The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
Guitar may be worn out but Duane isn’t
THE GUITAR and I have enjoyed and continue to enjoy a long, satisfying and wholly requited love affair. It has now lasted 50 years. The first guitar was a dimly remembered piece of Indian plywood with a small body and a round soundhole. It was about as sexy as a wet dishcloth but together we fumbled our way around the melodies of the earliest rock guitar instrumentals, an early gesture of worship at the shrines of the Shadows and Duane Eddy.
I have seen the Shadows live several times between 1963 (when I cycled from Dundee to Edinburgh for the gig) and the final tour in 2004. But Duane Eddy, who had racked up several massive hits by the time the Shadows released apache in 1960 and who is therefore something of an original source, had eluded my grasp. Until, that is, the evening of May 16, 2012.
In the bleak bowels of a converted Glasgow church now known as the gig venue Oran Mor, something like 500 people jammed the space between the bar at the back and the small stage. About half were seated. They were mostly men, and mostly of a certain age and I would guess that 90% of them had a plectrum or two in among their loose change.
There were rather too many leather jackets for my liking, and way too many sideburns attached to receding, greying hairlines, or to no hairlines at all. There were a few wives among them but it was noticeable that most of the women were not wives and were younger than most of the men, which proves . . . nothing at all that I can think of.
We had to queue to get in, and most of the queuing was done on a steep stone staircase that plumbed unguessable depths below street level. The woman behind me turned to her husband and said: “Don’t you think we’re too old to do this?”
He didn’t answer. I did, but only in my head. Lady, I told her silently, the guy you have come to see is 74, and he is an original source. You’re never too old to meet an original source. That’s what I told her. Strange about the venue, too, that old church that had outlived its usefulness and now accommodated the “music of the Devil”. I dredged up some lines from Don Maclean’s American Pie: Did you write the book of love And do you believe in God above If the Bible tells you so? Or do you believe in rock ’ n’roll Does music fill your mortal soul And can you teach me how to dance Real slow . . . ? Did I ever tell you that the first record I ever bought, a 45, a single, and for two shillings in the Record Exchange up the Vicky Road in Dundee, was Duane Eddy’s “Because they’re Young”? It used to be the signature tune for a programme on Radio Luxembourg called Honey Hit Parade around the time I was studying for my O-levels, and my teenage mind thought it was music-making by the Gods.
Since last wednesday evening, I now know that my teenage sensibilities were spot on.
So Duane Eddy, 2012 vintage, is an old guy in a cowboy hat with a neat, grey-going-on-white beard. His band is from Yorkshire where he recorded his new album “Road Trip” under the guidance of Richard Hawley (if you don’t know who Richard Hawley is ask your children). They’re half his age, and when he joins them on stage after a suitable pause for effect as befits the arrival of a Rock God in our midst, he moves a little . . . um, stiffly.
There is more than a hint of cowboy about the man, impeccably turned-out cowboy, and he is strapped to a huge orange Gretsch guitar, a Gretsch factory reincarnation (God-like metaphors are irresistible) of the 1950s original which is now on public display in a rock music museum in arizona (“It’s worn out,” he told a radio interviewer, “but I thought, hell, if I’m working, so can it.”).
He leans a touch awkwardly over the guitar, the brim of his hat hides his face, he looks for all the world as if he is uncertain where to place his fingers on the fretboard, and there is a troublesome moment when I wonder if this is about to go horribly wrong. But of course Gods are infallible.
He begins to play. It’s a rock-solid, foot tapping, hip-swaying, mind-blowing riff on the bottom three strings, which is his natural habitat, and the band locks in behind him and the black crypt explodes. Let there be light.
And there was light. Oh, man, there was light! Anthem followed anthem, and the miracle of it all (you must have at least one miracle in the company of the Gods) was that it was like hearing them for the first time, so freshly minted and vigorous and vital and the great orange monster of a guitar at the heart of it all growled and occasionally soared but mostly growled among the rich depths, its fat sound further ennobled by the familiar throb of tremolo.
The old crypt throbbed, too, the crowd of worshippers found its voice. It is true: the Devil does have all the best tunes. Also the best guitar players.
Duane Eddy was soft-voiced and courteous and funny, with the odd self-deprecating reference to his age, then he cranked up the orange Gretsch one more time and was instantly ageless. At the end (two standing ovations), he politely declined one more encore by explaining that he was “running out of gas”.
And yes, he did play “Because They’re Young” and I tell you, that for those few minutes I was . . . do you know what, I won’t tell you, but it had to do with saying thank you for the music.
So we filed out past the stall offering Duane Eddy merchandise (£12 for a Gretsch mug – no thanks), up the same unwelcoming stair into the over world of Glasgow in a cold drizzle, a strangely subdued crowd now, a bit blown away by what we had just seen.
The guitar and I are now even a little bit more in love with each other. I was looking forward to the homeward miles in a warm car with a good CD player and good CD of an old guy with big orange Gretsch that made music fit for the Gods, and the rest of us.