An Apology to the Blues Prodigy

November 1, 2018: Minglewood Hall, Memphis, TN

Well, that was disappointing.

The overhead lights flickered into existence as I tried to rationalize these blues. “Excuse me, pardon me.” Fans climbed over me in my aisle seat, but I didn’t budge.

“Excuse me!” One fan exclaimed.

I begrudgingly shifted my knees for the fan to join the gridlocked aisles. This was their last chance to double fist overpriced beers before the headliner. Wouldn’t want to impinge on that, nevermind I was having an existential crisis.

The young fan to my left was an antsy mess. Quite literally squirming out of her seat, her favorite band was about to take the stage; She’d already told me twice. This must’ve been her first concert too. Can’t say I blame her, I’d be squirming too. These were exciting times.

“What song do you think they’ll open with? Do you think it’ll be a hit? Or what if they do a rarity? Maybe it’ll be something off the new album! Do you like the new album? What’s your favorite song? Oooh, I like that song too! My favorite? Uhhh…I don’t know! I like them all!” (Good question; Maybe; That’d be cool; Cool too; Yep; Alone + Easy Target; What’s yours?)

Her mother was apathetic to her rock ’n’ roll appetite, so the tween turned to me as an outlet. It was charming to see a young fan so excited about rock ’n’ roll music. I remember the feeling well. You’re young, rock ’n’ roll is still mythic and that first taste of the live sonic blast is unrivaled. But as contagious as her excitement was, I was still reeling in the blues.

Something wasn’t adding up. I’ve seen a lot of bad openers, but this shouldn’t have been one of them. Was he a hack? Maybe this was just an off-night. But openers are supposed to bring their A-Game every night, right? Or or or maybe, the acoustics are just bad up here in the nosebleeds? Yeah, that’s gotta be it! That was a cop-out and I knew it. I was grasping at straws though. That had easily been one of the most underwhelming performances I’d ever seen.

This should’ve been the triumphant beckoning of a new generation guitar god, yet there was little evidence for our new savior’s arrival. Where were those tasty licks? Why didn’t he take center stage and melt my face off? If this is how the king made an entrance, his throne was already up for grabs.

“Hey, so how’d you like the opener,” I asked the girl. I figured if I was gonna play babysitter I might as well play therapist too.

“He was okay, but I know the Foo Fighters are going to be better,” she replied. “Did you know that Dave Grohl was in Nirvana?! You know, the ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ band?”

The child was incredible. She was like a younger me. But I couldn’t appreciate it. Not now. I was in the throes of a high school breakup. Cue up “Everybody Hurts,” please. We’d only been dating for three months, but I knew it was love! It was love, man!

The cliche goes that time heals all wounds, but time is also a cruel mistress. With each new album, televised performance, and YouTube video, I saw less and less of that spark. The following years were unrelenting with disappointment. Of all the new artists to emerge from the 2010s, this was the one I was most excited to watch his star grow. Instead, I watched him burn out in the stratosphere.

This is my apology letter to Gary Clark Jr.

I was sold. Buy this album, whatever the cost.

Crunchy palm-muted chords doused in reverb ripped through my speakers. Each stroke slammed like an atom bomb. The music was drenched in the blues but sounded nothing like any token Chicago blues act. But to call it the blues was an unfair accusation. This was something new. It was garage rock, indie rock, and neo-soul, all with a wallop of psychedelia. But most of all, it had that it factor. It was something every kid that ever picked up a six-string dreamt of.

Each week I got new music recommendations sent straight to my email. Most were duds, and occasionally something would catch my ear, but nothing had caught fire like this. The album’s artwork caught me first. It was mediocre, cliche at best. A young boy, headphones so large they were practically resting on his shoulders. There was no telling as to who it was other than four large green letters in the upper lefthand corner. GCJR.

All it took was 30-seconds.

