
A gateway into some of the most recognizable Vai-isms.
Advanced
Intermediate
·Develop a deeper sense of subdivisions.
·Learn how to combine odd groupings.
·Perfect the “Yngwie” pattern.
I had the pleasure of taking part in a project a couple of years back breaking down Steve Vai’s playing on David Lee Roth’s Eat Em and Smile album. Safe to say my fingers were fried after three months of practicing, but there were so many creative ideas to learn from. Late ’80s and early ’90s Vai is really something to behold, as he was featured in huge bands and changed the face of instrumental guitar. I want to look at some technical aspects of what he would do in terms of linear lines and expressions. My hope is that by learning them, you can take them and make them your own. Let’s dive in!
Ex. 1 is a classic Vai-ism in D minor. It’s a descending line loosely based around a series of triads with a few extra bits put in. The first beat centers on a D minor triad (D–F–A), the second beat hovers around a B diminished triad (B–D–F), and the third beat uses an A minor triad (A–C–E) to give a V-I pull back to the root note on beat 4. I love the idea of the two-note pull-off followed by a slide to transition between the cells.
Ex. 2 is similar to Ex. 1 in terms of layout, however there are a few twists. Most notably with the two-note-per-string hammer-ons shifting down two positions. This legato “smear” of notes is a trademark Vai-ism that pops up in tons of his solos and improvisations. We finish the line with a huge position shift down to a G Minor pentatonic pull-off phrase. A notable ornament of Vai’s spectacular playing.
Vai and Joe Satriani share a lot of common ground in terms of legato playing. They are known for taking three-note-per-string phrases and cramming notes into the beat for a cool washy sound. However, Vai sometimes would really focus on the odd subdivisions that these patterns would create. A sure sign of the influence Allan Holdsworth had with his angular-sounding lines. In Ex. 3 you can see how I would approach this by combining sextuplets with septuplets.
Ex. 4 is another legato run in E minor. However, this time we’re adding a tapped note at the 12th fret on each string at the top of each legato “roll.” Don’t be alarmed by the subdivisions in the transcription, these are more of a “pointer” towards the groupings. My performance note would be to practice this slowly as eighth-notes or slow 16th-notes before speeding up. Then when things are ticking along well, just go for it!
This phrase (Ex. 5) opens with a rather unique sequence for Vai: a five-note pattern played over a 16th-note rhythm. You can hear this pattern on some of his Alcatrazz material, and within the tapping runs in solos such as “Big Trouble.” The quintuplet uses notes from A minor pentatonic (A–C–D–E–G) spread out over two positions. Each pattern starts with a tapped note before pulling off to a chord tone. Then, I skip a string and play a descending three-note group. I continue this up to the top string before descending a line based around an Fmaj9 arpeggio (F–A–C–E–G).
Vai has some ferocious picking runs and when I hear Guthrie Govan go into full-on shred mode I can most notably hear the Vai influence on him. Ex. 6 features an ascending run of sextuplets in A minor. This phrase features mostly ascending notes on each string until the last two beats where we run into an Al Di Meola/Paul Gilbert-style pattern.
Ex. 7 is a flurry of notes, however there is some sense to how they are played. Keep in mind that this is phrased with three-note-per-string patterns. If we dissect the fingerings a bit, I use the classic “Yngwie” pattern of six to kick things off and then I use three groups of seven before wrapping with three groups of five. Don’t think of these in relationship to the beat, but more for just “building” the run. Practice with even 16ths or eighth-notes at first. When it comes to playing it at full speed, pick like the wind!
These unusual, almost symmetrical, patterns turn up in all kinds of places in Vai’s playing. Ex. 8 is a fun Vai phrase that outlines a series of minor 11 arpeggios. Each pattern is identical, so it’s best to play this with sweep picking and aim for an even feel. Try saying the word “hippopotamus” when playing through quintuplets to line up the syllables with the subdivisions. When Vai plays these, he lets them blur slightly, turning them into sheets of sound. Or sometimes he uses them to simply highlight the top note by sweeping so fast that it’s almost inaudible—in a cool way!
