“Music is inherently a collaborative process, and quite often, our heroes work better together.”
In 1986, my friend Jon Small produced the video for Run-DMC and Aerosmith’s version of “Walk this Way.” Small starts the video with Aerosmith loudly jamming in a rehearsal space with an annoyed Run-DMC shouting from the adjacent room, “Turn that noise down, man.” When DMC realizes they can’t get around it, they have to get into it.
They rap the first verse, and then Steven Tyler breaks down the wall between the rooms and joins Run-DMC on the chorus. The metaphor is pretty brilliant, tearing down the wall between hip-hop and rock, tearing down cultural walls and unifying two audiences that seem totally different but are way more similar than anyone suspected.
Tyler, being a drummer at heart, wrote the lyrics with this perfect percussive flow that was essentially rap before rap was rap. Tyler also peppered the lyrics with double entendre, which became a huge part of hip-hop.
“Walk This Way” was 10 years old at the time, and Aerosmith had been through it all. The band's drug use had taken its toll. Joe Perry and Brad Whitford had both quit and rejoined, labels were skeptical, and radio was ignoring them. But this crossover collaboration reached No. 4 on the Billboard Hot 100, and its frequently aired video resurrected Aerosmith’s career by introducing the band’s music to a new generation. It also paved the way for a melding of rock and hip-hop in the hands of acts like Rage Against the Machine, Kid Rock, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and all the others who jumped into these blurred lines created by this collaboration.
Music is inherently a collaboration. In every band, orchestra, duo, etc., players join together to achieve a common goal. Even if you’re a soloist, your arms, legs, and fingers are doing wildly different, complicated tasks separately while working together, hopefully in harmony. The best collaborations happen when the energy/talent/spirit/personality jell in such a way that it brings the best out of everyone, creating work that neither party could have done alone. Beatles, Stones, Aerosmith … none of the members’ solo work is as good as the band collaborations that made their careers.
Collaborations go the other way as well, like those big, epic closing jams at a concert, where 5 to 15 guitarists get on stage and each player tries to kick the ass of the person soloing before them. They usually turn into an unwatchable dweedlely-dweedle wank fest. A three-diva sing off is equally torturous: no melody, all riffs. That’s ego getting in the way of being part of something bigger than you. That’s why most supergroups are usually less than super. But great artists thrive with collaboration.
“Iggy Pop seems like a feral animal compared to elegant Bowie, and yet the two wrote and produced a ton of legendary music together throughout the ’70s and ’80s.”
One of the attributes that made David Bowie such a next-level talent was his love of collaboration, particularly with artists who were so different from himself. Bowie’s hit “Fame” was a collaboration with John Lennon. One of my favorite Christmas songs is Bing Crosby and Bowie’s “The Little Drummer Boy.” In 1981, Bowie and Queen were both recording their own projects at Mountain Studios in Montreux, Switzerland. This led to Queen inviting Bowie to sing on a track, which led to an impromptu writing/recording session, which led to the creation of “Under Pressure.”
Bowie brought in a young and unknown Stevie Ray Vaughan to be the rude, angry counter to Nile Rodgers’ slick and funky rhythm on “Let’s Dance.” Iggy Pop seems like a feral animal compared to elegant Bowie, and yet the two wrote and produced a ton of legendary music together throughout the ’70s and ’80s. Together, they served each other as perfect foils.
Clapton’s guitar weeping over George Harrison’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” Eddie Van Halen’s rearranging Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” then laying down his iconic solo over the new section, or more recently, Bonamassa’s guitar driving under Glenn Hughes’ soaring vocals and Jason Bonham’s thunder with Black Country Communion’s new single, “Stay Free,” collaboration can take it to places where no one has gone before.
When I moved to Nashville 32 years ago, a writer told me this town was built on collaboration; it’s all co-writing, jamming, working together on life’s never-ending art project. Not only do you get a fresh direction in your work, but your chances of success double when two people are working on promotion rather than doing it all alone. The best part is the relationships you form. As your peer group comes to power, you all help each other along the way.
