Dude, Could You Hand Me That Guitar?

True story . . . summer of ’69, I was invited to spend a couple weeks with my college roommate at his home in  San Francisco.

The summer of ’69 . . . San Francisco.  Let that sink in for a moment.

My father had died six months earlier, I was needed at home, but my mother insisted that I needed to do something for myself, a “take your mind off the sorrow” escape, and so I flew the friendly skies to the City of Love that Summer of Love.

Let me just say this: San Francisco lived up to its reputation during that time. I, quite literally, had never seen anything like it up to that point, and I have never seen anything like it in the nearly sixty years since.

My friend’s father was pretty well-connected in San Francisco at that time, a well-known lawyer among the business community, and one of his clients was the owner of The  Fillmore, also known as Fillmore West, also known as the greatest underground rock venue in the United States, the birthplace of many psychedelic rock groups in the 60’s, a must-see site for anyone interested in the alternative lifestyles of that era.

Somehow, he arranged for his son, my college roommate, and me to work backstage at The Fillmore as stage hands for two weeks.

The Jefferson Airplane . . . the Grateful Dead . . . Linda Ronstadt . . . Moby Grape . . . a who’s who of rock groups marched across that stage while I was there, including, one night . . .

Let me set the stage, so to speak.

The Jefferson Airplane had just finished their set (this being about a month before Woodstock) when the emcee announced a surprise visitor . . . Jimi Hendrix.  Up on the stage bounded this young guy with a wild Afro, led by the double peace sign his fingers formed.  He took it all in for a moment, then walked back to the edge of the curtain, where I was standing, and said “Dude, could you hand me that guitar,” pointing at me,  pointing at a guitar five feet from me, me struggling to appear cool, a hopeless attempt, stumbling to the guitar, stumbling back to him, handing it to him and him saying “Thanks, dude,” before he proceeded to reinvent the way rock musicians played music from that moment on.

During those years of music appreciation, I heard Clapton, Mayall, Page, so many of the creative musical artists, people whose hands seemed to be extensions of their instruments, but no one touched me, burrowed into the depths of my soul, like . . .

I fully understand that the problem with any discussion about “The Greatest” is that it will be a subjective discussion.  What works for the goose does not necessarily work for the gander, or some such nonsense.  Still, I would be remiss if I somehow died and went to that Great Gig in the Sky, and did not toss my vote into the ring . . . David Gilmour of Pink Floyd.

I first heard Pink Floyd in 1973 when they released “Dark Side of the Moon.” It was transforming, as close to a religious experience, through music, as one could participate in during the early 70s. I had never heard anything like it, not then, not today, fifty years later.

While so many musicians of that time were intent on amazing fans with speedy riffs, with shredding, with all manner of flaunting and flouncing onstage, Pink Floyd simply showed up and displayed, for anyone lucky enough to see them in person, what near-perfection sounds like. The arrangement of their songs was exquisite. Their lyrics were poetic. The light shows were legendary.  And, “standing” above all that, was one of the greatest musicians to ever strum a guitar, David Gilmour.

Listen to his solos on “Comfortable Numb” or “On the Turning Away.” Listen to his guitar speak and sing to you. There were, there are, no tricks when Gilmour plays.  He knows he is good, and he allows his talent to vote for him. Each note is deliberate.  Every tone is pure. He adlibs with a touch of genius and I am comfortable in saying you do not have to be a rock fan to appreciate Gilmour’s greatness.

Do yourself a favor, go to YouTube, and find the Pulse Concert of 1994. Listen to the two aforementioned songs. Tell me what you think.  And then listen to “Coming Back to Life” and tell me about the goosebumps which will surely form on your arms, or the tears which will fall from your cheeks.

Mozart, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Ella James, Nina Simone, Katherine Hepburn, Stevie Wonder, Van Cliburn, Harper Lee, Steinbeck, Poe, Burns, the list goes on and on, a who’s who of the famous, and not-so-famous, all with one thing in common: their ability to deliver beauty and wonder to us all. Some die in anonymity; some were famous; all enriched our lives through their talents.

We all have access to the same instruments they played, i.e. guitar, piano, flute.  We all have access to the same alphabet they had to work with, the same colors they painted with, the same voice structure they sang with . . .  and yet . . . they took the ordinary and found a way to add the extra. They found a way to stand out among the millions who had come before them, challengers to their crowns hailed as potential greats with each passing year, but only a few, the rare few, take on those challengers and remain at the top of the heap.

And I am so damned in awe of their talents, and I am so appreciative that they shared those talents with us all.

For Christmas this past year, Bev bought me a keyboard.  The first song I am committing to memory: Comfortably Numb.

Pax Vobiscum to you all

Bill