Of all the guitarists I have heard in my life, the best by a very long chalk is a Washington DC-area based genius named Danny Gatton. If any readers of this column have heard of him, I’d be surprised: he wasn’t ultra-obscure, but he wasn’t exactly a household name.
Two epithets were regularly applied to Mr. Gatton – “the world’s greatest unknown guitarist” and “The Humbler”, the latter describing what he did – effortlessly - to fellow pickers who shared a stage with him.
I first became aware of this true super-picker when he was backing the Rockabilly revivalist, Robert Gordon (not a great favourite, I’ll admit). Pretty good, I thought. Then, when I’d bought my Telecaster and had painfully learned some Scotty Moore and Chuck Berry licks, I heard – on a Transatlantic flight, of all places - “Elmira Street Boogie” (see above): just over four minutes of the most gloriously deranged rockabilly guitar playing ever committed to tape. There are impossibly fast passages and sections of such complexity you feel sure his fingers needed to be surgically untwisted afterwards, but it’s all very aware and controlled and deeply musical. What’s more, it made me laugh out loud: this guy was having a gas, and so was I. Many players are evidently having the time of their lives when they play, but it does nothing for the audience: they come across as smug and solipsistic. With Gatton, you can plug straight into the pleasure his own genius is affording him, and enjoy it with him:
I first became aware of this true super-picker when he was backing the Rockabilly revivalist, Robert Gordon (not a great favourite, I’ll admit). Pretty good, I thought. Then, when I’d bought my Telecaster and had painfully learned some Scotty Moore and Chuck Berry licks, I heard – on a Transatlantic flight, of all places - “Elmira Street Boogie” (see above): just over four minutes of the most gloriously deranged rockabilly guitar playing ever committed to tape. There are impossibly fast passages and sections of such complexity you feel sure his fingers needed to be surgically untwisted afterwards, but it’s all very aware and controlled and deeply musical. What’s more, it made me laugh out loud: this guy was having a gas, and so was I. Many players are evidently having the time of their lives when they play, but it does nothing for the audience: they come across as smug and solipsistic. With Gatton, you can plug straight into the pleasure his own genius is affording him, and enjoy it with him:
In 2003, Rolling Stone voted him the 63rd greatest picker of All-Time. Bizarre, that, because in terms of technique, inventiveness, range, speed, wit, verve, humour and sheer raw musicality, he was No 1. Without any doubt whatsoever.
Part of his problem was his looks - he was a chunky guy who looked like he enjoyed the occasional double cheeseburger, and might have been a construction worker or a trucker. You couldn’t imagine him in a spandex leotard, that’s for sure. And there was no air of menace or danger about him; photographs of him with his hair slicked back, trying to looking mean and moody, just make him look vaguely grumpy, as if he's just stepped in a puddle.
His other problem was his sheer, ludicrous range: he could switch between blues, jazz, hot country and rockabilly in an eye-blink, and he was supreme in all those genres.
I found the cassette tape of the album, 88 Elmira Street (which contained the above track, "Blues Newburg", in the States. There was no other rockabilly track on it, but what was on offer was an utterly enjoyable romp through a bewilderment of genres. Not a dud track, and not a single number that didn’t contain passages of deep originality. Given how soul-crushingly unoriginal or, worse, self-reverential most guitar records are, this was a revelation.
I got the sheet music to “Elmira Street Boogie” and trying to play it – and failing dismally - revealed just how fabulously skillful this man was. I found one of those Arlen Roth instructional videos featuring the Great Man, who turned out to be funny and full of energy and self-deprecating and quite brilliant:
The relative success of 88 Elmira Street amongst afficianados led to another album - Cruisin’ Deuces, released in 1993 - but the attempt to recapture its predecessor’s spirit didn’t quite come off. It failed to sell, and, in terms of stardom, that was the end of it.
In 1996, I was due to visit Washington to direct a live political talk show for the BBC. A researcher was sent out a few weeks before to make all the arrangements. I asked them if they could check the local listings to see if Danny Gatton was playing on either of the two nights I’d be in town. When they returned they assured me they’d looked in every paper, but there was no mention of the man, and the hotel staff had never heard of him.
What I didn’t know was that Danny Gatton, possibly the most extravagantly gifted electric guitar player there's ever been, had shot himself in the garage of his Newburg, Maryland home the previous year. He left behind no explanation, and his suicide seems to have astonished those who knew him.
Speaking as someone with no discernible talent for music – or much else, come to that – it seems incomprehensible that someone so good at something that brings such pleasure to others would ever consider doing away with themselves. But of course, I have no idea what sort of psychic torture he endured before deciding to end his life.
There are plenty of videos of Danny Gatton to enjoy and marvel at on YouTube besides the ones featured in this post. Of his various LPs, 88 Elmira Street and Unfinished Business are my favourites.
I'll leave you with a Sun medley (he isn't singing, by the way):
I'll leave you with a Sun medley (he isn't singing, by the way):
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