Clapton, Hendrix, Spinal Tap: which is the best ever guitar solo?
In the Guide’s weekly Solved! column, we look into a crucial pop-culture question you’ve been burning to know the answer to – and settle it
“My solos are my trademark,” announced Nigel Tufnel in 1984’s This Is Spinal Tap. Cue footage of the topless musician performing some signature fret-fondling while curling his lip in satisfaction, then swapping his plectrum for a violin. Before long, the reallife rock stars satirised by Spinal Tap were handed a second blow – when the irreverent grunge scene of the 1990s arrived, ripping up the guitar histrionics rule book, and instead favouring scuzzier playing. Yet, while not as revered as it once was, the guitar solo remains the benchmark of musical brilliance for many.
To pinpoint the best guitar solo we need some criteria. It must have appeal beyond those prowess-adulating progheads who know their pentatonics from pinched harmonics. Nor can it be too obvious. As the Wayne’s World screenplay says, “NO STAIRWAY!” Furthermore, it cannot involve Eric Clapton. London’s graffiti may have pronounced him “God” in the 1960s, but Clapton was soon usurped by Jimi Hendrix and later spouted racist drivel.
Hendrix is our benchmark, really. The lead guitarist all others were chasing. In his hands the instrument was a window to the soul. Crucially, he is appreciated by virtuosos and unpolished thrashers alike. Hendrix had admirers in the krautrock scene, for instance, who valued texture over technique. Punks preferred immediacy to flair, and Hendrix had fans there, too. “He makes the guitar speak,” said the Damned’s Captain Sensible. While some would plump for Purple Haze, Hendrix’s most searing axe work appears on Machine Gun from Band of Gypsys. Don’t take our word for it – when Miles Davis was asked what he liked about Hendrix, he replied: “It’s that goddamned motherfucking Machine Gun.”
Seeing as humans are storytelling beings, it helps if there’s a good yarn behind the solo. In Lemmy’s autobiography the few solos he praises are Motörhead’s most unorthodox, recorded while guitarists were falling over sofas, giggling uncontrollably, struggling to hit the notes. “It sounds like it’s being played backwards,” he marvelled at Phil Campbell’s prostrate take on 1995’s Make ’Em Blind. Lemmy was rarely impressed by rival bands’ faster and fancier solos. “It’s just playing scales,” he noted.
Our winner takes scale-playing to another level. There’s a good tale behind it, too. It wasn’t one of Hen