Guitar Jam

Whammy Bar: Van Halen vs. The Police

By Larry Dobrow
Editor’s note: Sir Whammy penned his column prior to the news last week that the 2007 Van Halen Tour was cancelled due to discord in the band. Guitar Jam Daily regrets that the column wasn’t posted prior to the announcement. However, we feel that it remains a great work by Mr. Dobrow. Although it may tease your imagination as to what “could have been” for Van Halen, it offers a prophetic vision of “what could be” for the Police. 

We hope the grin stays on your face long after reading the column. Ours remains.

It is well documented that the founding members of both The Police and Van Halen do not particularly care for one another. Neither has functioned as an actual band for around 23 years, thus putting into doubt whether any musical chemistry remains. And by all accounts, both groups are hitting the road once anew for a single reason: an ocean of dollars so vast and deep that each participant can procure anything from pimped-out electro-lutes (Sting) to his two front teeth (Eddie Van Halen).

Will we be treated to anything beyond rote versions of the hits? Probably not. Will the musicians, with the possible exception of newly anointed bassist/15-year-old substance-abuse-problem-waiting-to-happen Wolfgang Van Halen, show much in the way of chops? Doubtful. Am I excited, bordering on euphoric, for both tours? Hells friggin’ yeah.

I’m on record as being quite the fan of the guitar work of both Eddie Van Halen and Andy Summers. Never mind their prickly personalities; their playing has never been anything less than wildly inventive, both technically and sonically. At the same time, I can’t think of two road trips boasting more inherent potential for disaster…well, not until Axl and Slash set aside their differences, anyway. Hence I present this clip-n-save S.O.S. to the world comparing the two bands and their respective possibilities for summer-tour superiority and/or sloth.

Probability that tour will actually happen: Van Halen v.9.0 may have fallen apart before it was even officially announced, as witnessed by a recent report in Pollstar. Or maybe it hasn’t, according to a more recent-erish one in Billboard. Either way, installing your girlfriend as your band’s de facto manager/agent/publicist, as Eddie Van Halen has reportedly done, is not unlike installing the girl behind the counter at CVS to serve as your de facto physician/surgeon/oral hygienist…The Police have already bought mid-sized foreign municipalities with their advances from the first round of ticket sales. If they cancel now, Sting might have to—gasp!—go back to writing murderously catchy pop songs. Advantage: The Police

Likelihood of on-stage meltdown: As much as Eddie Van Halen might be consciousness-challenged at times—during a Chicago show on the band’s last U.S. trek, Senor Snoozy-Strings apparently shut himself down for a brief interlude—you get the impression that Diamond Dave’s always-on chest-thumping will spur him to greater heights of coherence. In other words, expect many a hip-crippling tumble off the drum riser…The Police might melt down during their pre-show affirmation, the encore break, while noshing on the post-show vegetarian canapés or as they pile onto the tour bus (“mom! Sting’s jostling me!”). During their time on stage, however, they’ll remain as clean and professional as a Sub-Zero refrigerator. Advantage: Van Halen

Potential for catastrophic inter-band violence: Van Halen has always belonged to the Metallica let’s-hug-it-out-with-the-help-of-a-licensed-psychotherapist school of inter-band communication, as witnessed by David Lee Roth’s recent quip to the Los Angeles Times: “The two worst words in the English lexicon are ‘band meeting’”…Most of The Police’s squabbles over the years have featured Stewart Copeland launching himself, SCUD-missile-style, over his drum kit and into Sting’s kidneys. I just don’t see him having the range he once did, so he might have to settle for a few stealth jabs with the drumsticks during the bow to the crowd. Advantage: The Police

Wailin’ song that should, but likely won’t, be rescued from back-catalog obscurity: On Van Halen II’s “D.O.A.,” Mr. Eddie dodges and deflects a killer central riff much in the same manner that he has dodged and deflected any number of substance-abuse counselors…“No Time This Time,” off Regatta de Blanc, alternates bright staccato stabs with doomsday chords. It’s one of Andy Summers’ most versatile moments – not that anyone except an old-timer would ever know it, given the band’s propensity to air out the hits and the hits alone. Advantage: Van Halen

Squealing guitar-God moment in the spotlight: If past history is any indication, the feral Van Halen I call-to-arms “Eruption” will feature quotes from Pachelbel, Wagner, Zappa and High School Musical, and perchance an actual riff from the song itself…Summers’ angular, out-of-nowhere “So Lonely” guitar bluster ought to rouse the Gruppies from their mid-show BlackBerrying.Advantage: Van Halen

Song that oughta be shelved: When Van Halen turned “You Really Got Me” on its ear back in 1977, it hadn’t yet been appropriated by grade-C cover bands and “hip,” “edgy” advertisers looking for some baby-boomer bombast in their marketing missives…For a song about stalking, “Every Breath You Take” has proven surprisingly resilient in this topsy-turvy, post-Fatal Attraction world. Advantage: The Police

