Back in the days when music ruled the world, we all had our benchmarks. The night The Beatles played Ed Sullivan. That day at Altamont. The many deaths of greats and those who would have been greats, from Buddy Holly to Duane Allman and too many others. Musical moments which marked where you were in your life and how important music was. Because music used to be that important.
The first time I heard John Mayall, Eric Clapton completely blew me away, his guitar edgy and new to my ears. I knew Clapton from the Five Live Yardbirds album and that band’s smokin’ hot version of Smokestack Lightnin’, a track I will never hear without stopping to listen (unless drivin’ down the road a hundred miles an hour). After hearing The Yardbirds, it seemed a safe bet to give Mayall a chance and I have to confess that John Mayall With Eric Clapton was pure steroid for what would become a lifelong appreciation of the rockin’ side of the blues.
I watched/listened to a short clip of a Jim Dawson concert this past week. Most of you don’t know the name, I am sure, but Dawson was at the forefront of my obsession with records back in 1971 and his Songman album is a treasure I would not part with except to Dawson himself. He was part folkie as were so many back then— the beginning of the real singer/songwriter movement— and experimenting with layers of sounds.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 