former Gibson plant in Kalamazoo, Michigan, had Smith design a guitar. “It was fine, but they lost some of their key people and the guitars just weren’t right,” Smith said. “Then, around that time, Bill Schultz, the head guy for Fender, which had acquired the Guild Company said, ‘We’ve got this Artist Award. If you’re not happy with Heritage, would you consider endorsing this guitar?’ I said, ‘Yeah, if it’s made right.’ There was dead silence until he told me that Bob Benedetto was taking over the product and moving his operation to California. So, my thanks to Bob Benedetto, whom I consider the greatest guitar builder on the planet today. He took the reins, and the guitar is really, really lovely.”

Smith was just as candid about amplifiers and what he required. He worked with Everett Hull to design Ampeg’s Fountain of Sound amp, which was subsequently used by virtually every studio (and studio guitarist) in New York, including Art Ryerson, Bucky Pizzarelli, Don Arnone, Tony Mottola, George Barnes, and Joe Cinderella. Its speakers were aimed upward, inspired by Dizzy Gillespie’s horn, with its bent bell. “It kept the sound out of people’s ears, because in those days, people complained when things were too loud,” recalled Smith. “Today’s amps look like coke machines. So I had the speakers pointing straight up.”

Smith’s model was the JS-35, available as a 20- or 30-watt amp with a 15″ JBL speaker that sat on short legs. Smith was ahead of his time, as many guitarists today use PA or piano/accordion amps because they provide a broader palette without the heavy midrange sound of guitar amps. And many players employ amp stands that aim speakers upward. “I wrote something for a guitar magazine and they wouldn’t publish it… I said the amplifier I had made, with the Bass control full on, had less bass than a Fender amp with the Bass control full off. That’s the difference.”

Smith’s strings were unique, as well. The Gibson Sonomatic JS set came with a flatwound low E because he so often used a drop-D tuning.

“A round-wound string that heavy would chew up guitar picks something terrible.” Surprisingly, he later used Black Diamond strings. “They had this hand-burnished set – the 100s… [they were] wonderful. They stopped making them, so I sent correspondence to about every music store in the U.S. and bought every set I could find. I’ve never seen a U-Haul behind a hearse, but if there ever is such a thing, it’ll be me and my Black Diamonds (laughs)! In the old days, flatwounds were terrible; I’d prop a pencil under the strings by the nut to raise them, then take a water glass, because in those days they were so susceptible to squeaks, and just take the edge off. It got me by, but you still had to play like you were walking on eggshells.”

Chet, The Ventures, and an accident in Colorado
In addition to “Moonlight in Vermont,” Smith’s other big hit was composed while he was trying to find a counterpoint melody for the jazz standard “Softly, As In a Morning Sunrise.” This time, his hit was an original, and the manifestation of his counterpoint search was “Walk, Don’t Run,” which reached the Top 10 on Billboard twice in the early ’60s. The story behind the tune has its moments.

“Chet had an arrangement of ‘Walk, Don’t Run.’ He came to me at Birdland one night and asked if he could record it. I said, ‘Sure.’ He said, ‘No, I’m not gonna do it unless I can show you how I’m going to do it in my style.’

“So, we went back to a little dressing room at Birdland, and he played his version. I thought it was terrific. So he recorded it, and the Ventures heard his, and that’s how they came to record it. It become a big hit just when I’d had an accident in an airplane and lost the tip of my ring finger, which put me out of commission for about a year. We had a music store, but we were still building inventory and it wasn’t making any money. Without the Ventures’ recording, I don’t know if I could have survived.”

But there’s more! Jim Stafford, who charted a couple of pop hits in the ’70s, was a close friend of Atkins, and he told Stafford that while playing his version of “Walk, Don’t Run” at the Birdland that night, Smith corrected him on a few notes.

“When Chet shared that story, he had a hint of rancor in his voice because he wasn’t used to being corrected, even by the great Johnny Smith,” recalled Stafford.

Today, Stafford, a superb guitar soloist who appeared onstage with both Atkins and Smith, still incorporates passages in his arrangements as a result of studying Smith’s book, Aids to Technique. “I spent hours with that book as a teenager, and its exercises have informed my playing to the extent of their truly becoming ingrained,” he said.

Open Letter to John Williams
Another interesting controversy in Smith’s career was a letter he wrote to classical guitarist John Williams.

“I had these students at my store – the very best of our guitar students. And nearby, a theater was showing film of John Williams. I insisted the students see it, and paid their way. But in the middle came this electric-guitar putdown. I was so disappointed my students saw it, and I was so upset that I wrote a letter to John. I don’t know if he ever saw it, but I got a reply back from some company in England saying John couldn’t care less about my comments. In the letter I said that were it not for amplification, we would not be privileged to hear great artists like him and Segovia.”

Of course the irony is that later in Williams’ career, he experimented with electric guitar and sound processors as a member of the rock-fusion group Skye, and with Pete Townshend – with whom he recorded a version of the Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” for Amnesty International’s benefit show The Secret Policeman’s Ball. A press releases from the time said Williams wanted the broader attention of the rock audience.

Coda
Smith’s final tour was with Bing Crosby in 1977.