I couldn’t move fast enough after the sample track finished playing. I fumbled my wallet, my fingers hit the wrong keys, I needed this album and I needed it five minutes ago. Who cares what the rest of the album sounds like, there was enough in those 30-seconds to convince me that this was it. The prophecy of the savior to come had arrived.

The phrase “rock is dead” has circled the drain of lazy music fanatics for generations. The topic is the cornerstone of at least 10,000 journalistic think pieces since the early ’70s. And I won’t disagree, rock is dead. We’ll never have another Led Zeppelin or Lou Reed. The genre is not the monolith it once was, but that’s okay. Society doesn’t need another Lou Reed. And we honestly probably couldn’t handle another! Music needs something new, something inspired. Something that reflects the times and speaks to our ever-evolving digital society. It’s no surprise that artists are trading in their guitars for a laptop. The possibilities are exciting and seemingly endless.

Unfortunately, because of that, there’s a new cliche: “No one plays guitar anymore.” Granted, this phrase is almost exclusively shouted over blaring classic rock radio while passing a Guitar Center with a “Going Out of Business” sign in the window.

But at heart, I’m a rock ’n’ roll guy, and once upon a time, I was that angry Guitar Center guy. My teenage years were spent slumped over a guitar plucking out overly distorted riffs in my bedroom. I chastised my friends for not liking “real music.” Then I got on the internet and realized there’s plenty of great guitar rock still being made, even if mainstream music has turned its back on the instrument.

I replayed the 30-second sample clip over and over while I waited for the EP to finish downloading. Any second now. C’mon, c’mon! Rock is dead, yeah, yeah, but listen to this guy’s tone?! This music is going to send music fanatics over the edge. It was where modern met classic. It was fresh enough to satisfy a festival listener yet still drowning in 70s rock ’n’ roll cool. Visions of Marshall stacks and Les Pauls hung real low ran through my mind. A blistering guitar solo shredded the audience. Fingers moving at supersonic speeds. Girls fainted with desire and dudes grinned with envy.

It’s been two decades since Kurt Cobain inspired countless youth to pick up an ax. Where were the new generation guitar heroes? Clapton may have been a god in 1970 but what about 2010? Name a guitarist who was well respected in guitarist circles AND had mainstream success since the early aughts? Go ahead, I’ll wait.

The download finished and each second of that 33-minute EP was everything I hoped it would be. It was all in that sound, the songs, that blend of R&B and scorching blues-rock. This was the answer. Who was this Gary Clark Jr. from Austin, Texas? The next guitar hero, that’s who.

Where Gary’s debut EP lit a fire in my guitar-loving heart, his 2015 opening set for the Foo Fighters gave me a rock ’n’ roll crisis of faith. Was there even a guitar god?

What was so bad about it you ask?

The performance was fine, I guess. It’s not like he came out too inebriated to play or ravaged the audience with some kind of grotesque GG Allin set. His guitar prowess on that 2010 EP was the work of someone walking in the footsteps of guitar giants, but none of that greatness was evident during his show. Aggressive blues rhythms were exchanged for bland hip-hop beats. The rare guitar solo was left to his backing guitarist, and in his 45-minute set, Gary’s solos could’ve been counted on one hand. And not one of them offered the inspired a guitar revolution.

I tried to rationalize the experience. Initially, I thought I was being cynical, too harsh. Maybe my ears deceived me? Where his EP inspired me, his live show felt absent and sanitized. Maybe my expectations were too high? Maybe the prophecy was wrong?

Gary’s rise in success wasn’t lost on me though. I watched his name go from the illegible bottom line of festivals to featured act and eventually the heralded headliner slot. Even though I had fallen off the bandwagon, stuck in 2010 relistening to his EP, I remained an adamant cheerleader. Gary was still a hip, new artist who shared the spotlight with his instrument every night. The Foo Fighters show was just one gig. It shouldn’t have ended my pursuit. I’d step back in for a televised performance or revisit a studio album, but the moment never came. His EP showed promise, but everything since then, his albums, his live show, television performances, they all fell flat.