Song likely to be sentenced to slow death via over-arrangement: Say what you want about Van Halen—that its members haven’t had an original musical thought since 1984, for example—but they don’t dilly-dally. So long as Li’l Wolfie isn’t allotted 20 minutes of alone-time on stage every night with the bass, Van Halen will continue to mete out its music in digestible four-minute chunks. “Everybody Wants Some” could get a little sludgy, I suppose, if Dave is feeling overly conversational…We’ve already heard what The Police have in store for “Roxanne,” courtesy of the Grammy night mid-song musical walkabout. Bad things could happen here—16-minutes-worth-of-spacey-“Walking-on-the-Moon”-noodlings bad, man. Big, big advantage: Van Halen

Chance to flash some rhythm chops: Has Eddie Van Halen ever strummed a simple rhythm progression? If somebody asked him to play a straight cover of, say, “Sister Golden Hair,” could he pull it off? I’m dubious…Any of the ska/reggae/rock hybrids from The Police’s first three records could qualify here. “Canary in a Coal Mine” wouldn’t be a bad call, but Sting has no more chance of hitting its high notes than he does of reclaiming musical street cred. Andy Summers might be advised to add a few of the straightforward rockers from Outlandos d’Amour into the set, as ballsy runs through “Next to You” and “Truth Hits Everybody” could go a long way towards ridding the band of its Synchronicity-era rep as world-music dabblers. Advantage: The Police

Final score: Van Halen 4, The Police 4. Might as well jump…

Whammy Bar: Prince

Larry Dobrow
Like my pal/personal guitar Yoda Nick Friese, I couldn’t pull myself away from the couch during Prince’s Super Bowl halftime show. Unlike Nick, however, my attentiveness had nothing to do with Prince’s Telecaster pyrotechnics. Rather, I’d consumed so much bean dip during the pregame show and first half that I found myself chemically fused to the cushions.

As I waited for the paramedics to arrive with their gauze and blowtorches, I got to thinking about Prince as a guitar player. His playing, it seems, has always taken a back seat to just about everything else about him: his arrival as a multi-instrument/songwriting/performing prodigy, the flash and fanfare of his Purple Rain superstardom, the general weirdness (hello, Mr. Glyph), the battles with his record companies and the self-indulgent musical meanderings that followed, etc.

Yet even when you confine the discussion strictly to his guitar work, Prince remains one of the most difficult players to wrap your head around. I’d argue that, over the course of his 30-odd years in the public eye, Prince has alternately been one of music’s most overrated *and* underrated guitar players. Consider:

Prince was underrated… when he first arrived on the scene with the most joyous four-minute chunks of R&B since Motown’s heyday. The questions being asked back then were ones along the lines of, “Who is this brash kid with his every-nine-months killer albums and do-it-himself flair? And those sub-nostril wisps of hair don’t truly qualify as a mustache, do they?” What the pundits ignored were the fluid solos that lent a harder edge to the songs and neatly counterbalanced the falsetto vocals. Check out the outro run on “Why You Wanna Treat Me So Bad?,” in which a riff that bubbles under the surface for much of the song comes exploding into the forefront. As far as his rhythm playing goes, just listen to the chunky, funky chords that serve as a cornerstone for the extended version of “1999,” especially during the “mommy, why does everybody have a bomb?” finale.

Prince was overrated… when mainstream listeners discovered him around the time of Purple Rain. This isn’t to say that the Hendrix blast at the end of “Let’s Go Crazy” or the feral squeal that opens “When Doves Cry” don’t rank among the seminal guitar moments of the 1980s. What distinguishes them, however, is the musical creativity – their placement within the context of the songs, rather than the guitar work itself. For fans of his earlier playing, the Purple Rain-era Prince should be remembered less for those two flashes than for the soaring, melodic “Computer Blue” interlude.

Prince was underrated… when he stopped making music for the masses. After 1991’s Diamond and Pearls (a.k.a. “the one in which Prince reminds us that he can write mammothly catchy songs whenever he darn well feels like it”) and the unpronounceable-glyph-titled album that followed, the Artist Then Known As Who-The-Hell-Knows-What basically screwed around for the rest of the decade and the first few years of the one after it. A few hits compilations, the mail-it-in funk of Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic, a sporadically metallic foray into Chaos and Disorder… Be honest: you stopped paying attention, too. That said, while Prince might have stopped caring about the songwriting process, he didn’t skimp on the guitar. His “after-show” performances from that era – documented much more faithfully on bootlegs than on the official One Night Alone… Live! release – featured some staggeringly inventive guitar, especially on the shoulda-been-an-arena-rock-staple “Peach.”

Prince was overrated… the second his Rock and Roll Hall of Fame performance hit the Internet. Again, there was nothing wrong per se with his slash-and-burn solo at the end of the “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” tribute to George Harrison. It’s that he didn’t show anything that devoted fans hadn’t seen before, usually in a more music-friendly setting (you know, like one not accessorized with 632 VH-1 cameras) and with a more stalwart backup band. On the tour that followed, the verdict was similarly split: every jaw-dropping guitar moment (especially his savage “Whole Lotta Love” cover) was diminished by the overpracticed, Vegas feel of partial runs through his hits (a few seconds of “1999” here, a verse of “Baby I’m a Star” there).

