William Rory Gallagher

In the spring of '72, I was located in Winnipeg, Manitoba, singing as a tenor (not Alto) with our high school concert choir.  Our short jaunt into Canada was a four-day, three-night tour of high school auditoriums, provincial churches and the capitol building (Winnipeg being the capital of Manitoba).  My friend DW and myself, blended splendidly with the other 98 pair of lungs, belching forth mighty blasts of religious and pop tunes.  We performed a scintillating rendition of  "O Canada" and a rollicking version of the Stones' "Angie".  The former, a true symphonic pleasure.  The latter, not so much.  "Angie" was sung, slyly, with a slightly perverted and childish tweak on that name (I'll leave that to your imagination).  At least all the guys were in on it.

Back at our hotel rooms, there was the usual unsupervised, teen activities in full swing.  One night, we discovered how strong Molson's was compared to Hamm's.  Singing the next morning was quite the head rush.  One night I learned the power chords to "Smoke On The Water".  And one night, along with DW, two brave choirboys, wandered around the clean streets of 'Winnie' in search of something worldly, something exotic, something not USA.  What we found were polite, white, bland, English-speaking, boring Canadians and buildings and restaurants that reminded us of our white, bland, English-speaking selves and our local Northern Minnesota businesses.  Until we ran into a record store.  We literally ran into that record store.

Shuffling around aisles of LPs that concentrated on seemingly endless Royal Mounted Police marches and displays of Guy Lombardo and Paul Anka, there was a small rock section that was 75% dominated by Neil Young.  But this is when a memory sticks with you and refuses to be forgotten.  I came upon a rather plain album sleeve, black and tan, that had a youngish, guitarist in mid-lyric, head tilted back, eyes closed with a guitar strapped on his shoulder.  Something in that photo asked me to keep looking.  So I did.

Shoulder length curlish hair.  T-shirt.  He seemed to be standing in a studio or warehouse and was frozen while strumming his electric guitar with strings curling over the headstock.  How simple.  He seemed to mean what he was singing and had complete confidence in that one picture.  Also a fragility.  In the upper left corner were the words, in red, Rory Gallagher and below that the word DEUCE, with the first 'E' in green.  I was a little taken aback.  So much cover art at this time was starting to show wild, orgasmic scenes of mind-melting proportions, that this one made me look closer, to see if there was some hidden symbol or trace of "hipness".  Nothing except this person, this Rory Gallagher.

Turning the album over, there he was again, though seated, tuning his guitar.  He had a leathery-looking jacket over that tee, eyes concentrating at his machine head and a wristwatch on his left hand.  And that Stat was chipped and beat up.  Simple.  Unadorned.  Song titles such as "Used To Be", "I'm Not Awake Yet" and "In Your Town" spoke a language uncomplicated and down-to-earth.  The players:  Rory Gallagher: vocals, guitar, harmonica  Gerry McAvoy: bass  Wilgar Campbell: drums, percussion.  I was deeply immersed in the power trio format so this was another eye-catcher.  For some reason I felt that these two photos showed me who this guy was, what he stood for, what he brought to the table.  Bare.  Raw.  I mean, how many jacket covers would really want to show a musician tuning his friggin' guitar?  I can think of one other cover that had a calm, relaxed feeling of a man sitting in a chair with his electric guitar leaning next to him.  That would be Eric Clapton on his first solo LP and that album was anything but calm and relaxed.

"Deuce" was recorded in London and produced by Rory.  I don't know about you but I usually performed this intensive inspection of an album till my eyes blurred.  Can't explain it but it was my job at that time to pour over every detail and try to unlock a mystery of what this band and its music would sound like.  Without listening to it.  Crazy?  Anal?  Sure, but I liked it, it felt invigorating and let my mind wander with wonder as to what was within.  Still looking, it was made in Canada, 1972 with the red Polydor label attached. 

[Question to self]  What kinda name is Rory?
[Answer to self]  Dunno.

[Question to self]  What kinda name is Gallagher?
[Answer to self]  European?  Where was Sir Galahad from?

[Question to self]  Is anybody listening to you?
[Answer to self]  Nope.

That was my introduction to the greatest electric/acoustic guitarist, vocalist, songwriter and performer to come out of Ireland.  NOTE: Other names came up.  Henry McCullough (Spooky Tooth, Wings), Eric Bell (Them, Thin Lizzy), Viv Campbell (Whittesnake, Dio), The Edge (U2) and the recently departed Gary Moore.  I didn't listen to Rory till I got home and he was everything I had imagined.  Gritty guitar.  Smooth/gruff voice.  Simple lyrics that convinced me that indeed, he should've learned his lessons.  Tight arrangements with little studio noodling.  They sounded live and in your face.  It was a real album and it took me on a crest of his wave every time I listened.  Slide guitar heaven.  Folk influences stretched over rock and blues, interspersed with eloquent phrasing and moods that told you his life story.  Just like one of us.  A workingman.  He felt like my friend.
 
I wouldn't have relived this Rory story if a real-life old friend (older than me anyway), JCK, hadn't suggested us listing our top guitarists, just like we did almost 40 years ago.  Maybe see if our tastes had changed.  I was shocked at his number one: Rory Gallagher.  Surely, Hendrix, Beck, Clapton, Page was superior.  Surely, Winter, Bolin, Santana.  Nope.  Now, I had loved Rory through almost all of his 11 studio LPs and a few live ones but The Best?  I put him at #12 which was pretty hot considering the 11 in front of him.  JCK then sent me some Rory DVDs. The Beat Club Sessions ('71-'72).  Live at Rockpalast ('76-'90).  Live at Montreux ('94).  Unbelievable.  Scorched-earth.  Unbridled and spectacular.  And especially "Ghost Blues, The Story of Rory Gallagher" which is interviews and photos of this great guitarist who left us at age 47, back in '95.  I have been revamping my list ever since. 

So, have a hardy and rowdy St. Patrick's Day this year, with Rory Gallagher in mind.  He wouldn't want it any other way.