“I hated the travel and trauma of trying to get on airplanes with a guitar and amplifier,” he said of attitude by that point. “Bing died a few days after the tour finished, and I decided then that I didn’t want to do it anymore.

“I can’t think of anybody more fortunate than I am. Every dream I’ve ever had has come true. When I was young, I dreamed of playing with great musicians, and that came true. I dreamed of being able to fly my own airplane, and fishing for marlin on my own boat, and that came true. I always dreamed of living in a beautiful part of the country, and that came true. I never dreamed of getting rich, so I didn’t have to worry about that (laughs)!”
Special thanks to Lin Flanagan and Mitch Holder for their invaluable contributions to this profile.

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This article originally appeared in VG November 2013 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

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Musicians being artists and artists needing to express themselves, it says something that Will Lee’s new album, Love, Gratitude & Other Distractions, is only his second in 20 years (his first was 1993’s Oh!).

Mostly, it speaks to the fact that since James Brown is no longer with us, Lee may well now be the “Hardest Working Man in Show Business”; his bread-and-butter gig has long been helping bandleader Paul Shaffer back David Letterman on the famed TV talk show at the Ed Sullivan Theater in midtown Manhattan, where for three hours each weekday, he and several hundred other people watch Letterman tell jokes, read a “Top 10” list, and talk to (mostly) famous people. When the show goes to commercial, Shaffer, Lee, and company entertain the audience with a few pop songs.

Most weekends find Lee jamming with Jimmy Vivino (VG, July ’13) and a few other friends in Fab Faux, a renowned Beatles tribute act they formed in 1998. Pile on his frequent session work and that leaves precious little time for solo projects.

Lee, 61, grew up in a family of musicians. His father taught jazz and for 18 years served as dean at the University of Miami’s music school. His first instrument was piano, followed by violin, trumpet, and French horn. But, typical of kids of his generation, The Beatles on their first “Ed Sullivan Show” in 1964 nearly pushed those instruments from his mind, and toward drums, then the electric bass, which he studied at Miami.

While attending college, he worked locally until 1971, when he joined the New York jazz-rock band Dreams with trumpeter Randy Brecker, jumping aboard in time to help the group record its second album, Imagine My Surprise. Not long after, he began working with a list of artists that eventually included Bette Midler, Barry Manilow, B.J. Thomas, David Sanborn, Boz Scaggs, Carly Simon, Frank Sinatra, Spyro Gyra, Ringo Starr, Steely Dan, Cat Stevens, and Barbra Streisand.

In 1975, Brecker and his brother, Michael, asked Lee to join them in a new funk-fusion group, The Brecker Brothers Band, where he stayed for a few years before joining guitarist Hiram Bullock and drummer Steve Jordan in The 24th Street Band. That unit released three albums that proved very popular in Japan. From that band, Lee, Bullock, and Jordan were hired by Shaffer to play with Letterman beginning in early ’82.

One of the millions who were watching “The Ed Sullivan Show” on that fateful night in February of ’64 (when the Beatles made their first U.S. television appearance), Lee has lived the babyboomer-musician’s dream by at various points sharing a stage with three Beatles. And, he’s perpetually tickled by the fact he goes to work every day in the joint where that band played that night. “I gave Paul McCartney a hug when his son, James, was on Letterman,” Lee recalled. “Being in the Sullivan Theater, I told him, ‘Welcome home!’”

Lee’s new album, Love, Gratitude & Other Distractions, features original songs rendered with help from guitar slingers Steve Lukather, Pat Metheny, Billy Gibbons, Leni Stern, and Oz Noy, along with several other top-tier musicians including Shaffer.

“It’s a lot of fun,” he says of the disc. “I usually like listening to it, and there’s nothing better than when someone tells you they feel something when they hear it.”

Is there any particular reason you waited 20 years between solo albums?
I think because I was working (laughs!) It’s funny though, all these song ideas fill my brain to the point I just can’t do my day-to-day work anymore! They drive me nuts and I’ve got to get them out. In the back of my mind, I was always ready to start another album, but it took a certain spark, which was the recording of “Miss Understanding.” That song was done at a songwriter’s circle where we were playing original tunes in front of an audience, and somebody recorded it. I sent the file to a drummer I wanted to hear it, and he liked it so much he put a track to it. That was the genesis.

The album mixes funk and jazz but has a pretty strong pop vibe…
If I had to call it a genre, I’d say it’s “s**t I like.” I have a bunch of ideas for songs in the works for the next one – another plethora of stuff – and as much as I’d like to say, “I’m gonna do a funk album,” I think I’d lose interest. I like having a bunch of irons in the fire; I can’t focus on one song for too long.

How did you choose guitar players for the guest spots?
I just thought about who’d be perfect for each song. In the case of Billy Gibbons, it was interesting. In the midst of doing the album, I woke up one morning with the song “Get Out Of My Life Woman” in my brain, then the phone rang; “It’s Gibbons. I’m in town.” I said, “What are you doing tonight? Do you want to come over and sing ‘Get Out of My Life Woman’ with me?” And he goes, “I got a terrible cold – let’s get this recorded before it goes away.” He was so happy that I asked him because of his f***ed up voice that day! I can’t imagine any other singer having that reaction. And the song is really strong – a good juxtaposition of two voices. It reminds me of Sam and Dave, or maybe more Allison Krauss and Robert Plant.