I had to write Gary off. It was either that or continually be disappointed. I could still celebrate him from the sidelines, but I had to move on. Like any good breakup, I decided that it wasn’t him, it was me.

But destiny found me when I least expected it. Three years later, I was scrolling social media when I saw a post from a midsized club, right down the road from my home. “Gary Clark Jr., one-night-only, Minglewood Hall, tickets on sale now.” It was like bumping into your ex at the grocery store. They still looked great. You heard from a friend-of-a-friend that they’re on the market. Maybe the stars were aligning? Could this be our second chance or was I setting myself up for heartbreak again? I had to give it another chance. Everyone deserves a second chance, right? I mean it was just one concert, it’s not like I was going on tour with the guy.

The backing band repeated the groovy blues jaunt. It was like some kind of Texas blues-inspired take on the Elvis intro “Also Sprach Zarathustra.” With each repetition of the groovy blues bar, the anticipation grew. Right when it was about to go on a second too long, a tall, slender figure emerged from the shadows. He strutted with an unmatched level of swagger. His black fedora painted his face in shadows except for the tiny shimmer of his aviator sunglasses. He turned his back to the crowd and threw his guitar over his shoulder. The rhinestones on his jacket glimmered against the spotlight, creating a flesh and blood disco ball.

Gary took a sip from a red plastic cup before setting it atop his amplifier and strolling to the microphone. He was somehow simultaneously stepping and dragging as hIs boots glided across the stage. The band was still locked in the groove, but Gary was in no hurry to start the show. His steps landed on the one and three. It didn’t matter what noise came from his guitar, this guy embodied classic rock ’n’ roll swagger.

With his left hand, he yanked his guitar to his torso and locked onto the instrument. They say the perfect note is an elusive bird, some claim it doesn’t even exist. Whatever it is, Gary struck it with ferocity. Wailing in agony, the note screamed from his guitar, shredding the speakers. He swung his pick hand in the air and let the sustain howl over the groove.

Gary led the band into the first track from his debut album, “Ain’t Messin’ ‘Round.” The upbeat number swung. Gary leaned into the song, moving his hips cooly. His guitar blared over the backing band.

Early in the show, the singer-guitarist lost his rhinestone jacket. The man was coming out hot, and it was time to slow things down. The backing band settled into a standard slow blues groove. Gary closed his eyes, looked to the heavens and his fingers took a walk.

The guitar let out a slow bend as Gary struck a clean blues lick. His left hand wandered along the fretboard, deciding where to launch the next attack. Settling on a spot, he tore into an unfiltered blues phrase. His guitar moaned like a late-night flick. Without ever opening his eyes, he stepped to the microphone and through 12-bar blues agony, began a cover of Lowell Fulson’s 1946 “Three O’Clock Blues.”

Where the lyrics were saturated in sadness, Gary’s voice was bathed in beauty and soul. After the first verse, he stepped away from the mic to face his backing guitarist.

“Don’t do it, Gary, don’t you do it. Don’t let him take this solo. It’s all you, baby!”

The song was begging for his hands to write this solo, not someone else. His eyes darted from the musician, his hands stroked the fretboard. He was looking for that perfect note again. He struck a chord. Borderline sexual shouts echoed through the crowd. Gary let it linger before a short machine-gun burst. He was teasing us. It was all feathers and ticklers. Again, the backing musicians were steady in their groove. The bass took a walk and the keys sustained.

Then Gary ripped it.

Sliding down the neck, he landed on top of the guitar’s pickups before launching into a full-on blues assault. Finally. It was happening. His tone was clean but the shred was dirty. After several minutes of showboating, the solo hit its crescendo and Gary jumped to the microphone to finish the story the audience had long forgotten. It didn’t matter what happened at three in the morning anymore, all that mattered was those three minutes of absolute guitar bliss. The drummer hit one last bombastic fill and that was it. Gary swung his guitar to hang by his side and started to walk away but stopped for one more word.

