Jeff Beck’s Immortal Boogaloo
The only possible way to know what Jimi Hendrix might have been up to if he’d lived was to consider Jeff BeckThen, try to keep track. Only one thing could be done: recognize their commonality in relentless pursuit of creativity.
Beck’s unique expression of adoration for Hendrix was direct: He changed. Constantly. He was a constant listener, constantly changing and challenging himself. This is a far cry from the other rock stars and guitarists of his generation. Ripping an authoritative tribute to his early rockabilly gods — as a kid, he saw Gene Vincent, Little Richard, Buddy Holly — then spilling out astoundingly moving inventions based on Indian classical modes. Inventing the heavy metal armature that Led Zeppelin and sundry others would dine out on for decades, when he sat down at Stevie Wonder’s drum kit, out came “Superstition.” Known for the extravagance of his instrumentals, he was the empathically daring accompanist most singers will never experience. He understood everything. His guitar was his sound.
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In June 1976, I was sitting around an aquamarine motel pool, talking to him. It was either 1:30 or 2. In the Arizona heat, his limp greasy sheepdog shag was hanging limp. He spoke just above a whisper, out of consideration for waking the other guest, a gentlemanly concern unparalleled in the history of rock ’n’ roll. It was difficult not to marvel at the combination of his humility, arrogance and confidence. This was in the middle of the Rococo Fusion Disaster Era. The more spaghetti you splattered, the more impressive it made you seem. He’d invited himself to the party, offering the shocking relief of pure melody in the midst of pretentious clatter, a rocker’s devotion to sonic style cutting through all the excruciating din. He knew how good he was, and he was highly aware of how great he wasn’t — not yet. He felt supremely secure in the act of knowing that he wasn’t sure, but knew he had to ask.
He was such a genuine grease monkey, that his multi-car garage in England had a full-on lube pool. I like to believe that I introduced him to the small block 327 Chevy. But that may just have been another instance of kindness on his part. A faithful subscriber to Hot Rod, Car Craft, and Rod & Custom, I’m sure he was kindly indulging me. When you’re in deep pursuit of new levels of mastery in your life’s central crusade, it’s easy to be casual about lesser notions, talking cars instead of guitars… but quietly, softly, poolside, as palm fronds flutter in the waves of heat.
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