So, the track happened fairly spontaneously?
Very spontaneously. Luckily, guys in New York really hustle, because as soon as Billy said, “I want to do this,” I got on the phone with drummer Shawn Pelton and told him, “I have Gibbons coming over tonight to sing this song, can you do me a drum track that sounds like this, at about this tempo?” (makes a click-track sound) Shawn was running to yoga class at the time, but remembered the beat and the tempo and sent me a loop. We cut it up a little to create different sections, but it all happened so quickly; it was one of those miraculous things. And it continued when I called Allen Toussaint and said, “Hey, are you gonna be in New York?” He said, “Next week.” And I said, “How would you feel about playing some piano on that tune you wrote?” And he was up for it. It was one of those amazing, organic things that happened without a lot of sitting down or outlining and stressing over.

How about the Steve Lukather track?
Luke and I have been really good friends since before Toto. He and Jeff Porcaro used to call me when they were forming the band and say, “Hey, we want you to move out [to L.A.] to be in this band.” I kept saying, “I love you guys for asking, but I’m doing really good in New York. Thanks anyway.” But we’ve remained good friends and I was lucky to be on a few sessions and some live stuff with him.

On his track, “The Natives are Restless,” I was trying to get this energetic feeling. It’s a song about how we’re f***ing up the environment and how we’re having to scramble just to survive – floods, fires, unpredictable weather, and all that stuff. So I thought it would be great to have Luke blaze a solo to help illustrate. Sure enough, he did a great job.

And Metheny?
Yeah, Metheny’s on the record, uncredited. My father gave him a scholarship to the University of Miami, and he has always felt very thankful. I played on his album, Secret Story, and we’ve always had a mutual admiration. So I wrote a little solo section with him in mind for “Gratitude,” the first song on the album. I requested that he use that sound of that synth guitar – a very horn-like sound. I thought it would bring something to it and boy did he ever bring it home.

“Simple Way to Say I Love You” and “Smile” are bass solo/melody tracks.
“Simple Way” is a song I wrote for John Tropea’s album years ago. I was producing and always thought it would sound good played by a fretless player, and I found one I could afford – me! I thought it lent itself to the sound of that instrument. So I was happy to have Tropea play on it, along with Peter Erskine and Gary Schreiner, who I recently met. He plays a nice chromatic harmonica solo.

Which instrument did you use on it?
I think I used my vintage Fender Precision-turned-Jazz. Somewhere in its life, I had Sadowsky put EMG pickups in it, way before he was making basses, and luthier Woody Phifer filed down the frets.

How about “Smile”?
It’s funny, I had figured out a bit of that song within the harmonics that were really available to my eye and ear on a bass, to the point where one night in Japan, while playing with Hiram Bullock, he had a technical breakdown and there was time to fill. So I started playing that melody. Being onstage with Hiram was always fertile ground for creativity, and it was in Japan, where the open-mindedness of the people is enough to make you take chances you’d never take anywhere else. I hadn’t really thought the song through, but my fingers found some spots; some of it worked, some of it didn’t, and the parts that did, I remembered – luckily.

The thing that really turned it into music was Chuck Loeb and the amazing soundscape he created with his great harmonic knowledge. It makes it sound legit, I think.

Which basses and amps do we hear on the record?
The only time there was an amp used, it was my Ampeg Micro-VR, which is really cool. I use it in my studio, to test basses and practice, once in a while to record. I needed it to bring out some harmonics on “Papounet’s Ride.”

I used a Pedulla fretless five-string, and for a few of the tunes, and an early-’60s P-Bass, mostly with flat wounds. That’s on “Get Out of My Life Woman” and “Miss Understanding.” I’m sure I used the Sadowsky 5 on “Simple Way to Say I Love You,” but that melody is being played on the fretless Fender. I used my four-string Sadowsky signature on the rest.

What about the Letterman gig has kept you there for 31 years?
Oh man, it’s such a great gig. I get to sit there and watch a really great TV show and a great comedy show happening while keeping my hands on my instrument, keeping my chops up. I hate practicing on my own, and it’s a great excuse to not practice!

And, you’ve been doing Fab Faux for 15 years.
Yeah, same five guys. It’s pretty amazing. We’re still spelunking, we’re still…we still have our shovels out, trying to dig for what the real elements are that made these songs so great. We’re still picking them apart to try to find the right notes and parts and instruments and sounds.

How do you work the set with that band?
Yeah, we try to make it a roller-coaster ride, unless we need to package something into a theme of some sort, which sells tickets but may not be the best show. It’s more fun when we jump between eras – play a psychedelic song, then go back to a Cavern song and move it all over the place.

Did you start noodling on guitar after you saw the Beatles, or did you opt first for bass?
It was drums, actually, because my father had given me a drum kit when I was six or seven – a totally happening Leedy/WFL Ludwig kit. I didn’t have the first idea what I wanted to do with it until the Beatles played Sullivan. As soon as that show was over, I started practicing.