There are two collaborations I would love to see happen:
Ultimate collab #1:
Jack White and Jack Black. They are already friends. Both have an over-the-top, theatrical delivery. The project name options are numerous and brilliant. Call this unholy union “Jack White and Black” or “Jack Jack White Black.”
Ultimate collab #2:
Marcus King and Kingfish. Both brilliant guitarists deep in the blues/rock world, but with sophisticated jazz leanings. Both sons of the South. Proposed name: Marcus King Fish.
Marcus, Chris, Jack, and Jack, if you are reading this, know that your audience awaits with eager anticipation.
A takeaway from the saga of Stevie Ray Vaughan and David Bowie.
Let me say that, in my blurry opinion, Stevie Ray Vaughan may be the greatest American since Jesus. Until I heard him, I had no idea how expressive a guitar, particularly a Strat, could be. SRV's sledgehammer right hand beating those strings as thick as power lines remains the most fierce/gigantic clean tone I've heard. Nobody can sound that angry without leaning on some serious overdrive. But he also had this tender side, where he'd break it down to a whisper that felt vulnerable and sad. “Lenny," from his debut album, remains the most moving instrumental I've ever heard. You can't overstate SRV's influence on guitar playing.
That's why I'm shocked by the persistent rumor that SRV lost his Bowie gig because he wasn't cutting it during rehearsals for the Let's Dance tour of 1983. Bowie recruited SRV to play on that album after catching his set at the Montreux Jazz Festival. Yeah, that's Stevie slinging Strat on the title track. His funky, turbo-Texas guitar sticks out like a habanero in a bowl of ice cream. Since he was a brilliant addition to the recording, it made sense to hire him for the touring band.
But as the rehearsals started, there were conflicts between Bowie's and Vaughan's management. Vaughan's record label wanted him to tour behind his own imminent debut, money became an issue, and so did SRV's sense of loyalty to his bandmates in Double Trouble. And apparently, Carlos Alomar, Bowie's longtime rhythm guitarist and music director, was really unhappy. He banned SRV's wife Lenny from rehearsals, reportedly due to her flagrant use of cocaine. That didn't sit well with Stevie. But the kicker—and what really rings a bell with me—is that Alomar was reportedly dissatisfied with SRV's inability to read music and with his playing on Bowie's signature hits. In this perfect storm, it was inevitable that Stevie wasn't on the bus for the Serious Moonlight Tour.
Think about this: SRV's fat tone on “Let's Dance" was perfect, but could you imagine it on “Suffragette City" or “Diamond Dogs?" Me neither. SRV was a master, not a mimic. His playing was highly stylized, and that style does not fit with much of Bowie's work. Les Paul and Chet Atkins were amazing players, too, but they also would not have worked on that gig. Stevie could not fake Ziggy, but plenty of pro guitarists could strap on a Strat and dial up a convincing SRV tone for three songs a night, then go back to Mick Ronson's or Earl Slick's angry Les Paul sound for the older catalog.
The point: Just because you're an amazing guitarist doesn't mean you're right for the gig.
And here's another story. About 10 years ago, I was the bandleader for a series on NBC. When we had to make a personnel change, I hired a legendary bass player whom I'd always admired but never worked with before, because this musician was out of my league. Long story short, when we got into rehearsal, it became apparent that the bassist didn't read very well. Also, although the bassist was a killer singer who had a hit song as an artist, the backing vocals failed to blend well with the lead singer's. I was confident this player would rise to the occasion when the show went live, but the network didn't share my optimism and I had to hire a session guy who has no identifiable style but could nail whatever you threw at him.
Today, the fired bassist plays for a famous rock band and earns waaaaaaay more money than I do, so there's a happy ending and a good reminder that sometimes we should not be where we do not belong.
I've played enough jazz standards gigs to recognize that jazz is not my bag. I know three songs in The Real Book and I read like a fat guy runs marathons—slow, sweating, and perhaps not making it to the end. So, when I get calls for a live reading-jazz gig, I always tell the leader: “If you can't find anyone good and you are in a bind, I will take the gig, but you have to promise not to get mad at me when this show turns into a one-man clambake. If this ruins the gig or your career, it's your fault for hiring somebody as unqualified as me."
