I love finding new music and artists. I have, as long as I can remember, kept my eyes and ears peeled looking for that voice, that writer, or that sound that speaks to me. And I don’t question it, the Muse, I mean. People ask me how I can like, say, Dylan’s voice, but not some other (fill in the blank) guy’s. I can’t really make sense of it, it either works for me or it doesn’t. And my tastes do not necessarily relate to opinions as to an artist’s merit. I really love blues and blues rock, but there are plenty of groups in that category I have no time for, while I can champion the merits of Rory Gallagher’s catalog all day long. Take Hendrix for example. While I don’t listen to him in a regular rotation, I completely respect his originality, skill, and his place in the history of Rock and Roll. But I take my psychedelics in small doses.
And don’t hate me New York; I just don’t get that state of mind. My idea of New York is upstate, sitting around a campfire in the Adirondacks. I don’t wax eloquent thinking of New Jersey, or Asbury Park, as the holy land of Rock and Roll, but Woodstock works just fine. And Tulsa. And Nashville, and so on. Now, before I get burned at the stake, let me say I think that Mr. Joel and Mr. Springsteen are incredible talents that certainly deserve all the rewards due their impressive bodies of work. I like some of their stuff; I just don’t listen to them all that often. What I do have is respect for those artists, while understanding that there are different voices out there that speak to each of us personally.
Back to Gallagher for a moment. No one would dispute that Clapton is the reigning master of the Stratocaster. He is also a gifted technician with a list of classic songs miles long. And I have the albums of his that I need. But Gallagher played as if his very body was on fire, with a passion that spoke to me in ways that Clapton’s stoic reserve didn’t. Forget the fact that the music magazine Melody Maker chose Gallagher over Clapton in its 1972 best guitarist poll. (Yeah, I know, I have another column about the evils of “lists.” It’s just that even if you don’t like the poll position there is a reason the man is on there in the first place). Does my leaning towards Gallagher mean I don’t appreciate Clapton? Of course not. It is merely an acknowledgement of the way I hear things, the voice that speaks to me. So if you want to write a note telling me I couldn’t find my butt with a blueprint, that’s okay. Personally, I don’t like musical flame wars and this site isn’t designed to pit people’s interests against each other. I respect the choices and the voices that other people hear from.
It just comes down to trusting the muse. I am at peace liking the artists I like, and I am content that you may have other favorites. So I won’t argue those points. I have another article about my choice for the greatest song in Rock and Roll. But it’s my choice, so essentially it means nothing, except to me. My tastes can run from Cash to Dylan to Brit folk or a smattering of Prog, Country Rock and back to the blues. It’s all, as they say, good.
The joy is in the discovery. Way back, (or as Van would say, way, way, way, way, back) I used to love to troll the cut-out bins, finding treasures for ninety-nine cents. I found things that spoke to me, even if it seemed I was the only one who knew about them. I remember discovering Balaklava by Pearls Before Swine, because the deathly cover painting was so intriguing. And so was the music. There was something weird and otherworldly in singer/songwriter Tom Rapp’s voice.
Sometimes those voices take me on a journey I am not prepared to take. The artist moves ahead into new territory and I am not yet ready to leave the comfort of the familiar last place we inhabited. Sometimes it takes a year or more before I can revisit that new expression and be able to acquire it, to embrace it. That’s good too, because it forces me to grow, to change, and to try to understand. And sometimes it’s just a place that means something to the artist that, for whatever reason, I will never be able to understand. Maybe it’s so personal to the artist that it is meant only for them. I think the best music comes when the musicians are playing for themselves, because then it is more pure, more ecstatic.
Sometimes those voices take me on a journey I am not prepared to take. The artist moves ahead into new territory and I am not yet ready to leave the comfort of the familiar last place we inhabited. Sometimes it takes a year or more before I can revisit that new expression and be able to acquire it, to embrace it. That’s good too, because it forces me to grow, to change, and to try to understand. And sometimes it’s just a place that means something to the artist that, for whatever reason, I will never be able to understand. Maybe it’s so personal to the artist that it is meant only for them. I think the best music comes when the musicians are playing for themselves, because then it is more pure, more ecstatic.
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