Larry Coryell
The Godfather is Dead
Larry Coryell - The Godfather is Dead
A few months back, I bought the first Larry Coryell album (not CD) that I’d purchased, in probably 20 years. It had been that long since I really listened to Larry. At one time, no other guitarist in my life had the same impact. Coryell was a serious virtuoso, especially for a guy who could play rock.
Rock music in its infancy had its own virtuoso’s, Clapton, Beck, Hendrix, Bloomfield and Johnny Winter, among others, but they were basically blues players on steroids and Marshall Stacks, not real jazz players. Coryell could put the electricity away, pick up an acoustic guitar and weave classical lines, with bad-ass bebop guitar, flamenco, folk, and even free-jazz. He was the whole 20th century, realized on the guitar.
He was also human in ways that his contemporary John McLaughlin never seemed to be. McLaughlin was to England what Coryell was to America. Coryell’s technique sometimes got the better of him. Sometimes, like real humans, his technique faltered. McLaughlin never appeared to have technical lapses. But his output was never as constant as Coryell’s, I think. Although, I don’t know that for sure.
Larry Coryell, by comparison, didn’t seem to care whether his chops needed tightening a bit. He played anyway. Because he loved to, I guess. He’d record a fusion gig at millions of decibels, and then play some thoroughly modern jazz, shift to Memphis style soul, while reaching for the modal highway, both as a sideman and as solo artist.
Larry Coryell was fearless.
Here’s the thing, that kind of cross pollination may be more or less common today, but then, most of the various forms that Coryell could play--and on a moment’s notice--were new at the time. Rock and roll was barely a decade old. Free-jazz was less than a decade old, as well, and still as radical as it seemed a few years earlier. Soul music was fresh and clean with Motown, and down and funky as it could be, with James Brown, Sly Stone, Stax and Muscle shoals. Rock music, which we used to differentiate from rock & roll, was brand new, too. Big amps and slinky strings were the latest innovation. A stacked amplifier was a foreign object, like an alien lifeform. At least, that was the case for a teenager living late 1960’s.
Television’s had 3 channels back then, mostly in black and white, with screens the size of a modest fish bowl. A stereo record player tended to be a small suitcase sized thing, easy to carry, with limited sound. But we didn’t know any better. All of these limitations made the act of discovery more important. So, we lived outside and had to drive and actually interact with our fellow humans. Change was as simple as driving to the next town.
Turning off the top forty and listening to the Beatles and The Stones, Hendrix, Captain Beefheart etc, instead, was like traveling to a different solar system, maybe another dimension. In our puny world there was height, width, and depth. In this new rock-land, there was the same thing, plus some other shit, which could not be easily ascertained, dimension-wise.
Anyway. Larry Coryell was deep in the mix, a pal to Hendrix, whom Coryell thought of as a genius. I have no doubt, Hendrix was awed by Larry, as well. He had to have been. Nobody plays with such technical skill and versatility without cats admiring him. Cats had to be afraid when Coryell came on the scene, though, even the best, of the best.
His work with Gary Burton’s band back in late 60’s was enough to cement his legend. Jazz is not rock and roll, though, and success isn’t money, or even record sales, it’s the quality of the music that matters, with jazz—and the quality of Burton’s band was extraordinary. All the component parts were dazzling on their own, as well. But it was Coryell that really stood out, which led to some conflicted egos and his inevitable departure.
Over the next few decades, Coryell recorded with trios, solo, with larger bands, with legends like Charles Mingus and Miles Davis, John McLaughlin and Carla Bley. He even sang.
Some of his output came while submerged in drugs. Even so, his records were never less than interesting, always with a sense of daring. When he was on, nobody was better. Different, maybe. But not better. And he was on, often enough to keep his audience in awe, me included.
As I said at the beginning, I hadn’t listened in a long time, until a few months ago. I’m glad I did.
When he died, I was caught off guard. He seemed healthy and musically as vigorous as ever. But 73 is not young. Like all great artists, though, he will be here forever. Or, as long we survive as a culture—and Larry Coryell enriched the culture—like very few people ever do.
RIP Brother. I miss you already.