So in the wake of his Super Bowl triumph, where does Prince stand today as a player? Frankly, I have no clue. Given his past unpredictability, his next record is as likely to be a straightforward collection of pop-funk, a la Musicology, as a compilation of electronica whale songs. Whatever it is, here’s hoping that the ol’ Telecaster gets a workout at one point or another.

Whammy Bar: Randy Rhoads

By Larry Dobrow
As a wee bitty shredder of riffmanship raw, I used to wait by the mailbox – literally – for the monthly arrival of Guitar magazine. Back in the 1980s, there weren’t many other places to go for tablature. Unless, that is, you had the dough to spring for Cherry Hill’s $12.95 books of intermittently accurate Billy Idol transcriptions.

The mag did its best to cover a wide range of styles, often to its detriment; Crüe-fixated tin-ears had no more interest in learning about Steve Lukather and his bountiful white-fro than they did in inhaling mountains of lima beans. The one mainstay in its pages that everybody seemed to adore, however, was Ozzy consort Randy Rhoads.

This adoration, at times, seemed to come straight out of the Leif Garrett/David Cassidy handbook. The otherwise finicky and massively, almost disturbingly argumentative readers agreed on Rhoads and Rhoads alone, according him every honor in the mag’s regular polls – I think he made the Guitar Hall of Fame ahead of, like, Jimmy Page. They touted him as the nigh-perfect, barely human amalgam of Jimi Hendrix (see under: sonic innovation) and Eddie Van Halen (see under: semi-classical, feedback-drenched noodlings).

Me? I never “got” Randy Rhoads. Then as now – and this is said with all due respect for the departed – I didn’t understand what made him that much more of a player than the other nü-classical-metalists who flooded the hair-band scene in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He played loud. He played fast. He played with enormous dexterity. So what? So did Vai and Malmsteen and Hammett.

Taking a look back at Rhoads’ recorded oeuvre, what strikes me first is how little of it there is: a few albums with the first incarnation of Quiet Riot, two studio discs with Ozzy Osbourne, and a posthumous “tribute” release. Maybe this isn’t a bad thing, as witnessed by the legacy-diminishing re-re-re-re-re-releases of everything in the Hendrix and Jeff Buckley catalogs.

At the same time, Randy doesn’t give us late-appreciation types a whole lot to work with – and what’s there doesn’t transcend the conventions of the hard-rock genre. The hits (“Flying High Again,” “I Don’t Know,” “Crazy Train”) uniformly kick much tushie and make for a fine pre-kickoff soundtrack to any NFL game. But the riffs, solos and whammy-bar theatrics contained therein don’t strike me as any more inventive than anything on, say, Love at First Sting.

The acoustic jingle-jangle of “Dee” might have prompted hairspray-addled gals to, as the kids today say, “give it up,” but it offers nothing that you can’t find in more melodic form on a Lindsey Buckingham platter. Too, after Eddie V.H. traveled roughly the same look-ma-I’m-playing-really -really-fast-on-a-nylon-stringed-guitar! path on “Spanish Fly,” the song loses whatever it might have scored in novelty points.

There are moments in the Rhoads/Ozzy catalog where you can practically hear the inner guitar hero pressing up against the constraints of the meat-and-potatoes genre, notably on the live versions of “Children of the Grave” and misguided lawsuit magnet “Suicide Solution.” But that’s all they are: moments. As for Rhoads’ pre-Ozzy work with Quiet Riot, well, good luck finding it. Originally released only in Japan, the records can’t be located even on “non-official” music downloading sites. But gosh, if you want to hear the band’s post-Randy, just-piling-it-on version of “Mama Weer All Crazee Now,” you’re in luck.

At the time of Rhoads’ tragic death – made all the more tragic by the fact that it happened during what was essentially a prank gone awry – Rhoads was said to be contemplating ditching Ozzy’s band to pursue further education in classical music. Who knows – maybe he would have earned all those plaudits that have since come his way. But without anything more than the music in front of me, I can’t label Randy Rhoads as anything more than a sad case of what-coulda-been – and, as such, one of guitardom’s most overrated players

Whammy Bar: The REO Man With The Six String Plan

By Larry Dobrow
So I’m wandering about in a post-lunch haze the other afternoon, basking in the glow of a totally non-global-warming / non-El-Niño-related 60-degree December afternoon in New York. I have my iPod on, as per municipal mandate, and I’m feeling kinda swell. I reach the “R” artists in my alphabetical romp through the device and all of a sudden, it’s 1982 again.

Guitars wail in my left ear. Guitars wail in my right. The drums thunder; the bass pounds. The singer warbles in the most melodically intense manner humanly possible about either arson or a rather persistent fireplace conflagration.

And then the realization hits me like a free-falling piano: my God, REO Speedwagon kinda rocks. No, they don’t just rock, they RAWK! RAWK! RAWK RAWK RAWK!

