This week In Guitar Virtuosi 06/52
Gary Moore, Jeff Beck, Tommy Emmanuel, Ronny Jordan, Pat Metheny, Frank Gambale, Julian Lage, Shawn Lane, Eric Clapton, Joe Bonamassa, Neal Schon, Eddie Van Halen
They are the Guitar Virtuosi selected among the 303 Posts we publish this week.
Here, they are reunited in one glorious playlist. Enjoy!
WATCH IN FULL
Tracklist
![]() 1 . Gary Moore . GM ShredsThe performance of “So What” by Michel Petrucciani, Anthony Jackson, and Steve Gadd, captured in a 1998 concert at the Liederhalle Stuttgart, is less a reimagination of the Miles Davis classic than a showcase of its endurance as a jazz template. Petrucciani approaches the piano with the intensity of a craftsman refining an antique. His phrasing is crisp, his dynamics deliberate, yet there’s a sense that he’s more interested in homage than disruption. The familiar modal structure of Davis’s original remains intact, but Petrucciani weaves his unmistakable touch into the spaces between the notes—lyrical, yet restrained. Anthony Jackson’s work on bass provides a weighty counterpoint without overshadowing. His deep, fretless tone anchors the piece, offering the harmonic stability that frees Petrucciani to glide above. Jackson plays with an understated precision, perhaps too cautious to stray into unexpected territory, but undeniably foundational to the trio’s cohesion. Steve Gadd’s contribution on drums is, predictably, a study in subtle brilliance. Known for his technical mastery, Gadd resists the urge to overplay, instead opting for delicate textures and unobtrusive grooves. His cymbal work punctuates the conversation with clarity, though one might wish for a bit more fire in his exchanges with Petrucciani. Directed by Eric Ebinger and Ulli Pfau, and produced by EuroArts Entertainment, VideoArts Music, and Francis Dreyfus Music, the concert feels meticulously crafted, almost too polished. While the trio’s interplay is undeniably tight, there’s a formality to the performance that edges on calculated—a well-oiled machine producing a sterile, albeit technically impeccable, rendition. This rendition reflects Petrucciani’s broader repertoire, which alternated between his own compositions and jazz staples. Contextually, it’s predictable that someone with his pedigree—marked by collaborations with Charles Lloyd, Lee Konitz, and Wayne Shorter—would approach “So What” as a reverent dialogue rather than a disruptive argument. However, it leaves a lingering question: does reverence for a classic necessarily preclude risk? ![]() |
![]() 2 . Jeff Beck . Dirty MindJohn Coltrane’s 1958 rendition of “I Want To Talk About You,” found on the “Soultrane” album, serves as a study in both reverence and transformation. Originally penned by Billy Eckstine in 1944 and arranged by Tadd Dameron, the song carried an air of lush, big-band romanticism. Eckstine’s version enlisted jazz icons Dexter Gordon and Dizzy Gillespie, establishing it as a work of ensemble grandeur. Coltrane, in contrast, pares the song down, opting for an intimate quartet setting with pianist Red Garland, bassist Paul Chambers, and drummer Art Taylor. The smaller group strips the composition to its emotional core, allowing Coltrane’s saxophone to act as both narrator and interpreter. Where Eckstine’s baritone crooned through melody, Coltrane’s tenor saxophone reshapes it, wringing pathos from every phrase. His improvisations hint at his evolving harmonic daring, but this isn’t the unrestrained Coltrane of “A Love Supreme.” Instead, “Soultrane” presents him balanced between technical fluency and a still-developing sense of freedom. The version here feels anchored, almost tethered to tradition—a stark contrast to the later performances on “Live at Birdland” or European tours, where Coltrane appended a now-famous unaccompanied cadenza. That cadenza, absent here, would go on to redefine not just the song but saxophone performance itself, serving as a template for countless imitators. While historically significant, this earlier studio take is perhaps too restrained, lacking the fiery explorations that would later mark Coltrane’s career. Still, the chemistry of his quartet ensures the piece is never overly polite. If Eckstine’s original was a plush ballroom, Coltrane makes it a smoky after-hours lounge—cozy, introspective, and just a touch transitional. ![]() |