Banging out Beatles’ songs?
There was a lot of stuff going on. We had the Beach Boys, we had the Ventures, which was a great outlet for us kids who didn’t have any microphones and everybody plugged into one amp.

What was your first gig?
There was an outdoor park where a Catholic youth organization had a picnic and needed a band they could pay six bucks per man.

Once a fretted instrument caught your interest, was it guitar or bass?
It was bass, by default, because there were no bass players our age – there were plenty of guitar players and drummers. 12-year-olds don’t have much sense of the function of the bass, but it seemed to me we’d be a cooler band if we had a fuller sound. So, like an idiot, I volunteered. Of course, I soon realized it was impossible to play bass and sing at the same time. That’s another thing I had to figure out.

What was your first bass and amp?
Something my father bought me for Christmas – a Kalamazoo amp, and a no-name Japanese bass. It was very brown, with not the loveliest headstock.

Being a jazzer and a music educator, was your dad okay with immersing yourself in pop music?
Yeah, I don’t think he saw me as a really disciplined kid. But when he bought that bass, he knew I wanted the white Fender Precision in the music-store window, and the fact that he didn’t buy it for me probably was the best thing he could have done, because after waking up Christmas morning and seeing that goofy bass, I knew I’d have to earn the Precision somehow. And when I did, it was a much better feeling than just having it handed to me.

How long did it take?
A couple/three months – and it was still in the store for some reason. It was such a beautiful thing!

Do you still have it?
No, it had been through too many LSD-inspired incarnations, I think (laughs) – sanding the finish down to the wood, changing pickups. I might have just traded it for a better-sounding P-Bass because it really wasn’t that great. It was just beautiful, and at the time I didn’t know much about tone. I’m still learning about that!

Speaking of, what was your first decent amp?
I had an early Bassman that had everything going for it – the Tolex gave off the most delicious scent, and when I hit the Standby switch, I was off and running. But for me, being a pocket player, the first thing that really got my rocks off was a solidstate Standel. It was instant – the note came out at the exact moment you played it, and that felt really good. I don’t know if it was because I was used to playing drums or if I just wanted to be able to not have to anticipate the note. In fact, once I started becoming a studio musician in New York, I’d have the engineer split my track so he could get direct signal from me or whatever and do whatever he wanted to with compression and all the beautiful-sounding tube stuff and feed me the unaffected direct track so I could really be in the pocket with the drums.

Is there a particular type of music you prefer to listen to when you’re not working?
There are really two kinds of music, right? I like the good kind! I get something out of any music that grooves and isn’t out of tune! I like it all, I love what we’re doing with the Fab Faux – I never seem to tire of doing Beatles songs. I love what Jimmy Vivino does, his passion is the blues and I love that whole thing. I love jazz because both my parents were jazzers. I didn’t really want to be the same kind of musician as my father, who was locked into bebop city, you know? I grew up in Texas, and he hated country music. I never hated it – I couldn’t, for some reason. He didn’t see harmonicas as musical instruments, but I couldn’t hate the harmonica, because to me it depends on who’s blowing into it. If you’re Howard Levy, you can get all the notes. And if you don’t want to go for all the notes, that’s fine, that’s called ‘taste in space.’”

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This article originally appeared in VG November 2013 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

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Brian Setzer wears several hats – rockabilly, swing, even hard-rocking Christmas music. But through it all, by and large he plays only one guitar – a Gretsch. And ideally, just a Model 6120 at that.

With his new album, Setzer gets back to his roots, both in playing scorching rockabilly, but also in using his old-time vintage gear.

Rockabilly Riot: All Original is straight-ahead rockabilly from start to finish. But, to paraphrase a timeworn truth, Setzer’s rockabilly is never just three chords and a hot date for Saturday night. He has crafted some of the most inventive, far-reaching rockabilly ever cast in wax – all with his trademark twang and high-octane fretwork.

Setzer was full of enthusiasm in talking to VG about his new project, singing and picking parts of several songs as he talked.

This new album has a lot of the same vibe as the original Stray Cats album.
I’m really happy with it. It reminds me a lot of that first Stray Cats album, too, in the energy, sound, and simplicity of it. I think it’s kind of a cross between that and Ignition.

I was playing with three musicians who are the best in their craft; Noah Levy on drums and piano player Kevin McKendree; I got bassist Mark Winchester back; he stopped playing to raise his daughters. The bassist, pianist, producer Peter Collins [Vavoom! and The Dirty Boogie], and studio are all in Nashville. So I thought rather than bring the mountain to me, I’ll go down to Nashville.

I take a long time to write what I think are good songs. You can never determine how they’re going to come out. Most rockabilly of the ’50s is based on the I-IV-V blues pattern, right? What I think makes my rockabilly different are things like chord changes and different influences that would never have happened in the ’50s.

I write songs first, then I make them rockabilly — that just happens when I play them. For instance, that little chorus on “Stilleto Cool”; that’s not a rockabilly song, per se. If you turned that up really loud, you could make that a heavy-metal song. But me playing it the way I do with a stand-up bass and all that, it becomes rockabilly.