After several songs, my iPod continues on its merry way through the Rs with a selection of three from the Reservoir Dogs soundtrack. And me, I’m left with the sobering realization that not only does my taste in music suck, but also that I must atone for my cultural transgressions with a public confession. So here we are.

During my retreat from that REO-fueled musical fugue state, what struck me weren’t the songs’ easy melodies or the radio-simpatico production. Rather, it was the guitars. This represented something of a revelation to me, especially considering that I had little idea who was playing them.

I immediately ruled out lead singer/permed-coif devotee Kevin Cronin, about whom I remember little beyond his onstage predilections for spandex. After racking my brain for a bit (Keith Scott? No, he was the dude who played with Bryan Adams…whose music I also totally never liked, honest), I conceded defeat and broke out the ol’ Wikipedia.

The REO man with the six-string plan? Gary Richrath. In addition to capturing the correct spelling of his last name, I learned that he got booted out of the band some time later for having one too many girlfriends, a sad turn of events documented in the song “One Too Many Girlfriends.” Ooh, that’ll show him!

(I just did a quick check, purely for editorial purposes, of the REO songs available for “borrowing” on one of the file-sharing sites. Among the tunes mistakenly attributed to the band: “We Built This City,” “Dream Weaver” and “I Want to Know What Love Is.” That explains a lot, no?)

His early-’80s offenses against hair, fabric and facial contortion notwithstanding, Richrath was quite the guitar virtuoso in his day. He pioneered the since-forgotten art of the pre-first-verse solo in “Roll With the Changes” and refined it further in “I Do’ Wanna Know.” He eased into “Don’t Let Him Go” with a cloud of feedback and exploded out of it with a nasty, octave-skipping burst. He crafted a solo so memorable for “Keep On Loving You” that its second half remains permanently imprinted in my brain (“weeeeeeer, wah-nah-nah-nah weeeeeer wah-nah-nah-nah NAH NAH NAAAAHHH!”).

At times, one must resort to hyperbole to encapsulate Richrath’s awesometudinousness. “Ridin’ the Storm Out” serves up a veritable Great Wall of Guitars. “Like You Do” out-Mountains Leslie West. “Blazin’ Your Own Trail Again” sounds like “Crimson and Clover” overrun by a tidal wave of squeals and pulls.

I stopped listening to REO Speedwagon the second I heard the nü-Manilow piano dewdrops that commence “Can’t Fight This Feeling,” so I don’t have the slightest idea what I might have missed from their latter years (a.k.a. “the unemployed era”). But during their formative and supergroup phases, REO Speedwagon kicked quite a bit of tush and Gary Richrath was the predominant reason why.

That is all.

Whammy Bar Mix Tape: Vol. 1

By Larry Dobrow
When we celebrate double-reverse-super-awesome guitar players in this space, we tend to focus on a single guy and his body of work. This is all fine and good when the discussion turns to Richard Thompson or Jimmy Page, whose virtuosity can sustain a 700-word column. But most of the players out there? They inspire the occasional pumped fist and “you might like this, maybe, if you’re in the mood – MP3 attached” email, but little enthusiasm for a full-bore career/catalog appreciation.

Which isn’t to say that these assorted guitar C-listers don’t occasionally soar as close to the sun as that Icarus guy who used to manage Iron Maiden (at least, that’s how I understand it). If you look hard enough, there exists at least one Guitar God moment in just about every musician’s oeuvre… okay, maybe not Jewel’s.

So let’s dub today’s exercise “Whammy Bar Mix Tape: Vol. 1.” What follows is a list of seven guitar-ish songs that, owing in equal part to my total lack of taste in music and my unwavering fondness for tracks I first encountered when I was 12, never fail to pump (clap!) me up. I ask you – better yet, I challenge you – to give each a listen and tell me that the individuals involved don’t do a perfect job of matching song with tone, riff and style.

Styx, “Too Much Time on My Hands”: If this weren’t a family publication, I’d say something here along the lines of “Tommy Shaw looks and sings like a little itty bitch.” That said, the blond tresses and stuck-pig wails can’t obscure the frequent genius of the guy’s playing. Check out the way his “Too Much” solo darts between the chorus refrains, or the swervy feedback that eases the song into its third verse. Shaw’s guitar work here should be held up as a prime musical example of having lemons/making lemonade.

Spinal Tap, “America”: Ironically enough, this jokey song (“God bless Johnny Appleseed!”) boasts better prog-rock guitar than just about anything in the Genesis or Yes catalog. I saw Spinal Tap in concert a few years back; the concert underwhelmed me, frankly, because the musicianship was too friggin’ professional. Seriously – the recasting of “Sex Farm” as a Chili Peppers-ish funk number, complete with horns, took my attention away from rejoinders about “poking your hay.” Separately, please join with me in praying that future editions of Microsoft Word make it easier to get the umlaut dots over the “n” in Spinal Tap.

Matthew Sweet, “Girlfriend”: The song commences with siren-like feedback and ends with a blast of bent-string fury. In between, I count approximately 32 solos and 744 quick-hit fills. I don’t know a whole lot about the late Robert Quine, who handled a bulk of the guitar duty on Sweet’s first few discs, but on this track his playing falls somewhere between “volcanic” and “homicidal.” That’s high praise, by the way.

