THE LISTS
As Moses was heard to remark as he reached the top of the mountain, I think I can feel one of those lists coming on. On being told in tones of withering scorn by my partner that a sure sign of prevalent male immaturity is the gleeful compiling of lists, I kept my head down for a while. Any temptation to compile lists or to collate useless information systematically - favourite writing implements in order of preference, vehicle registration plates containing the numbers 666, the perfect combination of swearwords in an unbroken sequence etc. - would be quelled at source. Instead I would put down the favourite writing implement & the used envelope & go & do something useful & partner-friendly instead.
But gradually it became evident that I was living a half-life & no amount of shifting piles of childhood comic books into the loft or painting doors provided consolation. And then, as I sat in the john one day (sans reading matter & thus lost in reflection) it struck me that, as a man, I had not so much the right as the duty to compile lists. How else but by such manifest symbols of male weakness coudl my partner measure off her massive superiority? I owed it to her & to her gender to demonstrate graphically & often that I am all man.
So here comes the first list. Simple & straighforward for starters - the sort of list a bunch of guys might reel off in a pub on a Friday night when the creative energies are a little slack. Great guitar solos. Not so much the 10-minute finger-burning, ear-bleeding excursions of early '70s stadium rock as those exquisite little fillers that wire together the verses of the song. Here are 10 of mine. How about yours?
Cliff Gallup curling off two gorgeous little solos on Bluejean Bop by Gene Vincent and The Bluecaps. Pure liquid rock'n'roll at the birth of the genre.
Hendrix's swooping, whooping slide in the second part of the solo on All Along The Watchtower. Guitar as voice. Such a sweet shock when first heard.
Steve Cropper's perfect little fills on Green Onions. A masterpiece of economy, edgy, terse & concise. If pressed, I might mark it down as all-time winner.
Richard Thompson's neurotic, spidery, blur of notes from a dark place on the live version of Calvary Cross. Like glass breaking slowly.
Mark Knopfler's rippling, swirling, ultra-light gauge 5-finger cascade on Sultans of Swing.
Neil Young's lurching, blundering, ragged howl on Southern Man in which a moment's semi-tone slip up a fret is turned instantly into eccentric triumph.
Tom Verlaine's relentless, insistent, buzzing slow burner on Television's Marquee Moon. A cool, late-'70s antidote to the macho swagger of gale force 10 guitar histrionics.
Peter Green's achingly sad, perfectly articulated understatement on the first Fleetwood Mac's Need Your Love So Bad. Blues like a shower of rain.
Jim (Roger) McGuinn's post-Coltrane roll & tumble on Eight Miles High. Most of us had never even seen a 12-string in 1965, much less heard it redefining what an electric guitar should be able to do.
Dave Davies' stammering, ranting, adolescent 11-on-the-gain-switch aggression on You Really Got Me by The Kinks. Guitar brutalism sweeping away for ever the six-string politesse of pre-Beatles pop.
Any further offers?
11:46:16 PM 
|
