Volume III, Issue II Summer 2004

Last of the guitar gods
Johnny Winter still laying it down

Johnny Winter in concert - copyright David L. Pottie
Johnny Winter in concert
Photo by David L. Pottie – Used by permission
Copyright © David L. Pottie / Sound Waves Magazine
At age 60, Johnny Winter looks like a pile of bleached-out human bones someone found in the woods, glued together and propped up for display. That this man continues to lurk among the ranks of the living is both inspiring and terrifying. Winter is an albino; albinos are not known to enjoy a normal life expectancy; yet here is Winter, a man who has for forty years famously, gleefully abused every substance known to man with a fervor to make Keith Richards blush; who apparently continues to do so (this I've been told by a clearly shaken Winter associate); and who steadfastly refuses to expire, although he appears outwardly to have done so many a full moon back.

This, however, accounts for only a tiny fraction of Winter's vast appeal.

Although nowhere near as celebrated, I rank this man right up there with Jimi Hendrix and Duane Allman as one of the top three rock 'n' roll guitarists of all time. Yes, this means I believe him to be both a better player than – and ultimately a bigger influence upon rock & roll than – such contemporary brethren as Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page and Carlos Santana. That this sway comes by proxy makes no difference: the existence of fellow white Texas blues-rocker Stevie Ray Vaughan is completely unthinkable without Johnny's lead, and perhaps no guitar player outside of Jimi has had so great an impact on subsequent generations as SRV.

The deal with Winter's guitarsmanship is that on top of his dazzling speed, screaming soulfulness and shit-your-pants technical wizardry, his sound is so demonic, so malevolent that you imagine it emanates from the death-stinking talons of Satan himself. Winter's riffs twist and coil their way into your orifices like venomous serpents seeking shelter from the light; they bite and slash and constrict your innards; they defile your blood and mesmerize your brain with seconal, strychnine and cheap whiskey, ultimately leaving one an exhausted husk from the effects of some dark, unspeakable power.

Johnny WinterIn this regard I liken Winter to a modern incarnation of Robert Johnson, the only other guitar player whose work sounds similarly haunted and hell-spawned. All this is to say nothing of Winter's equally creepy and inimitable vocals, a growling, yowling, tormented wail that might have been what Howlin' Wolf sounded like had he been a 90-pound white guy instead of a 300-pound black guy. Well, at least it once was thus.

It is with a heavy heart that I must report, judging by his upcoming CD "I'm A Blues Man," that time is belatedly catching up with our hero. While the guitar playing remains at perhaps 85% peak command, Johnny's vocal force has diminished sadly; the raging tornado is now a wispy breeze.

That's to be expected; that's okay. Because the thing is, Johnny Winter, against all odds, is not dead yet – and perhaps he never will be. And a weakened Winter at the guitar remains mightier than any burnt cork-sportin' Kenny or Jonny on the scene, not to mention a pukedly overrated Jack White, who ought to personally apologize to Winter while serving up a salad toss for being rated number 17 to Winter's criminal number 74 in Rolling Stone's damnable Greatest Guitarists ish.

Meanwhile, do yourself a favor: go out and pick up copies of a prime Johnny's "Progressive Blues Experiment," "Johnny Winter," "Second Winter," "Nothin' But The Blues," "Guitar Slinger" and "Let Me In" albums – three full decades worth of mind-boggling magnificence perhaps unmatched by any rock or blues guitarist ever to roam the earth. In their abbreviated lifetimes, even Jimi and Duane failed to leave so rich a legacy as this.

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