Bruce Springsteen, “Prove It All Night” (live): Not just any live version, but the one played on December 15, 1978 at San Francisco’s Winterland. Bruce tends to divide the guitar community: generally, if you like the guy’s music (raising and waving hand enthusiastically), you like the way he bends and grunts and sweats his way through twangy, decidedly non-artful solos. If you don’t, you see him as a Telecaster hack. For the nonbelievers, this run through “Prove It All Night,” which builds to an orgiastic guitar frenzy before a single word is sounded, should come across as revelatory. Remember: they’re not saying “boooo,” they’re saying, “Bruuuuuce, you have some sweet-ass tones here, duuuuuuuude.”

Big Country, “In a Big Country”: Mr. Guitar, meet Mr. Bagpipes. I’m sure you two kids have a lot to talk about, so I’ll be out back cranking up some Pogues and inhaling room-temperature beer through my toothless mug… On some level I have accepted that really, really, really shrill guitars serve as a stand-in for the ‘pipes here, but a guy can dream, can’t he? According to Wikipedia, dueling six-stringers Stuart Adamson and Bruce Watson achieved the sound “through the use of the MXR Pitch Transposer 129 Guitar Effect.” Okay, then.

Lenny Kravitz, “Always on the Run”: While I recognize that Slash ranks among the few hair-metal graduates who deserves serious consideration as a riffsman, I’m not a fan. His few bluesy excursions notwithstanding, most of Slash’s runs up and down the fretboard strike me as the six-string equivalent of a 100-meter dash. On this guest slot, however, he transforms a by-the-numbers blues progression into something considerably more, spitting out a killer central riff (which threatens to veer off track at any moment, but never does) and a chunky ascending solo that just as quickly dives back into the middle registers.

Billy Idol, “Blue Highway”: Steve Stevens is mostly remembered for his hair, his leather pants and the unintentionally silly way he slung his guitar to and fro during the “Rebel Yell” video. Which is a shame, as his nimble, fret-skippin’ fills elevate the Idol canon well above comparable ‘80s dreck. Like a great free safety, Stevens operates well in space; on “Blue Highway,” you hear what the guy can do within and without just such a framework

Whammy Bar: "Keef"

Keith Richards is one of the coolest individuals ever to walk the face of the earth. He is a pioneer in the simultaneous self-accessorizing of headbands, beads and rubber bands in one’s coif. He is inimitable, incorrigible and, based on his ability to ingest copious quantities of substances of dubious legality, 600 times more likely to survive a nuclear holocaust than a cockroach.

He is also an overrated guitar player, bordering on minimally competent. I say this as somebody who digs the Rolling Stones, as somebody who counts the ominous wheeze that opens “Gimme Shelter” as one of the five greatest riffs of all time, as somebody who can find moments of musical mirth even on Bridges to Babylon (“Too Tight,” y’all). But as somebody who fancies himself a guitar aficionado, I’m at a loss to comprehend the bouquets consistently thrown in Keef’s direction. Just because we love the guy and what he stands for – the purity of the rock-and-roll spirit, even while bleeding one’s fans for $175 tickets to stadium shows – doesn’t mean we have to delude ourselves into thinking he can play worth a damn anymore. That is, if he ever could.

I haven’t caught the Stones play live in quite some time, owing to my distaste for bands who don’t bother to challenge themselves musically. Nonetheless, the last time I saw Keith in concert, he didn’t seem particularly engaged. Sure, he prowled around the gargantuan stage with his usual Cheshire-cat grin, sharing many a giggle with Ronnie Wood (helllloooo, underrated) and occasionally contorting himself into guitar-god poses (crouch, wince, thrust strumming arm violently downward, repeat). His playing was barely audible, however, and I’m about 85 percent sure he spent 90 percent of the concert in easily managed open tunings. I don’t care if you’re playing material by Muddy Waters or Puddle of Mudd; that gets filed under “barely trying.”

As for his recorded output, Richards lacks a true defining guitar-hero moment. His angular “Sympathy for the Devil” solo certainly underscores the song’s sense of menace, but it loses points for sloppiness. He gets props for any number of memorable rhythm figures – the alternately bright and murky bursts of chords that herald “Rocks Off,” “Little T&A” and “Happy” – but the most heroic and inventive guitar moments in the Stones catalog belong to Mick Taylor (“Can’t You Hear Me Knocking,” “Moonlight Mile”) and Brian Jones (“The Last Time,” the slide guitar that snakes through “No Expectations”).

And please, don’t try to persuade me that the opening riff to “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” by itself elevates Keith into the guitar pantheon. It’s three notes and a fuzz box. Is it that much more memorable than the “Life in the Fast Lane” opening volley? Holy lord… I think I just compared the Rolling Fuckin’ Stones to the Eagles. Ignore those last few sentences, if you will.