![]() 3 . Tommy Emmanuel . Travelling ClothesChick Corea’s “Moseb the Executioner” from the 2006 album “The Ultimate Adventure” unfolds as a sprawling three-part suite that defies easy categorization, much like Corea’s larger body of work. Recorded at Mad Hatter Studios in Los Angeles, this track is a feast of intricate textures that bridge African, Spanish, and Arabian musical traditions. Yet, for all its ambition, one wonders if its collage-like structure feels more a product of technical brilliance than emotional cohesion. Key collaborators, including Vinnie Colaiuta on drums and Airto Moreira on percussion, inject percussive urgency and rhythmic intricacy. Tim Garland’s bass clarinet and tenor sax contributions add tonal depth without overstaying their welcome. Rubem Dantas’ palmas handclaps subtly tether the track to its flamenco undercurrent, but they risk getting lost amidst Corea’s layered synths and Fender Rhodes lines. Conceptually, “Moseb the Executioner” is part of an epic tribute to L. Ron Hubbard, though listeners might find its narrative arc elusive if divorced from the album’s context. Corea’s transitions between universal influences and experimental improvisation yield moments both exhilarating and uneven, suggesting a tension between ornamentation and storytelling. Live performances, like the 2007 Barcelona concert immortalized on DVD, showcase the piece in a looser, more organic light. Watching Corea explore Brazilian hand drums alongside a dynamic ensemble—including Jorge Pardo and Carles Benavent—arguably gives the track an immediacy the studio version lacks. Still, the deliberate intricacies of the studio recording resonate as both a strength and potential barrier, depending on the listener’s appetite for conceptual, borderless jazz. ![]() |
![]() 4 . Ronny Jordan . Blues Grinder“A Night in Tunisia” might as well be a sonic blueprint of bebop’s restless aspirations and Afro-Cuban flirtations. Dizzy Gillespie, alongside Frank Paparelli, offers a piece that tangles Afro-Cuban rhythms with the angular harmonies that came to define the bebop era, wrapping it all in a frenetic energy that refuses to sit still. The 1946 recording, featuring heavyweights like Don Byas, Milt Jackson, and Ray Brown, packs all the punch of a precision ensemble, though the flashes of genius come as much from the interplay as from Gillespie’s dynamic trumpet lines. The transformation of the song’s identity—from Sarah Vaughan’s 1944 “Interlude” to its desert-laden imagery in Ella Fitzgerald’s 1961 rendition—is a masterclass in jazz evolution. Titles shift, lyrics appear, but the spine remains: Gillespie’s sharp, percussive foundation. Miles Davis and Charlie Parker imbued it with their cerebral imprints, but in a live setting, like the 1961 MOMA quintet performance, Gillespie’s charisma and band-leading clarity take center stage, almost challenging the desert imagery for attention. The historical resonance, tied to African-American soldiers facing North Africa and the dual battles of war and civil rights, gives this piece emotional ballast beneath its swirling complexity. Yet this context never weighs down the intricate, syncopated rhythms that feel like they’re perpetually trying to outrun themselves. If bebop often felt too clever for its own good, “A Night in Tunisia” walks that fine line, teetering but never toppling. Still, the complex rhythms risk alienation; one wishes for a touch more space amid the flourish. Yet Gillespie’s innovation isn’t about comfort—it’s rebellion codified into sound. This is not a placid landscape but a jittery mosaic of precision, chaos, and cultural defiance. ![]() |
![]() 5 . Pat Metheny . Go Get It Live (w/ Antonio Sanchez)Jimmy Smith’s “Honky Tonk” is less a genre-hopping experiment and more a deliberate reimagining of honky-tonk through his jazz organ lens. As a cover, it owes structural debt to the early 20th-century honky-tonk piano style, yet Smith’s work is more about dragging it into the smoky intimacy of jazz clubs than preserving its original form. The live versions are arguably where this track reveals its quirks best. At the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1992, as Smith teams up with Jimmy McGriff, Herman Riley, Carl Lockett, and James Levy, the performance feels like a dialogue between musicians steeped in different shades of groove. The organ here doesn’t just lead; it spars, cajoles, and occasionally demands attention over Riley’s saxophone sighs and Lockett’s nimble guitar phrasings. Contrast that with the German TV appearance from the late 1980s, backed by Frank Wilson on drums. Here, the track loses a pinch of that lived-in warmth but compensates with a sharper, more percussive brightness. While the tenor sax and guitarist remain unidentified, the interplay still highlights Smith’s knack for weaving genre threads without collapsing under the weight of their history. This isn’t a cerebral piece. Its pleasures lie in the way Smith elevates the mundane honky-tonk bar into a sonic space where jazz walks in with swagger and owns the room. The danger, of course, is that some moments stretch indulgently, leaning too hard on Smith’s signature flair, which doesn’t always land in a track this airy. If anything, it’s a testament to his refusal to let simplicity stagnate, even if the results meander at points. B+ |