“Calamity Jane” starts off with that Scotty Moore lick from “Mystery Train,” but then you take it in another direction.
Yeah, then it turns into an old episode of “Gunsmoke,” where the piano player’s playing an old piano and there’s a poker game going on and a bar fight; I wanted to make this a saloon song. Especially with that piano in there playing that honky-tonk.

The interplay between your guitar and the piano is so cool on “Let’s Shake” and when trading fours in “Vinyl Records.”
Besides having that quality of piano player with me, a lot of that stuff is Peter Collins’ production technique. I’d write the song, and he’d listen to it and he’d go, ‘Yeah, I love it, but how about we leave out the drums and bass so it’s just guitar and piano? Then we bring in the band in on the chorus.’

That’s Peter’s idea, that’s a real producer’s way of thinking. That’s really producing a record, the old-fashioned way. It’s a lot of work and it takes a lot of time – stuff that old-school producers used to do like Dave Edmunds did on our first Stray Cats album – maybe that’s why it sounds so similar to Stray Cats.

“Rockabilly Blues” is a great song full of guitar.
That’s just me flatpicking my ass off. That song’s just catchy to me. It’s got the fingerpicking solo, it’s got the flatpicking – it’s kind of what I am, all mixed up in one song. You get the whole bowl of chili there.

So, what gear did you use?
I had my ’59 Gretsch and my piggyback ’63 Bassman and Roland Space Echo on the road with me and it was working so good. And when that old stuff works and it’s not broke, it’s like I don’t want to fix it. I know me, I know what I’ll do: I’ll try out some crazy old echo unit that doesn’t work right, another old guitar, and then I’ll go back to the 6120 and the Bassman.

I changed amps for one song because I wanted a vibrato, but didn’t want to use a pedal because I know I’ll kick it and knock the cord out or something. I’m not good with too many things.

On “What’s Her Name,” I used an old late-’50s Magnatone amp like Buddy Holly used to use. It’s got that crazy, wobbly vibrato that sounds like nothing else.

Beyond that, the whole thing was played on my original ’59 6120 and Bassman.

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This article originally appeared in VG‘s October 2014 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

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It’s difficult to say which is more ironic: the fact that Robbie Robertson, one of rock guitar’s true stylists, is more famous for his songwriting, or that beneath the minimal, compositional style that marked his work with The Band hid one of the most animalistic maniacs in rock guitar history. • The son of a Jewish father and Mohawk mother, Jaime Robbie Robertson was born July 5, 1943, in Toronto, Ontario. Growing up, he split his time between the city and the rural Seven Nations Indian Reserve, where he first took up guitar.

After dropping out of high school, Robertson landed a gig with Ronnie Hawkins, an Arkansas rockabilly holdover who toured Canada enough to become a star there. After apprenticing behind guitarists Fred Carter, Jr. and later Roy Buchanan, Robertson graduated to the lead-guitar chair. The group, dubbed the Hawks, also included drummer Levon Helm and eventually bassist Rick Danko, pianist Richard Manuel, and organist Garth Hudson.

In 1963, the combo left Hawkins en masse, renaming themselves Levon & The Hawks, but not before Robertson would put his stinging stamp on several Hawkins recordings, including his covers of “Bo Diddley” and especially Diddley’s “Who Do You Love.” (Some of the Hawks’ own recordings, including the nasty instrumental “Robbie’s Blues,” later surfaced on the boxed set A Musical History.)

Along with Mike Bloomfield (on piano) and blues harpist Charlie Musselwhite, Robertson, Helm, and Hudson went to New York City to back John Hammond on his 1965 LP, So Many Roads. Through Hammond, they were introduced to Bob Dylan, who hired Robertson and Helm that year to play his infamous Forest Hills, New York, concert, at which Dylan was summarily booed, following his controversial electric set at the Newport Folk Festival.

Helm bowed out, but the rest of the Hawks, soon renamed The Band, came onboard for Dylan’s 1965-’66 world tour. In ’66, Robertson was the lone Band member (surrounded by Nashville’s best) to play on Dylan’s classic Blonde On Blonde.

In ’67, Helm rejoined the group in Woodstock, where they cut the landmark Music From Big Pink. At the height of psychedelia and hard rock, it sounded like nothing before – both communal and epic, its mix of folk, blues, classical, gospel, and old rock and roll embodied everything that would later be termed Americana (ironically, since four-fifths of the group were Canadians). Eric Clapton has been quoted as saying the album prompted him to leave Cream, and its influence is readily apparent on the guitar hero’s subsequent solo work.

Meanwhile, The Band’s self-titled sophomore effort was every bit as good, and the group were press darlings and concert headliners.

The Band dissolved (or Robertson dissolved The Band, depending on who’s recounting the events) in ’76, throwing a star-studded concert at San Francisco’s Fillmore Auditorium on Thanksgiving Day. It was dubbed “The Last Waltz,” as was Martin Scorsese’s subsequent documentary of the event and the group.

 

Robertson’s relationship with the director resulted in him scoring such films as The King Of Comedy, The Color Of Money, and the classic Raging Bull. But Robertson wouldn’t release his self-titled solo debut until 1987, which included Danko and Hudson, as well as U2, Peter Gabriel, jazz arranger Gil Evans, and producer Daniel Lanois.