(Apropos of nothing: I know that I’m constitutionally mandated as a U.S. citizen to list Exile on Main Street as one of the five greatest rock records of all time, right alongside London Calling and Astral Weeks. Does it make me a musical Visigoth to suggest that Sticky Fingers holds up considerably better? Sticky may not hit the Exile highs of “Rocks Off” or “Loving Cup,” but it also doesn’t scrape the generic-blues lows of “Shake Your Hips,” “Ventilator Blues” or “I Just Want to See His Face.” Somebody needs to investigate this.)

Back to Mr. Richards. I remember years ago, when Circus or some similar magazine decided to assemble a “dream” rock band. For rhythm guitar, the mag chose Pete Townshend over Keith, a decision that one, made little sense (Pete would no sooner play in a two-axe band than share songwriting royalties with Roger Daltrey and/or the Entwistle estate) and two, enraged Stones fans newly invigorated by the reclaiming-the-throne propulsion of Tattoo You. (More apropos-of-nothing-ishness: All you need to know about the delicate state of rock music at that point in time was the mag’s appointment of Foreigner’s Lou Gramm as lead vocalist.)

The pissy/prissy fans were right: Keith is perhaps the only “legendary” guitarist best relegated to a rhythm role. As a secondary player, Keith slashes and jousts with the best of ‘em; as a lead guitarist, he falls way short of even the preliminary requirements for Hendrixian beatification. The phrase has become way overused, but it’ll have to do: Keith Richards is merely a rock star.

Whammy Bar: Neil Schon

By Larry Dobrow
Growing up in suburban Jer-Z in the ‘80s, you were either with Journey or against them. Either you embraced the pseudo-philosophical sap of “Wheel in the Sky” and RAWKED along with its plaintive yowls, or you dismissed it and its corporate-rock trappings. It was that simple. You had to choose a side.

Okay, that’s overstating it a bit. Maybe you’d have copped, at knifepoint or after a few beers, to having enjoyed a few of their radio hits (“Stone in Love” or “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’). Or maybe, if you were more than passingly familiar with the electric guitar, you would have admitted to appreciating the chunky, better-than-the-material-they -accompany-riffs of Neal Schon, even as you questioned his judgment for having hired Minnie Mouse as a lead singer. This makes Schon – all together now – underrated. Wheeee!

Let me make this as clear as I can: Journey doesn’t float my aural boat. While I prefer the band’s artistry (cough! cough!) to that of Loverboy or the Little River Band, I have no room – even on a 40 GB iPod – for more than a handful of their radio smasheroos. Also, the whole outer -space-insect- overlords-motifs on their album covers freak me out, man.

My problem with the band? I always got the impression, fair or not, that they crafted songs for no other reason than to snare airplay; with Schon’s exception, the band members never seemed to derive much joy from performing. Yes, I realize that music is about sharing and making people happy and blah blah blah, and that every record not named Metal Machine Music was/is created for consumption by as many other human beings as possible. But heavens to Betsy, Journey was shameless about their quest for chart prominence.

Schon soared above the band’s pat melodies and easy-to-parse lyrics. With its sing-song chorus and tired love-done-gone-bad words, “Who’s Crying Now” likely prompted early-‘80s radio buffs to secure a nail gun and use it on anyone with the bad fortune to cross their path. But the end-of-song solo, in which Schon takes a single descending melody line and builds off it, awakens new possibilities for the standard pop/rock outro.

Pretty much anywhere you look in the Journey canon (actually, “canon” isn’t the right word – Pachelbel has a canon, Journey has a dungheap o’ songs), Schon performs similar mini-resuscitations. I’ll enjoy “Don’t Stop Believin’” until the cows come home, even if I’m not precisely sure what “streetlight people” are, thanks to Schon’s early flourish and to-the-point, four-bar solo later in the song. “Lights” presents him as a warm-toned bluesman; “Stone in Love” finds him sonically audacious within the context of a four-minute radio song. And I don’t want to say that “Mother Father” rocks, but it comes much closer than a song featuring Steve Perry has any right to.

As for the band’s learner and lighter later material, I’d mostly tuned out by then. Still, “After the Fall” finds Schon sneaking in a metallic grunt here and a Van Halen-ish flurry there. Again: handed musical lemons, Schon found a way to make bitchin’, shriekin’ lemonade that totally got the chicks to doff their tops, and the guitar fanboys to nod approvingly if not enthusiastically.

My first rock concert was Journey, with the Greg Kihn Band opening, at the Brendan Byrne/Meadowlands/Continental JetBlue Southwest Airlines Arena in May of 1982 or thereabouts. I don’t remember a whole lot about it, other than Schon’s fluid, precise runs (also, at some point, my father conspiratorially whispered to me, “Can you smell that? That’s MARIJUANA”). Schon’s playing, even in the sterile arena setting, left an impression; the next day at school, I had something to share beyond, “Hells fuckin’ yeah, they played ‘Still They Ride,’ dude.” And for that, I hope Neal Schon someday gets his due as a versatile and – yes – eminently cool guitarist.

Whammy Bar: Pete Townshend

By Larry Dowbrow
Pete Townshend is the greatest guitarist to inhabit this or any other planet.