So there we have it, eight technical linear lines inspired by the amazing Steve Vai. Learning lines from your favorite artists is good, but it really starts to count when you take away the concepts and re-shape them your own way. Vai is a well of inspiration for tons of guitarists. Long may he continue!
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An imperfectly perfect routing job.
Take a moment to appreciate those quirks in your instruments that reveal their maker’s hands.
Let’s talk about obsessions for a minute. They come in all sizes and shapes; some are benign and harmless, while others can be cruel, crippling, or even life threatening. Members of 12-step and self-help programs remind us of how insidious our own self-delusion can be, which intrigued me enough to take a look at my gear and, ultimately, myself.
I took stock of any compulsive behaviors or things that kept me up at night. I tabulated items that pushed my buttons or irritated me. In the end, I had to admit that I’ve got issues—I’m obsessed. I can’t help myself, but I don’t want to either.
There are names and acronyms for what I have, but it all boils down to one thing: I’ve been obsessed with the little details. The little stuff that most people can pass by without a second thought. That candy wrapper teetering on the edge of the waste bin; I wonder, who could possibly tolerate that? That screwdriver with a worn tip? I’ve got to replace that! A small gap between a maple top and the binding? We can’t let that go. An uneven seam? To the bandsaw it goes, and then the dumpster. Those are the little glitches that make a statement individually and add up to a total that is less than what it could be. No, make that should be. Or should it?
The ancient Greeks were fascinated with the concept of arete, which refers to excellence or virtue. Arete represents the highest quality or state that something or someone can achieve. The German auto designer Ferdinand Porsche considered it almost a religion—indeed, the company’s motto has been interpreted as “excellence is expected.” I’m not imagining that I have the chops of a Porsche engineer, but we all have goals.Of course, there is a limit; otherwise, I’d never get anything done. I’m not crazy. So, in order to save myself, and possibly you, I encourage embracing a get-out-of-jail-free concept of sorts known to the Japanese as wabi-sabi.
Wabi-sabi plays a profound and integral role in Japanese culture and traditions, influencing various aspects of art, philosophy, and daily life. This aesthetic concept, ingrained into Japan’s culture, actually celebrates imperfection, impermanence, and simplicity. Some of the aesthetic principles of wabi-sabi include appreciating asymmetry, valuing roughness and simplicity, recognizing beauty in natural things, and embracing natural wear and tear. I think those of us who appreciate a real road-worn vintage instrument may already be part of the way there!
“As much as I don’t want my toaster to project sloppy construction, I do want beautiful instruments to approach perfection, while leaving little breadcrumbs that are evidence of the maker’s hand.”
For me as a musician and builder, I’ve come to soften my obsessions to appreciate and even look for the little “mistakes” in music and craft that tell me that a human being actually created those things. Things like off-mic banter in studio recordings, or fret buzz. As much as I don’t want my toaster to project sloppy construction, I do want beautiful instruments to approach perfection, while leaving little breadcrumbs that are evidence of the maker’s hand. Of course, under the microscope anything can be dissected and proclaimed imperfect, but there is a beauty to something that says, “This is as good as you need it to be.” Furthermore, you could say it’s beautiful the way it is because it has character shaped by virtues and flaws, just like a human being.
So, before I jump to a conclusion or judgement on a guitar, song, or most anything that is created by humans, I take a breath and consider character and personality. You might say that a perfect execution of lutherie might be flawless, but it’s the cold, sterile presence of the totally immaculate that I find flawed. When I look at the flatness of the finish on the top edge of a Collings headstock, I marvel at the determination behind it. But it’s not the entire beast, for that same guitar has telltale marks that prove it was made by people, not an alien force. They are the wabi-sabi—the maker’s mark.
I once owned a vintage Telecaster that was stunningly mint, but had a tiny knot in the maple fretboard, just past the 12th fret. Would I have returned it as unacceptable if I had been the original owner? Even at the time, many decades ago, I recognized the character that birthmark brought to my guitar. Even though it’s long gone from my collection, if I ever saw it again, I’d recognize it like an old compadre. And that, my friends, is what makes our instruments real to us. And I’m now obsessed with that.