Over the years, Robertson has produced or played on albums by Clapton, Muddy Waters, Neil Diamond, Steve Miller, Jesse Winchester, Charles Lloyd, Ringo Starr, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, Emmylou Harris, B.B. King, Van Morrison, and Jerry Lee Lewis, and his songs earned him induction into the Songwriters Hall Of Fame. But only four solo efforts would follow in the ensuing 24 years, with Music For The Native Americans, composed for a TV documentary and featuring backing from the Red Road Ensemble, being a highlight.

Alongside Clapton, at his friend’s 2007 Crossroads Guitar Festival, the somewhat reclusive Robertson made a brief but stellar appearance, reprising the Bo Diddley classic he’d recorded with Hawkins, “Who Do You Love.”

Earlier this year, 429 Records released How To Become Clairvoyant, which finds Robertson surrounded by Clapton, Steve Winwood, Robert Randolph, Tom Morello, Pino Paladino, Trent Reznor, and others. A “deluxe” edition of the CD includes a second disc, consisting of five songwriting demos and one outtake. The “collector’s” edition includes a mix-your-own-tracks DVD and a 70-page book with artwork by Richard Prince, ephemerae from magician Ricky Jay’s vast collection, and pictures of some of Robertson’s and Clapton’s guitars.

Here, the master talks about his roots, the evolution of his guitar style, his longtime association with Eric Clapton, and his impressive guitar collection.

 

What was the first music that really grabbed you?

There’s different periods of that. My parents told me that the earliest music that they saw me reacting to, above and beyond any other, was boogie-woogie – music by people like Louis Jordan. Almost pre-rock-and-roll rock and roll. I don’t think I’m alone in that; I think a lot of people were drawn to that, and there’s a lot of boogie-woogie in early rock and roll – piano players like Jerry Lee Lewis.

But where it connected for me was on the Six Nations Indian Reserve. That’s where all my cousins and uncles and aunts were, and it seemed to me like everybody played music. I felt like I needed to get in on this. Finally, some cousins and uncles started showing me some chords on guitar. I was just really drawn to it. There was a time that I can remember thinking to myself, “Wow, it’s so great, you guys turning me on to this and showing me this, but I actually can play better than you can now.” I can remember thinking that at a pretty young age, around 12 or 13.

Were they playing and showing you Indian music or pop music?

It was a combination of country music – because they lived in the country, and they liked Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzell and, later, Hank Snow. They played that and also like native songs. But they did them on mandolin and fiddle and guitar and drums.

I’ve read that I stayed there during the summers, but I was there a lot more than that. Just about every vacation time, every holiday, that’s where we would go, because that’s where my mom’s family was.

When you weren’t at the reserve, were you exposed to something completely different?

Well, one thing was in the country and one thing was in the city. In the city, there was the urban music of that time – like the Hit Parade.

When you graduated to being able to play in rock and roll bands, what kind of scene was there in Toronto?

I didn’t get into any bands until rock and roll had presented itself. It was all so timely for me, because it was like puberty; I’d already started learning to play guitar; and rock and roll came along. It was almost like a setup, you know (laughs)? Immediately, I was looking for people to make music with. I had a band, Robbie Robertson & The Rhythm Chords, probably when I was 13 years old.

What was your repertoire like?

It was covers of Little Richard, Carl Perkins, Elvis – just kind of the first wave of rock and roll.

Was everybody about your age?

No, they were all older than me.

When you’re learning sort of generic rock and roll, it’s typically too early to cite someone as an influence, but who eventually influenced you into forming a style?

You know, I just stole anything I could from anybody I could at that time. I would see other guitar players, grown-ups, and I would just see what they did or ask them to show me something. These guys played more of an older style, like ’40s vamp. Lots of chords. But they knew some tricks, and I would pick up on those and learn some things about electric guitar – because I went to electric guitar very early on. I was not a folk musician at all. I really appreciated beautiful acoustic guitar playing, but I moved on, just because of rock and roll and people like Carl Perkins. I thought, “Man, Carl Perkins writes the songs, he plays the guitar solos, he sings!” That’s even better than just somebody who strums the guitar to accompany themselves. And Chuck Berry. Look at that! I was more fascinated by those guys.

Then as I started learning more about those kinds of things, I was very much impressed by the sound of guitars. I thought Les Paul & Mary Ford’s early recordings were a breakthrough in music. They really jumped out and tapped me on the shoulder. And you know who else? That guy Joe Maphis – and the Collins Kids [featuring Larry Collins]. What did they play, Mosrites?

In the Rhythm Chords days, what kind of electric guitar did you have?

I had a copper-colored Harmony [H44 Stratotone]. That was my first electric, and in that band, the guy playing lead guitar was Pete Traynor, who makes Traynor amplifiers. He taught me a lot, and his brother, Steve, also played in the band. It was a little bit before people had basses, so he would play a low boogie part, to be kind of equivalent to what a bass was. In the beginning, it was hard to find electric-bass players.