That isn’t an opinion; it’s a simple, declarative statement of fact, à la “the sun is hot” or “cows are furry.” He mixes melody with serious technical chops. He links chord fragments and riffs in a manner that has yet to dawn upon even the most gifted players. On a more macro front, he is the mind behind classic rock’s greatest single Who’s Next and double Quadrophenia, both more ambitious and tuneful than Exile on Main Street discs. I think he may have cured a few communicable diseases, or invented a water-filtration device for use in sub-Saharan countries, in his spare time.

To sum up: I dig everything about Pete Townshend, even his regal rock-star schnozz. So when I learned that The Who had scheduled its 56th post-retirement area performance, I cleared the calendar and dry-cleaned my well-worn “Farewell Concert 1982” tee.

This tour arrived with a twist: it represents the first time the band has played new music – from Endless Wire, set for release in the U.S. on Halloween – since the early 1980s. And really, even if the “band” (why not just call them “The Two” at this point?) hadn’t decided to enter the studio, would it have mattered? I’ve never understood why aging acts like The Who and the Rolling Stones get ripped for hitting the road time and time again. They’re rock stars; this is their job. What are they supposed to do, open a quaint bed-and-breakfast in the English countryside? Serve as Wal-Mart greeters?

The show didn’t offer much in the way of surprises. As always, the band opened with the bright burst of “I Can’t Explain” before rambling through “The Seeker” and “Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere.” They trotted out the usual war horses – “Who Are You,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Behind Blue Eyes” – and a kind of musical highlight reel from Tommy. Each of the last few tours had offered a similar mix.

The difference this time around? Townshend wore what appeared to be a linen pillbox hat, which he angrily ripped off his head halfway through the show. Oh – and he actually seemed to want to be on stage.

The last time I’d seen him play live was in 2002, a few weeks after John Entwistle died. The tour went on owing to financial issues, something about insurance not covering expenses associated with cancellation, and Townshend looked about as interested as a kid being fitted for school uniforms. Last night, he twitched to and fro with abandon, filling nearly every silence with some kind of technically immaculate guitar spasm.

He transformed “Eminence Front” from one-riff staple to sonic maelstrom, shirking his lead-vocal duties in the process. The extended “My Generation” outro, which featured a few lines from the obscure 1982 album cut “Cry If You Want,” saw Townshend skip between delicate chord construct and hammer-happy runs up and down the fretboard. Even “Won’t Get Fooled Again” transcended its chord-blast roots, with Townshend getting a head start on the synth intro courtesy of a ground-trembling feedback jolt.

As for the new material, always tough to judge in a crank-it-up-duuuuuuuude! arena-rock context, the band played the hell out of it. It’s worth noting that Townshend’s few comments to the audience were about the new songs; he more or less apologized to the audience for including them in the set.

And while Roger Daltrey’s voice remains an instrument of blunt force, the two Who dudes sure don’t seem to like each other all that much. Aside for an awkward half-embrace at the end of the show, neither acknowledged the other at any point. Pete interacted considerably more with hard-core fans in the front rows than with Roger. To avoid future unpleasantness, maybe we can separate the two of them with a layer of unyielding, opaque plexiglass. I’m sure the lighting guys could work around it.

So yeah, Pete Townshend can still play the guitar a little bit. He doesn’t have to smash a guitar into teensy, eensy pieces to show that he remains invested in songs written 30 years ago; a windmill here and a judo-kick there will suffice. There’s nothing in this show that devotees haven’t seen before, but it’s gratifying – and rare – to witness one of the old guys pouring himself into the task at hand.

Whammy Bar: Jeff Beck On The Rocks

By Larry Dobrow
Quick – name a single memorable riff, solo or melody that Jeff Beck has committed to disc in the last 20 years.

Okay, I’ll cut you some slack. How about the last 25 years?

Still nothing? (tapping mic) Is this on? Fine, since the release of Blow By Blow in 1975 or so: Name just one, well, anything.

Gotcha, didn’t I? Hey, don’t take it all personal and stuff. The reason you have no answer to that question is because there is no answer to that question. Jeff Beck, for all his Stratocaster heroics, ceased to exist as a guitar God many years ago. Barkeep, I’ll have an overrated on the rocks, with one of those cool swizzle sticks.

What’s frustrating to me, as a fan, is that Beck seemingly just stopped trying. Years ago, few people on the planet didn’t acknowledge that he was far and away the most inventive player to emerge from the Yardbirds’ guitar factory. Page may have had the crunchiest tones (not to mention the best supporting cast); Clapton may have had the hardcore-blues cred. But Beck played circles around the both of ‘em.

Not just in terms of speed, mind you, but in terms of sonic ingenuity. One minute, he was aping Les Paul’s beefy fills. The next, he was doing a credible aural impersonation of a B-52 bomber shrieking towards the ground. And he did it all with a minimum of effects.

Additionally, he was way ahead of the curve in hating Rod Stewart’s standards-warbling ass. This bears noting.