![]() 6 . Frank Gambale . Concert With Class (w/ Steve Smith)The RTÉ Concert Orchestra’s 2010 performance of Lalo Schifrin’s “Theme from Mission: Impossible” captures the visceral tension embedded in one of television’s most iconic espionage soundtracks. First introduced in 1966 for the TV series “Mission: Impossible,” this theme marked Schifrin’s first foray into television composition—a dazzling debut considering the music industry’s often brutal time constraints. By his own recollection, Schifrin completed the core of the theme in a brisk 90 seconds, adding bongos and a chorus in just a few minutes more. The result? A piece that continues to echo through culture with the sharp precision of a dagger striking its mark. Its unconventional 5/4 time signature, directly nodding to Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five,” wields an asymmetry that mirrors the narrative unease of espionage. Yet, while “Take Five” lingers in jazz’s laid-back cool, Schifrin’s theme opts for taut control, evoking high-stakes treachery and outsmarting adversaries. There’s a musical tightrope here—fascinatingly off-balance, yet controlled enough that you buy into its world of global intrigue. The original 1967 recording gained mainstream resonance, charting at number 41 on the US Billboard Hot 100 and even nabbing a gold certification after selling over 500,000 copies domestically. Lightly dressed in pop accessibility, its commercial stripes don’t downplay its technical prowess. Two Grammy wins in 1968 cemented its composition’s architectural rigor: Best Instrumental Theme and Best Original Score Written For A Motion Picture Or A Television Show. When performed live in Dublin, the RTÉ Concert Orchestra magnifies both the theme’s velocity and the cinematic sweep that small-screen budgets could only dream of. The concert setting injects the theme with grander theatrics, though one could argue that the live arrangement risks smoothing the sharp edges that give the piece its unmistakable tension. As brilliant as the orchestra’s polish is, there’s a sliver of spontaneity that may feel absent compared to the grittier original. Chart triumphs aside, “Theme from Mission: Impossible” made waves globally, hitting number one in Finland, Hungary, and Iceland—a diverse international reception for a work that thrives on suspense over sentiment. Its 2017 Grammy Hall of Fame induction underscores its staying power, though accolades are hardly necessary to attest to its influence. Ultimately, whether in its original recording or its 2010 orchestral revival, Schifrin’s theme remains a sophisticated study in controlled chaos—the kind of finely-calibrated anxiety that makes espionage feel both perilous and alluring. ![]() “Starry Night,” one of six new compositions on Wayne Shorter’s 2013 live album “Without a Net,” captures the improvisational dialogue of a seasoned quartet at the height of their introspective powers. Recorded in late 2011 during a European tour, this Blue Note release partners Shorter on tenor and soprano saxophones with Danilo Pérez, John Patitucci, and Brian Blade—musicians whose interplay feels less like performance and more like a subtle yet seismic conversation. The track opens with Pérez’s piano tremolos—an airy, unsettled prelude to Patitucci’s bass lines, which cycle ominously as though tracing spiral galaxies. Shorter’s saxophone entry, whether tenor or soprano, melds with the group dynamic rather than dominating it outright, a deliberate subversion of the soloist-over-rhythm-section format. It’s not a star illuminating the night but a distant constellation faintly visible through Pérez’s delicate harmonics and Blade’s understated percussion. “Without a Net” has earned critical attention, with its Metacritic score of 86/100 serving as shorthand for its abstraction and restraint. Yet, the album’s clarity emerges in moments like this: “Starry Night” rejects easy lyricism, favoring a gauzy framework of invention. Still, the piece can feel adrift at times, its cycles bordering on repetition before Shorter courses through them with compositional precision. This isn’t an anthem poised for immediate ubiquity but a quiet contender for the repertoires of players who crave atmosphere over narrative. ![]() Frank Gambale releases his eighth album . ‘Coming to Your Senses’ (2000) |
