Among the golden generation of British guitarists who rose in the sweatbox clubs of 60s London, Jeff Beck was the great magician and lifelong contrarian. While peers such as Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page certainly boasted an eye-popping virtuosity and knack for melody, their playing was not unfathomable but squarely rooted in the American blues, revving up its stock vocabulary of slides, bends and pentatonics.
Beck could match his circuit-mates at these traditional Delta-derived shapes: revisit such masterclasses as Steeled Blues or Going Down. But while most Brit-boomers approached their work with a scholarly deference, their scarecrow-haired contemporary had a renegade streak. “If I don’t break the rules at least 10 times in every song,” Beck once reasoned, “then I’m not doing my job properly.”
On a good night, when Beck played guitar, all tactile fingers and smeared notes, the instrument became something else – a lightning rod for otherworldly tones and textures, a multi-tool for sonic mischief the like of