After the Harmony, I found probably a ’57 Strat in a store, and I got a pretty good deal on it. But I had to pawn it about a year later to pay for my ticket to join up with Ronnie Hawkins & The Hawks in Arkansas. He said, “You don’t need a guitar; just figure out how to get down here, and we’ll get you a guitar.” So when I got down there, we got a Telecaster. I played Telecasters for years.

Even though you’re most associated with the Stratocaster, your tone and attitude seem more like a Tele player – like a James Burton.

That’s from being influenced by these people like Fred Carter, Jr. and Roy Buchanan. This style, according to them, comes from “The Lousiana Hayride.” That’s where guys were first mixing country music and blues together.

At what point did you realize that you had developed your own stamp and identity on guitar?

When I was playing with Ronnie Hawkins, in the beginning. At that time, there weren’t a lot of people playing that style of guitar – like James Burton and Roy Buchanan. They were very unusual and unique in the beginning. And I learned a lot of their tricks from Fred Carter, Jr., and then from Roy Buchanan. Most people played a different style, and when I first was playing with Ronnie Hawkins, I took what they were doing and made it more raging. On those first recordings I played on with Ronnie, and just from us playing wherever we played, guitar players were coming from all over to hear me do that.

First of all, they didn’t even know about moving the strings down and using a banjo string for the first string. They thought I was doing that with regular guitar strings, because there were no “light-gauge” strings back then, right? So the fact that I could bend this thing, and in the particular way that I did it, it was like, “Oh, my God, the world’s coming to an end.” Then playing a lot of harmonics, and from Ronnie Hawkins’ influence, a lot of the music became quite explosive and violent. So the feedback from people told me that I was doing something unique.

Were you doing a lot of the earmarks that people associate with you – like the false harmonics and that pinched, stinging attack like on “The Shape I’m In” or the live “All Along The Watchtower” from Before The Flood – as far back as Ronnie Hawkins?

Yeah, I was. A lot of that was just youth. In the beginning, I was trying to make it do more, more all the time. Louder, higher, brighter, harder – just because you’re young and you play the guitar the same way as you drive a car.

Then years later, when a lot of people were starting to play like that, that’s when I kind of went completely against the grain and tried to really appreciate subtleties. Completely following the song. My motto was, “If I can play one note, and it can mean more than somebody else playing 20, I’m getting somewhere.”

There’s an evolution somewhere between what you did with Ronnie Hawkins and later with The Band.

But still wailing guitar with the Hawks, and with Bob Dylan, it was wailing.

Was the John Hammond album before you hooked up with Dylan?

Yes, both of them. I did So Many Roads and I Can Tell. (Ed. Note: Some tracks from the So Many Roads Vanguard sessions later came out on Hammond’s Mirrors album.) That was kind of the wailing period, as well. After I got off the “wailing wall,” I started appreciating more Curtis Mayfield and Steve Cropper. And that’s when Eric Clapton was first attracted to what I was doing on the guitar, because it was the opposite of what most people were doing – Music From Big Pink.

That album is responsible for Cream breaking up.

Well, that’s what Eric said. He was just ready to do something different musically. He thought he had driven that one into the wall. That’s when he went on this whole thing with Delaney & Bonnie, and he was trying to go in a different direction.

Did How To Become Clairvoyant start out as a duo project with Eric?

It really started out as us just saying, “God, we should do something together sometime.” So we were hanging out, and we didn’t have real specifics, to be honest. We were like, “Let’s get together and see what happens.” So we messed around with some musical ideas and told a lot of stories back and forth. And some of the threads of those ideas ended up seeping into the songs later on. It was just a natural, very organic kind of feeling. A lot of times, in making records there’s a lot more frenzy involved. But there was something about Eric’s nature, and there was no pressure in any direction. Then when he invited me to come to London, where we recorded all the tracks for this record, it was that, too – “Let’s see what happens.” We didn’t know whether we were making an Eric record or a duet record or a Robbie record. I wanted to kind of go after that and do more writing, because I really wanted to do my best to help this go somewhere – whatever it might be.

I had a little more looseness of time than Eric did, because he had just played some gigs, and when he got back he was hanging out with his family. It just kind of handed me the reins a little bit. That’s why it ended up becoming my record. I just had the opportunity to do more. And after we did this thing in London, he said, “Well, you’ve done most of the writing, and most of this direction is going…” He was tremendously supportive of that. After we did that recording, he came back and did some vocals and more playing. He couldn’t have been more supportive in this process.

The gut-string plays a prominent role on this record.

I played more guitar than on any album I’ve ever done. And I didn’t realize that until I was finished. That particular gut-string turned out to be a star on this record. I’ve had it since 1973 or ’74, but it’s not a guitar that I used very much. Eric said, “You mind if I try out this guitar?” He did, and he said, “Oh, my God, this is an amazing instrument.” He was really enjoying playing it. I think he played it on three songs on the CD, and I played it on a couple.

It’s a 1927 12-fret Martin OOO-45. It has a beautiful feel, beautiful tonality, and a beautiful balance to it. When you pick it up, it just feels right. Some guitars feel a little heavy this way or that way – you know? It’s just one of those things; you pick it up, and you don’t even have to play it. You think, “This is a piece of work.” It’s like a rifle; when it’s really well-balanced, it’s a piece of work.

