Rory Gallagher
He was in it for just one thing – the music. And when this Irish wizard played it, he was one of the greatest.
Bono called him “one of the top ten guitar players of all time”. When asked once how it felt to be the greatest guitarist in the world, Jimi Hendrix replied: “You should ask Rory Gallagher that question, sir.”
In which case, how come Rory Gallagher’s name is nowhere on the list of first names out of the mouths of so-called experts when discussing that age-old question: who is the greatest guitarist of them all?
Perhaps this story will shed some light on that murky injustice. When Mick Taylor walked out of the Rolling Stones in 1974, Rory Gallagher was top of the list of suitably gifted replacements they invited to audition, which also included Jeff Beck, Steve Marriott, Ronnie Wood and Peter Frampton.
Gallagher wasn’t the first through the door, but from the moment he strapped on his bruised and bloodied Strat and began chugging out the badass riff to Keith Richards was in no doubt over who should get the gig.
Stopping the song halfway through, Richards turned to Gallagher and said: “Hey man, you’ve got the job.” To which Gallagher replied: “No man, I don’t want the job. I’ve got a band of my own. I just fancied a jam.”
And there you have it. Fame was not the burning bush Rory Gallagher knelt before. He really did not give a fuck whether your girlfriend thought he was cute, or if the radio wouldn’t play his records much. And neither did you the moment he lit into that poor, bedevilled guitar.
Music was Rory’s god – and devil. All rolled into one eight-bar blues, transfused with wild gypsy rock, smoke rings and whiskey, occult love l-u-v. But it was delivered in such a bad-penny, journeyman fashion – the battered jeans, the minging check shirts, the roguish Irish charm – that his image became almost Christ-like. Musically, Rory’s spirit always remained pure, his mission noble, his miracles there to behold night after night for more than 30 years.
But although he sold nearly 20 million records worldwide during his short life, Rory Gallagher was never even close to becoming a household name.
I recall an evening spent in his company, along with singer Frankie Miller, backstage after a show in
Germany in 1979. Miller was a one hit wonder, in terms of chart success; Rory was the guy who’d seen his albums comb the charts but only occasionally wound them. But they sat there like kings of their thrones, drinking whisky and telling stories as we all sat and laughed and occasionally cried.
I was Gallagher’s eager young publicist, in awe of his immense talent, embarrassed that I hadn’t been able to entice more media attention for his shows.
“Sure, none of that matters,” he assured me in his soft Donegal brogue. “Did you see the show tonight?” Of course.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Yes!
“And are you enjoying yourself now?”
Fuck, yes!
“Then that’s all that really matters.”
Was he for real? Actually, he was. When I heard he had died, aged just 47, after a failed liver operation, life I knew then for sure was simply not fucking fair.
Listen to this: Shadow Play (Rory Gallager, Stage Struck, 1980).