Guitar Gods of the Sixties
Guitar Gods of the Sixties
Back in the late sixties, early seventies, there were three gods of the guitar; Clapton, Beck, and Hendrix. They were the great trinity of rock. Mike Bloomfield deserves to be there, too, but there is no other deity metaphor that readily comes to mind, so he suffers, as the result. What does matter, is the god’s of guitar as they existed back in the day. My day. Yesterday. A long time ago.
First, there was Eric Clapton, who’s name sounded like a Norse god of some kind. And the real kicker, he played like one—that soaring vibrato, which reinvented the way we heard the guitar—that sinewy, behind the beat phrasing that he got from Little Walter, Otis Rush, Hubert Sumlin, BB., Freddie, and Albert. The three kings. That full-bodied wave of sonic java, or maybe lava—liquid and flowing, that was his tone. It was beautiful. It was almost mystical, especially if you were a young impressionable guitar player.
Then, there was Jeff Beck. Like Clapton, he was an Englishman. And, like Clapton, he rode the tidal wave caused by the Beatles into stardom. In a different era, it might never have happened. But this was the era of Carnaby Street and swinging London, not Memphis or New Orleans.
Jeff Beck was his own man. Neither purist blues-man or pure rocker, but part Les Paul (the man, not the guitar) and part electrified Lightnin’ Hopkins. He’d play jazz, r&b, and whatever else came to mind, which was Beck’s modus operandi. Beck’s playing could mess your mind up, if you weren’t careful. Beck would begin a phrase, making you think he was going for that lick! That classic lick that every hack and every genius used to play. But not Beck. Beck would lay down a Les Paul-style arpeggio, with one foot in jazz and the other in rockabilly—Gene Vincent, Be-Bop-A-lula, Cliff Gallup, B.B. King and Buddy Guy—they were all in there somewhere.
If Clapton was the son, and Beck the holy spirit, Hendrix was the father of them all. He was as great an artist as the guitar ever produced—or ever would. He painted with sound, not just licks, or noise. Listen to his playing on The Band of Gypsies album, which was a one-off record, recorded to payoff a debt owed to a previous manager, looking to collect on Jimi’s fame. Regardless of the records reason to exist, it was recorded, Live, without a net! In the process, Hendrix reinvented blues guitar, taking the soul of the music and pushing it as far as it could go, like John Lee Hooker, Buddy guy, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, and Picasso all fused together. Jimi made it make sense by sheer artistry and inventiveness. Add Sly Stone, Bob Dylan, Curtis Mayfield, the Beatles, a dose of Clapton, and Hendrix still sounds only like Hendrix.
Today, as always, guitar fans tend to salivate over cleanly played licks, while imagination is given the short end, at least, in most instances. Technique, speed and facility, not artistry are the prime directive. Hendrix was more than a great guitar player, he was a genuine artist. He shined the light, taking forms and concepts beyond there nomal boundaries, making pure, unpredictable art. The guitar was his instrument, so was the amp, and the effects, which he helped conceive. Thanks must go to Jim Marshall for facilitating Hendrix's vision through his techinical innovations.
There were others, Mike Bloomfield was a pro with a serious pedigree, by the time Clapton emerged. In terms of artistry, only Hendrix was better, which Bloomfield acknowledged. Mike Bloomfield was a fat Jewish kid (using his own description)—who fell hard for the blues. He was from a heavily moneyed, Jewish family. But it was the blues, not money, that captivated him. It probably helped (and hurt) that he was a trust-fund baby. Therefore, whatever his demons, they were purely self-imposed by drugs and drink, to settle the ennui of being allowed to do whatever you want. So Mike played the blues, and, in the process, invented jazz-rock, fusion, heavily electrified blues, the rock guitarist, as a soloist on the order of a John Coltrane or a Charles Mingus. Or, something close to it. He and a handful of others transformed rock and roll into this other thing, not dance music, but listening music. Jerry Garcia, Duane Allman and Dickie Betts, Eric Clapton, Johnny Winter, Carlos Santana, all, took Mike Bloomfield’s innovations and made them their own, thereby changing music across the spectrum.
Bloomfield, like all the greats, looked to the past for his inspiration. He also looked forward. Looked everywhere, for foundational music—loud, soft, acoustic, electric, music. Mike Bloomfield, heir to a salt and pepper shaker fortune, also happened to be one of the great original guitar players and musicians of his time. He never made it past 37. But it was a full decade longer than Hendrix.
John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers was the conservatory for Clapton, when he was god. Who then passed the torch to Peter Green, of Fleetwood Mac fame. It’s founder, in fact. He was the writer of Black Magic Woman, and a near demigod in the memory of British blues-rock fans.
There was Mick Taylor, whose androgynous, English, pretty boy, looks should have made him a teen idol, but he became a Rolling Stone instead. He was a virtuoso, who took Clapton and trimmed the excess, creating his own, elegant blues voice, and significantly expanded the Stone’s artistic and sonic pallet, in the process. The Stones were never better, not before, or since.
All of these players benefited immeasurably from the previous generations of Black blues guitarists and musicians, who labored in chitlin circuit obscurity, for most of their lives. These young English musicians, also benefited from big record collections, a growing, global media, racial prejudice, segregation—and, if we’re honest, White privilege, a term I loathe. In this instance, though, it’s appropriate, as it was anytime White’s and Black’s competed. Let’s remember, though, this was fifty years ago. The world has changed a lot, in that time. But, even if there had been no segregation, the music has to be heard on its own terms. There is no pure music, or untainted stream. Not in any artform. The minute we listen, we taint the music with our experiences and feelings. In such instances, Schrodinger’s cat is neither dead nor alive. It is both. But only as long as we don’t look inside the box—which is exactly how we should listen to the music—and live our lives, as well.
