Skip to main content

Well Vinni, since you asked!

My man Vinni @ Musician's Hotsheet posted his own personal Top 10 of guitarists. I like how he described it:

"This is not a "who's better than who" list. It's a list of players who have influenced my playing and have been my personal inspiration to try harder, learn more and challenge myself as a player. It is in no particular order, other than the first one on the list, who is my personal Guitar God. -- [v]"

While I don't personally think the term "God" fits any mere mortal, let alone a guitar picker, I too have my list of those who inspired me...and why. Unlike Vinni, I'll refrain from using a numbering system...really no need to even passively imply numeric status.

  Danny Gatton: Sweet crap on a crunchy cracker! Gatton was amazing. Sure, he could play circles around pretty much anyone. Sure, guitarists the world over are still, 19 years after his suicide, trying to copy his licks. Sure, it's amazing that he played so well with those damned, tiny, little, Vienna sausage-looking fingers! But on top of it all, he was also a nice guy, a gent, and my friend. I also saw him make a mistake once. I was pretty sure the Rapture had begun.




  B.B. King: "The Thrill Is Gone" just may be my earliest musical memory. I couldn't have been more than 3 years old, because I remember seeing him on a TV show while we were still living over on Moonstone Dr. I remember thinking that it looked like he was waving when he played guitar. This, of course, was just his insane vibrato. Then, there's that tone! All you need to hear is one note and you KNOW it's B.B. King! And...I got to play through his amp once. Still set at his settings. For an entire set I got to pretend I was him. Life is good!



  Albert King: The tone monster his own bad self! When I hear electric guitar, his is usually the first sound I compare with. Somewhere between white hot steel, smooth butter, and a whap upside the head from Muhammed Ali. His bends taught me how to bend. Just simply bad ass.






Albert Collins: Albert, you greasy-fingered SOB, I miss you. If you're a blues fan...real blues, not that watered down SRV crap...then you're probably familiar with Albert Collins. I can best describe his sound as "stinging". He'd attack a note, and his Tele through that big ol' Fender Quad...well, it was like being stung by a giant Killer Bee!!!! But it was so good ya wanted more...and he was happy to oblige. Albert tried to teach me the coolness of open tunings...but I was too dense to get it at the time. I remembered it though...finally sunk in 20 years later.


  Joe Negri: If there's any one human responsible for motivating me to play guitar and try to play it well, it would be Joe Negri. I remember seeing him on TV as a kid, and seeing him perform a few times. That tone! Those chords! Those arpeggios! And he always looks so damned happy when he plays! I wanted the key to that kingdom! I've met Joe many times over the years and ya know what? He's just as happy when he's not playing. His unique, personal happiness comes through in his playing. Now THERE's a skill!



  Les Paul: If you want to refer to a guitar player in mystic tones...Les Paul is that guitar player. Every recorded sound you hear today, you can pretty much thank Les Paul for. His guitar playing was 2nd only to his creative genius. I won't list all of his accomplishments here. If you don't already know, look it up. He played professionally well into his 90s and most cats a third his age can only hope to TRY to play like him.


  Link Wray: The Grandfather of Punk. The Daddio of Distortion. The Inventor of the Power Chord. For any rock & roll guitarist past 1958 to not pay their respect to Link Wray simply means they probably haven't heard of him...and that's a damned shame. Link Wray was Rock and Roll. He lived fast and hard. He rocked until the very end. He was what so many "rockers" today like to believe they are. But ain't. Link Wray was a force of nature. And a helluva good man!





  Roland Janes: Let me guess...most of you are asking "Who????". At SUN Records, there were 3 guitarists who invented the sound later known as rock and roll or rockabilly. They would be Carl Perkins, Scotty Moore, and Roland Janes. Janes was one of the founders of The Little Green Men, Billy Lee Riley's band who backed so many of the SUN "rockabilly" artists. If all he'd ever done was the guitar part for "Flying Saucer R&R", that would be enough to ensure him an eternity of notoriety. But he did so much more, and even went on to a successful career as an engineer and producer.  Look him up! His playing is bad ass and inventive!


Scotty Moore: Guitarist on the early Elvis stuff. His mixture of Travis picking and some bluesy bends were what helped make Rock & Roll a reality. One of the coolest moments of my picking life was when I sat down and worked out the guitar part to "Baby Let's Play House". A true genius!







  Tino Gonzales: If you've not heard of Tino, I won't hold it against ya. I remember him 20 years ago, playing at The Decade every few months or so. He had, successfully, managed to mix Latin music with the blues. His playing was (and probably still is) breathtaking. His version of "The Thrill Is Gone" is 2nd ONLY to B.B. King. I hear he's living and playing in Europe these days. I'd love to see him again. He's one of those pickers that just leaves your jaw swingin' while you try to say "WOW"!

Ya might want to go check these cats out...if you're not already familiar.
 ;-)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Let's Talk Typing

When I was a kid, we had an already ancient Royal typewriter at home. Book reports, certain schoolwork, or in my case, just for making noise. Mom had a nice electric typewriter that she used for work. But that old Royal - that's probably where my love of writing began. - MM I was thinking about my old typewriter last night. Writing was serious back then. Forty pounds of steel, keys, and ribbon. No batteries. No updates. No distractions. Just you and the machine. And that machine fought back. Type too fast and the keys would jam together like two drunks fighting in a bar. Type too slowly or too lightly and it might just decide you didn’t really need that letter or that word. Sometimes it felt like the thing had opinions. Like it was quietly judging you. You learned quickly. You learned rhythm. You learned pressure. You learned patience. It was like a built-in editor made of steel and stubbornness. Made a mistake? Start over. Or, if you didn’t mind your work looking like hell, dab s...

Folks Don't Go on Quiet Hill

  "Why is everyone so afraid of going up there?" The city girl had been pestering the locals for a few days now. Said she was a reporter or something. The honest truth was there was never really any news to report from around these parts. Every year, the seasons changed, but not much else. The deer hunters came and went, like they always did. The hikers and campers came and went, like they always did. The holidays came and went. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Rinse and repeat. Just the way things were up here in the hills. Walt Henley was renting out his old hunting cabin to her - dirt cheap, too. He figured she'd be gone after a day or two. The place had well water, which was usually enough to run off most city folks. But this gal was determined to find a story - even if she had to make one up out of whole cloth. Walt's mother, Abigail, was the one who invited the city girl to lunch. "It's the polite thing to do," she admonished him. "It's the C...

THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...