![]() 7 . Julian Lage . Roger The Dodger“Meeting Of The Spirits,” the opening salvo from Mahavishnu Orchestra’s “The Inner Mounting Flame” (1971), feels like an otherworldly ritual transcribed into sound. John McLaughlin’s guitar doesn’t just play—it shimmers, building an ethereal structure atop Billy Cobham’s volcanic drumming. The dissonant fanfare that launches the track seems to signal a cosmic upheaval, while the interplay of Jerry Goodman’s violin and Rick Laird’s bass locks into a hypnotic 6/4 groove that’s equal parts mystique and propulsion. The repeating patterns create a tension that’s as intellectual as it is visceral, though the track does risk losing balance in its need to declare its complexity. If “Meeting Of The Spirits” thrashes and ascends, “You Know You Know” lingers and prowls. Also from “The Inner Mounting Flame,” the piece reduces tempo to a slow crawl, grounding its atmosphere in a nine-note guitar motif by McLaughlin. Billy Cobham, pensive but always decisive, threads unexpected accents through the fabric, while Jan Hammer’s electric piano stirs unease just beneath the surface. Goodman’s violin mimics the guitar early on, yet the tension here isn’t resolved but heightened. Cobham’s rhythmic solo near the abrupt conclusion is both cathartic and a tease, as the piece cuts off before it has the chance to over-explain itself. Both tracks, performed during the BBC’s 1972 “In Concert” series, offer key insights into Mahavishnu Orchestra’s famed marriage of jazz, rock, and Indian classical music. If the ambition consistently arrests attention, the unrelenting complexity sometimes veers into overindulgence, leaving moments of disorientation. Nonetheless, the sheer precision and audacity make the listening experience something akin to navigating an electrified maze. Intriguing, if not always comfortable. ![]() |
![]() 8 . Shawn Lane . Get You Back“I Remember Clifford,” created by Benny Golson in homage to the tragically short-lived Clifford Brown, carries the emotional precision of an elegy without collapsing under sentimentality. Donald Byrd’s initial 1957 recording and its later elevation by Dizzy Gillespie’s Newport Jazz Festival performance stamped it into jazz consciousness. This particular version, featuring Golson himself alongside Art Farmer, Milt Jackson, Niels-Henning Ørsted Pedersen, and guitarist Ulf Wakenius, offers a layered reinterpretation of Golson’s composition. The vibraphone—Milt Jackson’s chosen weapon—provides an ethereal tint, its shimmering presence softening the piece’s solemnity without obscuring the underlying grief. Art Farmer’s trumpet, a recurring voice in his prior collaborations with Golson, including the “Meet the Jazztet” album, carries the melody with an almost conversational intimacy, eschewing dramatic flourishes for something quieter but no less affecting. Niels-Henning Ørsted Pedersen anchors it on bass, his playing neither intrusive nor detached, crafting a foundation that feels like a silent observer of the unfolding tribute. Ulf Wakenius’s contribution on guitar, however, occasionally sidesteps cohesion, feeling more like an addendum than an integral voice in the dialogue. “I Remember Clifford” has seen versions by names such as Lee Morgan and Dinah Washington, but this rendition leans heavily into ensemble interplay rather than individual virtuosity. The choice works in its favor—Jackson and Golson’s synergy threads history into the performance, creating a temporal bridge as much as a musical one. Still, there are moments where the collective’s restraint flirts with detachment, tempering but not quite extinguishing the piece’s emotional core. Golson’s composition sustains its weight, but the recording questions whether every note shared between legends carries intrinsic significance. ![]() |
![]() 9 . Eric Clapton . Holy Mother |