Stepping outside your safety zone should not be painful for other musicians on the gig. Being out of your comfort zone is fine if you do your homework and try to fit the music, rather than shoehorning your thing in it. But there are some gigs that aren't meant to be.
If Bowie did fire SRV, he did the world a favor. If that gig was successful, SRV might have shifted to a sideman career and never become the legend he is.
Zach Smith from the Minor Chord guitar shop in Littleton, Massachusetts, shares a rare mint specimen of the same vintage model that was the bedrock of SRV's “Texas Flood” tone.
Blues-rock guitarists have squabbled over the last quarter century about what contributed most to Stevie Ray Vaughan’s colossal tone. Some believe it was his heavy-handed attack or the beaten-with-love Strat with an alchemy all its own from a ’63 body, ’62 neck, and ’59 pickups. Perhaps that’s true, but the bedrock of his signature “Texas Flood” firepower was his two 1964 Fender Vibroverb amplifiers.
Introduced in February 1963, the 40-watt Vibroverb was Fender’s first amplifier to feature both onboard tremolo and reverb effects. The first iteration of the 2-channel amp was built with the 6G16 circuit (based on the Vibrolux), two 10" Oxford speakers, and an output transformer from Fender’s Super. It used two 6L6GC power tubes, three 7025s for its preamp and phase inverter, a GZ34 rectifier, and two 12AX7s—each controlling reverb and tremolo. The normal and bright channels both had two inputs and controls for volume, treble, and bass. The bright channel had additional knobs for reverb, and speed and intensity dedicated to the tremolo. Cosmetically, the seminal Vibroverb was covered from head to toe in brown.
The following year, Fender overhauled most of their amp models, including the Super, Twin, and Vibroverb. (The Super was given two more 10" speakers, the Twin was given two 12" speakers, and both were outfitted with reverb.) The second version of the combo saw several modifications, like swapping the two 10" Oxford speakers for a single 15" speaker from either JBL or Jensen. Power-wise, the ’64 Vibro was constructed with an AA763 circuit, 12AT7 tubes for the phase inverter and reverb, and the optical-coupler tremolo that replaced the tweed-style effect. This also marked the first year Fender’s amps were decked out in the now-classic blackface design that incorporates black tolex, a black control panel, and skirted black knobs. In addition, each channel had its own bright switch and the second channel was now labeled vibrato instead of bright.
While SRV’s tech, César Diaz, heavily modded his Vibroverbs—swapping input resistors, coupling capacitors, and countless tubes—the ’64 blackface shown here is nearly mint. “I have seen some nice vintage amps come through the shop, but the rarity and condition of this one is unmatched,” says Zach Smith, store manager of The Minor Chord. “There’s not one crackle to any knob, switch, or jack. We even had a copy of the original bill of sale, all the original paperwork, and the original dust cover is still in great condition.”
Smith and his colleague Gary Supernor test-drove the cherry Vibroverb with three era-correct guitars—a Rickenbacker 330, a ’66 Fender Mustang, and an original mid-’50s Fender Stratocaster. They weren’t surprised when each guitar sounded outstanding. “The Ricky had a nice warm meaty tone,” remembers Smith. “For the Mustang, we cranked the reverb and it was surfing time. And the each pickup position of the ’50s Strat was its own little slice of heaven [laughs]." Smith believes the amp’s original 15" CTS speaker is what makes the ’64 so special. The amp easily handled anything they threw at it and has a nice low-end oomph, he says, but it can maintain a brighter, clearer crispness as you turn up the treble.
The original Vibroverb lacked in sales compared to other Fender amps and was made only two years, with under 1,500 produced. The ’63 model was reissued from 1990–1995 and the ’64 Custom reissue—designed with César Diaz—ran from 2003–2008.
A special thanks to Carl Strathmeyer and Zach Smith of The Minor Chord in Littleton, Massachusetts, for allowing us to feature this fine piece of gear and its story.
Got some gear that would make a great Gear of the Month? Then email pics and its story to us at gotm@premierguitar.com.