The model hasn’t been made in a long time, but Martin started making it again because of this record. I don’t know what they’re calling it – like an “Eric/Robbie” guitar.

Isn’t there already is a Robbie Robertson signature Martin, based on the guitar that inspired the line “Pulled into Nazareth” in “The Weight” because of the address inside the soundhole?

Yeah. That’s a 1951 D-28 that I still have.

Do you still have your Gibson Style O?

Yes, I do. It’s a 1920. I have older guitars, too. I have a 1901 Martin OO-42, a 1919 Martin OO-45K that’s the only one in existence – it’s the guitar Emmylou Harris played in The Last Waltz, a beautiful koa Martin, and I have the only one in the world. So they started making that guitar – all in koa or with a spruce top.

Which one is the Robbie Robertson Signature Model?

There is a signature one that’s koa, and I also have a 2007 Martin Custom OM-42 that was used on the CD a lot, too. It’s called Showdog Workhorse.

As much as The Band was associated with Dylan, you’re on Blonde On Blonde, but the rest of the group is only on The Basement Tapes, 1973’s Planet Waves, and then the live Before The Flood.

Right. We did some other tracks, like “Can I Please Crawl Out Your Window” [released only as a single], and Jimi Hendrix covered that. But they were like one-off things.

On Clairvoyant, you mention Hendrix in “Axeman,” but by his earlier stage name, Jimmy James. When and how did you meet him?

I met him first when he was playing with John Hammond. John called and said, “I’ve got this new guitar player. He’s really good. You should come and check him out.” So I did, and then Jimi and I were just hanging out in Greenwich Village after that for a while. He was really interested in and wanting to become capable of writing songs. Because I was playing with Bob Dylan at the time, and I had been writing songs since I was very young, he was asking all kinds of basic questions.

But we talked a lot about guitars, and he showed me how he put the strings on his guitar and the way that he massaged the strings. Because I never understood how his guitar didn’t go terribly out of tune, with his abuse of the tremolo bar. The only person that uses that in a more extreme fashion is me – and it goes out of tune like mad. And he didn’t tune between songs or anything. He showed me how he massaged the strings when he changed them, so they were ridiculously stretched out.

So they wouldn’t slack any further.

Right. The way he did it was a real ritual.

Do you play with a combination of flatpick and fingers?

I play with either all my bare fingers or a pick. I used to play with a flatpick and two National fingerpicks [on the middle and ring fingers]. Sometimes, certain ways that I play, my fingers get stuck on that middle pickup. So I got used to moving the middle pickup out of my way, back to the bridge pickup, making it into more like a humbucker. I like the way that it made the rear pickup not so thin sounding. That was a complaint with Stratocasters – they were just a little thin sometimes in comparison with Gibsons.

I’ve been doing that for a long time. I have these signature Strats that are hotrodded, and the middle pickup is moved back so it doesn’t get in my way.

When you say your guitar style became more melodic and chordal, a la Cropper or Curtis Mayfield, but it wasn’t that way with Dylan, was there a transition in there?

There was. It was becoming that way [with Dylan]. I was heading there on The Basement Tapes. But that was just a ragged process – The Basement Tapes. There wasn’t much thought put into anything; it was just kind of rattling it off and having a good time.

As opposed to blues and rock and roll with Ronnie Hawkins, did having to play to a Dylan song make you listen more?

Well, he just gave me too many guitar solos (laughs)! He’d sing a verse, then look over again. I’d say, “Okay.” It was like a new experience for Bob, having that kind of facility of music, for people to play different things. He wanted to wail, and there was something about it when we played together, it was hard to be discreet. Things really ended up catching on fire very quickly, and tempos got fast. It was leaning toward a certain kind of excitement that was available; all you had to do was push on the accelerator.

When you started writing the type of things that came out with The Band, which were compositional in a whole different sense, did that dictate that you didn’t want to step on the accelerator all the way every time.

You know, it was really reaching for emotional things, and it wasn’t about just depending on excitement. It was depending on just things that would hopefully send chills down your spine and touch an emotional nerve.

With all the different hats you’ve worn, do you still think of yourself as a guitar player?

It’s evolved over the years, but I probably think of myself as a songwriter first. The guitar playing and the songwriting and the singing – all those things kind of blend together.

Do you write on guitar?

I write on guitar and piano.

When it gets to orchestrating stuff for movies, how do you get to that from playing guitar in rock and roll bands?

A lot of it has to do with just sonic expression, and the music is just making the sound. The sound and the music and the melodies, or the anti-melodies, become an emotional expression. I don’t read or write music, so I have to express it in poetic terms. A lot of it, I do on the keyboard.

I play keyboard on this CD on almost every track. A lot of the very spine of these things come from my keyboard parts. And that comes directly from working on movies.

In The Band, you had these three amazing voices – Levon, Rick, and Richard. When you wrote a song, would you know, “Okay, this is going to be a Levon song” or “Richard will sing this”?

I’d say 90 percent of the time, I wrote those songs specifically for them to sing.

What an instrument to have at your disposal.

Oh, yeah. It was like a workshop.

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This article originally appeared in VG September 2011 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.

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