But I can always listen.
Mark Magula
A few months back, I bought the first Larry Coryell album (not CD) that I’d purchased, in probably 20 years. It had been that long since I really listened to Larry. At one time, no other guitarist in my life had the same impact. Coryell was a serious virtuoso, especially for a guy who could play rock.
Rock music in its infancy had its own virtuoso’s, Clapton, Beck, Hendrix, Bloomfield and Johnny Winter, among others, but they were basically blues players on steroids and Marshall Stacks, not real jazz players. Coryell could put the electricity away, pick up an acoustic guitar and weave classical lines, with bad-ass bebop guitar, flamenco, folk, and even free-jazz. He was the whole 20th century, realized on the guitar.
He was also human in ways that his contemporary John McLaughlin never seemed to be. McLaughlin was to England what Coryell was to America. Coryell’s technique sometimes got the better of him. Sometimes, like real humans, his technique faltered. McLaughlin never appeared to have technical lapses. But his output was never as constant as Coryell’s, I think. Although, I don’t know that for sure.
Larry Coryell, by comparison, didn’t seem to care whether his chops needed tightening a bit. He played anyway. Because he loved to, I guess. He’d record a fusion gig at millions of decibels, and then play some thoroughly modern jazz, shift to Memphis style soul, while reaching for the modal highway, both as a sideman and as solo artist.
Larry Coryell was fearless.
Here’s the thing, that kind of cross pollination may be more or less common today, but then, most of the various forms that Coryell could play--and on a moment’s notice--were new at the time. Rock and roll was barely a decade old. Free-jazz was less than a decade old, as well, and still as radical as it seemed a few years earlier. Soul music was fresh and clean with Motown, and down and funky as it could be, with James Brown, Sly Stone, Stax and Muscle shoals. Rock music, which we used to differentiate from rock & roll, was brand new, too. Big amps and slinky strings were the latest innovation. A stacked amplifier was a foreign object, like an alien lifeform. At least, that was the case for a teenager living late 1960’s.
Television’s had 3 channels back then, mostly in black and white, with screens the size of a modest fish bowl. A stereo record player tended to be a small suitcase sized thing, easy to carry, with limited sound. But we didn’t know any better. All of these limitations made the act of discovery more important. So, we lived outside and had to drive and actually interact with our fellow humans. Change was as simple as driving to the next town.
Turning off the top forty and listening to the Beatles and The Stones, Hendrix, Captain Beefheart etc, instead, was like traveling to a different solar system, maybe another dimension. In our puny world there was height, width, and depth. In this new rock-land, there was the same thing, plus some other shit, which could not be easily ascertained, dimension-wise.
Anyway. Larry Coryell was deep in the mix, a pal to Hendrix, whom Coryell thought of as a genius. I have no doubt, Hendrix was awed by Larry, as well. He had to have been. Nobody plays with such technical skill and versatility without cats admiring him. Cats had to be afraid when Coryell came on the scene, though, even the best, of the best.
His work with Gary Burton’s band back in late 60’s was enough to cement his legend. Jazz is not rock and roll, though, and success isn’t money, or even record sales, it’s the quality of the music that matters, with jazz—and the quality of Burton’s band was extraordinary. All the component parts were dazzling on their own, as well. But it was Coryell that really stood out, which led to some conflicted egos and his inevitable departure.
Over the next few decades, Coryell recorded with trios, solo, with larger bands, with legends like Charles Mingus and Miles Davis, John McLaughlin and Carla Bley. He even sang.
Some of his output came while submerged in drugs. Even so, his records were never less than interesting, always with a sense of daring. When he was on, nobody was better. Different, maybe. But not better. And he was on, often enough to keep his audience in awe, me included.
As I said at the beginning, I hadn’t listened in a long time, until a few months ago. I’m glad I did.
When he died, I was caught off guard. He seemed healthy and musically as vigorous as ever. But 73 is not young. Like all great artists, though, he will be here forever. Or, as long we survive as a culture—and Larry Coryell enriched the culture—like very few people ever do.
RIP Brother. I miss you already.
But I can always listen.
Mark Magula