Mark Magula
Back in the late sixties, early seventies, there were three gods of the guitar; Clapton, Beck, and Hendrix. They were the great trinity of rock. Mike Bloomfield deserves to be there, too, but there is no other deity metaphor that readily comes to mind, so he suffers, as the result. What does matter, is the god’s of guitar as they existed back in the day. My day. Yesterday. A long time ago.
First, there was Eric Clapton, who’s name sounded like a Norse god of some kind. And the real kicker, he played like one—that soaring vibrato, which reinvented the way we heard the guitar—that sinewy, behind the beat phrasing that he got from Little Walter, Otis Rush, Hubert Sumlin, BB., Freddie, and Albert. The three kings. That full-bodied wave of sonic java, or maybe lava—liquid and flowing, that was his tone. It was beautiful. It was almost mystical, especially if you were a young impressionable guitar player.
Then, there was Jeff Beck. Like Clapton, he was an Englishman. And, like Clapton, he rode the tidal wave caused by the Beatles into stardom. In a different era, it might never have happened. But this was the era of Carnaby Street and swinging London, not Memphis or New Orleans.
Jeff Beck was his own man. Neither purist blues-man or pure rocker, but part Les Paul (the man, not the guitar) and part electrified Lightnin’ Hopkins. He’d play jazz, r&b, and whatever else came to mind, which was Beck’s modus operandi. Beck’s playing could mess your mind up, if you weren’t careful. Beck would begin a phrase, making you think he was going for that lick! That classic lick that every hack and every genius used to play. But not Beck. Beck would lay down a Les Paul-style arpeggio, with one foot in jazz and the other in rockabilly—Gene Vincent, Be-Bop-A-lula, Cliff Gallup, B.B. King and Buddy Guy—they were all in there somewhere.
If Clapton was the son, and Beck the holy spirit, Hendrix was the father of them all. He was as great an artist as the guitar ever produced—or ever would. He painted with sound, not just licks, or noise. Listen to his playing on The Band of Gypsies album, which was a one-off record, recorded to payoff a debt owed to a previous manager, looking to collect on Jimi’s fame. Regardless of the records reason to exist, it was recorded, Live, without a net! In the process, Hendrix reinvented blues guitar, taking the soul of the music and pushing it as far as it could go, like John Lee Hooker, Buddy guy, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, and Picasso all fused together. Jimi made it make sense by sheer artistry and inventiveness. Add Sly Stone, Bob Dylan, Curtis Mayfield, the Beatles, a dose of Clapton, and Hendrix still sounds only like Hendrix.
Today, as always, guitar fans tend to salivate over cleanly played licks, while imagination is given the short end, at least, in most instances. Technique, speed and facility, not artistry are the prime directive. Hendrix was more than a great guitar player, he was a genuine artist. He shined the light, taking forms and concepts beyond there nomal boundaries, making pure, unpredictable art. The guitar was his instrument, so was the amp, and the effects, which he helped conceive. Thanks must go to Jim Marshall for facilitating Hendrix's vision through his techinical innovations.
There were others, Mike Bloomfield was a pro with a serious pedigree, by the time Clapton emerged. In terms of artistry, only Hendrix was better, which Bloomfield acknowledged. Mike Bloomfield was a fat Jewish kid (using his own description)—who fell hard for the blues. He was from a heavily moneyed, Jewish family. But it was the blues, not money, that captivated him. It probably helped (and hurt) that he was a trust-fund baby. Therefore, whatever his demons, they were purely self-imposed by drugs and drink, to settle the ennui of being allowed to do whatever you want. So Mike played the blues, and, in the process, invented jazz-rock, fusion, heavily electrified blues, the rock guitarist, as a soloist on the order of a John Coltrane or a Charles Mingus. Or, something close to it. He and a handful of others transformed rock and roll into this other thing, not dance music, but listening music. Jerry Garcia, Duane Allman and Dickie Betts, Eric Clapton, Johnny Winter, Carlos Santana, all, took Mike Bloomfield’s innovations and made them their own, thereby changing music across the spectrum.
Bloomfield, like all the greats, looked to the past for his inspiration. He also looked forward. Looked everywhere, for foundational music—loud, soft, acoustic, electric, music. Mike Bloomfield, heir to a salt and pepper shaker fortune, also happened to be one of the great original guitar players and musicians of his time. He never made it past 37. But it was a full decade longer than Hendrix.
John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers was the conservatory for Clapton, when he was god. Who then passed the torch to Peter Green, of Fleetwood Mac fame. It’s founder, in fact. He was the writer of Black Magic Woman, and a near demigod in the memory of British blues-rock fans.
There was Mick Taylor, whose androgynous, English, pretty boy, looks should have made him a teen idol, but he became a Rolling Stone instead. He was a virtuoso, who took Clapton and trimmed the excess, creating his own, elegant blues voice, and significantly expanded the Stone’s artistic and sonic pallet, in the process. The Stones were never better, not before, or since.
All of these players benefited immeasurably from the previous generations of Black blues guitarists and musicians, who labored in chitlin circuit obscurity, for most of their lives. These young English musicians, also benefited from big record collections, a growing, global media, racial prejudice, segregation—and, if we’re honest, White privilege, a term I loathe. In this instance, though, it’s appropriate, as it was anytime White’s and Black’s competed. Let’s remember, though, this was fifty years ago. The world has changed a lot, in that time. But, even if there had been no segregation, the music has to be heard on its own terms. There is no pure music, or untainted stream. Not in any artform. The minute we listen, we taint the music with our experiences and feelings. In such instances, Schrodinger’s cat is neither dead nor alive. It is both. But only as long as we don’t look inside the box—which is exactly how we should listen to the music—and live our lives, as well.
Mark Magula