“Yeah,” he said coolly. I was smitten like a schoolgirl crush.

The remainder of the show fluctuated between sweltering blues leads and soft R&B tracks. During those softer tracks, his instrument hung by his side. But when it was in his hands, that guitar begged for mercy.

To close the main set, Gary ripped into a familiar crunchy palm-muted chug. His backing guitarist took the rhythm and Gary’s guitar shrieked like a buzzsaw. He hit a chord and let it wash over the audience, before stepping into the lyrics of “Bright Lights.” This is where it all started. Would the artist’s live performance live up to my expectations? For years, this has been the song that plagued me. Everything Gary had done since I compared against this track.

“You gonna know my name,” Gary sang as the band dropped out. A truer statement couldn’t have been made. Gary started the chugging rhythm under the chorus as the band fell back in. He stepped back, ran his hands along the guitar and I prepared myself. This would be it. This would be the monster solo.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Silence. Not a note.

The musicians exchanged glances. Who’s it going to be? Who’s next? His backing guitarist stepped forward. Drenched in distortion and psychedelia, he tore into the exact solo I wanted from Gary. All this time, that’s all I wanted. I wanted the star to take that solo.

But Gary wasn’t going to send the crowd home empty-handed, after all, it was still his name on the marquee. Gary stepped from the microphone and slid to the front of the stage. His body tilted so no one could miss his instrument. Rather than teasing the crowd, he dove straight into a guitar solo that is best described as peak “Down by the River”-esque. His eyes closed, he lit into the instrument. His guitar screamed and pleaded. The crowd erupted in another round of borderline sexual responses. Gary was just getting started though. He nodded to the band to take it up a notch. I now realize that earlier when he allowed the other guitarist a moment to shine it was done in utter humility because he was about to outshine that kid.

After reminding the audience who we paid to see, Gary ended the song, dropped his guitar at his amplifier, and left the stage. The stage was completely dark save for a single spotlight silhouetting him over chants of “one more song.” The feedback howled with the chants. Gary didn’t step back for a final bow. He walked off leaving the crowd wanting more. Even in his exits, he was still the coolest guy in the room.

As much as I wanted a start-to-finish shred-fest, the slower moments, the times when Gary’s guitar hung by his side, showed me a side of the artist I’d been overlooking. His voice was beautiful. His lyrics were a masterclass of modern blues and homage. My expectations had been so blindly focused on the guitar god that I’d overlooked the other facets of what made Gary Clark Jr. special. He wasn’t a one-trick pony, he was a musical thoroughbred. His ability as a musician shouldn’t be defined by what he does on the guitar but what he can do with a song. It was at his discretion when the crowd’s face would or would not melt. And he knew it.

But this time, I was okay with it. Gary’s proven there’s more to being a great artist than being a great guitarist. The thing that makes a great guitarist great isn’t all the notes you can play, but the ability to know what notes not to play.

I have no idea if Gary Clark Jr. wants to be a guitar hero. It’s a ridiculous title that leaves young talent in the footsteps of giants. Maybe Gary does, who knows. My assumption is, Gary wants to be an artist. Write some great music and just so happen to be an excellent guitar picker along the way. So what if he’s not a trailblazer like Hendrix? Or a master shredder like Malmsteen.

My dissatisfaction was built around a silly bias that I concocted after hearing a 30-minute EP. He’s a talented artist and a modern-day guitar phenom in his own right, a rarity in today’s mainstream music. So what if he’s not the guy to make a combo Les Paul/Marshall stack sexy again? As I said, modern music probably doesn’t need that. But! If there’s anyone with the swagger to do it, it’s Gary Clark Jr. Wherever his career takes him, he’s undeniably inspiring the next generation of ax shredders. Which is maybe all music ever needed?