![]() 10 . Joe Bonamassa . Beck’s Bolero, Rice Pudding“Everywhere You Turn” by The Bad Plus is a layered negotiation between jazz convention and the band’s skittish genre-defying instincts. As part of their 2003 album “These Are the Vistas,” released on Columbia Records, it reflects the trio’s commitment to navigating their Gen X sensibilities, channeling a blend of jazz, rock, and electronic influences into original compositions. The track, authored collectively by pianist Ethan Iverson, bassist Reid Anderson, and drummer David King, skirts the boundaries of traditional jazz without stepping fully into rock or electronica’s domain. Its placement alongside audacious covers, like Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and Blondie’s “Heart of Glass,” amplifies its stakes, positioning “Everywhere You Turn” as a quiet test of the band’s ability to hold its own in the company of provocatively chosen reinterpretations. Performances like their 2014 set at the Festival November Music in ‘s-Hertogenbosch, Netherlands, accessible via YouTube, hint at how alive this composition feels in a live context, though the album version keeps its edges more measured. Where “These Are the Vistas” broadly toys with the porous boundaries of its influences, “Everywhere You Turn” delights in their friction, yet its restraint keeps it from fully igniting. ![]() |
![]() 11 . Neal Schon . Of A LifetimeRecorded live during a European tour characterized as a “trail of musical triumphs,” Stan Kenton’s February 6, 1972, performance at London’s Fairfield Hall is an exemplar of his audacious big band jazz vision. The centerpiece of the concert—captured on the double album “Stan Kenton Today: Recorded Live In London”—was “Artistry in Rhythm,” a piece as dense and commanding as the 19-piece ensemble Kenton directed from the piano. The sheer weight of the brass section, bolstered by the likes of Mike Vax and Dick Shearer, was both magnificent and overwhelming, teetering on overindulgence. This brassy onslaught, however, found balance through the intricate arrangements, which often bordered on architectural in their complexity. The performance leaned heavily on Latin flourishes—perhaps too heavily—bathing the venue in a kind of relentless flamboyance. Tracks like “Malagueña” and “Peanut Vendor” offered percussive spectacle courtesy of Ramon Lopez’s conga, yet the emotional subtleties of quieter moments like “What Are You Doing The Rest Of Your Life” seemed an afterthought amidst the bombast. What carries the recording is the tension, described as “an almost unbelievable level.” It’s a high-wire act: sometimes thrilling for its daring, at other times collapsing under its own weight. With soloists such as Willie Maiden and Jay Saunders providing fleeting moments of clarity amidst the brass-led roar, the performance demands but doesn’t always reward close listening. This album serves both as a testament to Kenton’s unyielding commitment to pushing the bounds of big band jazz and as a cautionary tale of excess. Its energy is undeniable; its dynamic range, unfortunately, less so. ![]() |
![]() 12 . Eddie Van Halen . Solo Live“Basie Boogie,” as performed by the Count Basie Orchestra during their 1959 concert at the Kongresshaus in Zurich, thunders onto the scene with all the rhythmic flourish one would expect from a band so adept at high-energy swing. Played as the opener for a Swiss television broadcast, it makes a deliberate statement, not of subtlety but of sheer propulsion, a freight train gathering steam. Count Basie’s piano leapfrogs atop Sonny Payne’s explosive drumming, while Freddie Green’s guitar sticks like glue to Eddie Jones’ bassline, a small rhythm unit that somehow feels colossally expansive. Yet, for all its energy, the piece risks becoming a display of stamina rather than nuance, leaning more on its relentless drive than on melodic evolution. In contrast, “Lil’ Darlin’,” another standout from the same concert, edges toward a more contemplative space. Neal Hefti’s composition thrives on precision, a quality the orchestra wields with unerring control. Wendell Culley steps forward for a rare trumpet solo, a moment that feels subdued yet considered, reminding listeners that the spotlight is rotational in Basie’s world. Marshal Royal’s alto saxophone and Frank Wess’ flute traces add texture without overstatement, and Benny Powell’s trombone anchors the mood with finesse. The piece exudes restraint, occasionally verging on overly polite, though this is arguably the point—it whispers where “Basie Boogie” roars. Together, the tracks encapsulate the duality of Count Basie’s ensemble in 1959. One piece electrifies with a brash exclamation; the other invites with a measured hand, each a facet of an orchestra at its late ’50s apex. Zurich got both sides of the coin, though “Boogie” may outlast “Lil’ Darlin'” in pure immediacy. ![]() |
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