Whatever his current musical indifference, Beck’s off-the-wall tones remain among the few in the history of the guitar that are impossible to duplicate. I’ll argue this until the cows come home. (They’d come home early if they were attending a show on his current tour, from what I understand. Apparently he’s mailing it in to such an extent that Postmaster General John E. Potter is planning a tribute concert and/or honorary mailman designation of some sort.)

Again, what frustrates me most is that he doesn’t seem to care. In the 1970s, the guy was held in such high esteem that people didn’t blame him one iota for reportedly turning down an invite to join the Rolling Stones. Now, he finds himself reduced to guest spots on Roger Waters and Cyndi Lauper records. In his free time, he tinkers with Jaguars instead of guitars. Christopher Guest, in his Nigel Tufnel guise (which Beck may or may not have inspired), might stand a chance of blowing his satirical muse off the stage at this point. It’s that sad.

Where’d it go wrong? Who knows. Apparently Mr. Beck, for all his virtuosity, boasts a personality only slightly less toxic than Port-a-Potty dribble. That said, for the alternating ferocity and delicacy with which he plows through Blow By Blow’s “Cause We’ve Ended As Lovers” and “Freeway Jam,” you’d think that his would-be employers could put up with anything short of felonious assault with a frozen salami. For the fret-jumping fluidity of Beck-Ola’s “Spanish Boots” and “Rice Pudding,” they’d excuse petit larceny and grand theft auto alike.

I’m not asking much here. I’d just like to see Jeff Beck reclaim his throne for a few brief moments – say, with a guest spot like the one that reawakened the world to Prince’s guitar genius at the 2004 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction. Then he can go back to futzing around with transmissions for all I care. Until then, he’s just another premature burnout coasting on his legacy.

Whammy Bar: Andy Summers Doesn't Suck

By Larry Dobrow
Flipping around the tube the other night, I stumbled upon Everyone Stares: The Police Inside Out. The flick, which headed straight to cable after a stealth debut at Sundance in January, compiles super-8 home movies shot by drummer Stewart Copeland during the band’s rise to global rock/pop/new wave/ska/arty-black-and-white-music-video super-dominance.

Frankly, it sucks – so badly, in fact, that even the hardest-core Police fan would be advised to devote its 70-odd minutes of run time to worthier pursuits, like discussing the day’s events with a loved one or regrouting the tiles in the tub. It does, however, reveal quite a bit about inter-band dynamics.

Before watching the flick, I’d bought into the widely held perception that Andy Summers didn’t have a whole lot to do with the success of the Police. The argument goes something like this: Sting wrote the hooks and Copeland provided the rhythmic bombast, while Summers merely showed up with a chorus pedal and filled in the gaps.

The footage, however, suggests otherwise. In the studio and on stage, Summers comes across as a vital cog in the creative process, subtly refining many a melody or phrasing while at the same time restraining his mates from overindulging their world-music jones. And just when you think he’s content to sit in the corner and fiddle with his hope chest of fuzz boxes and delay doohickeys, Summers dons the guitar-god cape and steamrolls everything in his path. Witness the jagged, metallic solo that explodes out of nowhere into the otherwise chimey “Driven to Tears,” or the frenetic guitar assault that is “Synchronicity II.”

Does this officially vault Andy Summers into underrated-guitar-player territory? I think it does! Tina, prepare the paperwork.

Truth is, I’ve always loved the way the guy riffed in and around Copeland’s hyperkinetic drumming and Sting’s melodic bass lines. Summers never sounds particularly inventive or artful, but he always – always – serves the song well. His crashing chords during the chorus of “Truth Hits Everybody” offer a crunchy counterpart to Sting’s pitched chirp, just as his staccato chord flourishes during “The Bed’s Too Big Without You” elevate the song from reggae impostor to punkish hybrid.

One could make an argument that the Police’s biggest hits wouldn’t have become the radio staples they are without Summers’ subtle contributions. His plaintive, metronomic arpeggios during “Every Breath You Take” cloak the stalker-ish undercurrent of the song’s lyrics. On “Roxanne,” his driving, trebly chordwork frees Sting to craft one of album rock’s more memorable bass lines. Without Summers’ stutter-y lead riff, “Message in a Bottle” is merely a passable melody with a Gilligan’s Island lyric motif.

Then there’s the profile Summers cuts in the aforementioned Everybody Stares. As opposed to Sting – insufferable in every setting, probably even when handing out medical supplies to underprivileged mute orphaned amputees – Summers comes across as a pleasant guy to have around. Seriously. He occasionally wears funny hats.

Alas, we’re all about the geee-tahr here at Whammy Bar. We can ignore Summers’ few Police-era attempts at songwriting – especially “Mother,” which wouldn’t sound out of place as musical backdrop for a Yoko Ono exhibit. We can dismiss his post-Police outings, even his atonal guitar noodlings with Robert Fripp, as well-earned indulgences. What we can’t do is forget that the Police were one of the best bands in the universe for a five-year stretch, however much Sting has inadvertently chipped away at the band’s legacy since then, and that Andy Summers was a major reason for this.

Don’t buy it? Crank up Regatta de Blanc one of these days. I double-dog-dare you to try convincing me otherwise.

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