Club- or festival-provided stage amps can be hellish or angelic. Here are some of the devils and angels Premier Guitar’s editorial director has encountered along the road.
I have a slight allergy to backline amps. I shouldn’t, because I’ve played through a lot of them at clubs and festivals over the years, and most of my experiences have been fine, but I think a few bad combos and unfathomable heads put me off to a degree I can’t quite shake.
One of the first times I got the backline shivers was in the ’90s at a New York City club gig supporting John Sinclair, where I was told we would not need to bring amps. Awaiting me was a severely scarred Peavey Bandit combo with nary a knob left on its face, and the EQ and pre gain didn’t even have posts left. I just twisted a few stumps and gave up on the rest. How was the sound? Like an amplified fluorescent light bulb. On the other hand, I’ve never met a backline Peavey Classic series amp I didn’t like. Or, really, almost any backline amp that got the TLC it deserved, along with the heavy use. I once plugged into a right-out-of-the-box amp delivered to a club in Geneva by a then-emerging European manufacturer that sounded great during soundcheck, but its transformer died on the first chord of the first song in my band’s set. Luckily, they’d sent two, so we had to stop, open a box, mic the new amp, and jump back on the horse.Another case: I like a little drive, so imagine my dismay to find a backline at a satellite tent at a major festival with zero master volume amps. At the time, I wasn’t using effects—just a Strat and a Tele. So I plugged into a big blonde Fender and just turned up. The stage volume was brutal, but I had my tone so it was great. At least for me. I hope the drummer who played with me that day can still hear.
Sometimes, even speccing the backline doesn’t help. While playing a series of gigs in France, I requested either Vox or Marshall amps, such as an AC30 or JCM800, and at one big stage I encountered a fresh-looking JCM 2000 Triple Super Lead atop a 4x12. I must confess, I took one look at both decks of buttons and push-pulls and my heart sank. I was out of my comfort zone at the time. Try as I might, I could not get anywhere near the mocha, mid-ripe sound I get out of my ’72 Super Lead without turning up to a stratospheric level. I felt terrible. Not for the audience. It was an outdoor stage with plenty of open space. But for the stage crew. When one of them shouted, “Ted, es-tu psychotique?” between songs, I didn’t need to consult Google Translate to know what he meant. I was embarrassed and regretful about the volume, but had a great time playing, nonetheless. (Sorry, crew!)
“Awaiting me was a severely scarred Peavey Bandit combo with nary a knob left on its face, and the EQ and pre gain didn’t even have posts left.”
Over this summer I played a voter registration benefit, and the large venue that held it sent a really appealing backline list, with a Deluxe and a DeVille included. When I got there, there was a Deluxe but no other guitar amp per se. I had to play through a bass amp, and it was okay, thanks to my pedals, but a decidedly less-than-magical experience.
I feel like I’m whining, but like most of you I’ve spent years chasing a particular tone, and when I have my own rig it’s as delicious as German chocolate cake. So maybe I’m spoiled. And there are some backline amps I’ve coveted at gigs—like the humble Blues Junior at Nashville’s Eastside Bowl that’s been upgraded with a Deluxe transformer. It speaks eloquently.
There have been many other funky, hard-to-manage (at least for me) backline amps I’ve wrestled with over the years. After all, I’ve played in a lot of juke joints and roadhouses. And I used to sweat about it. But I finally made my “whatever” peace with backlines thanks to some advice from Luther Dickinson: “No matter what an amp sounds like, you have to stay out of your own head.” Just let the music fly.
In that spirit, two of this issue’s gear features deal with backlines. One is a public service: If you’ve never played through a backline, here’s what you should expect; or if you’re putting one together, as I’ve had to do many times, here’s what to consider. The other piece polls eight heavyweight guitarists on their own backline gear specs—lending insight on how established pros ensure that they sound like themselves under any circumstances.
So, if stage life throws you a lemon for an amplifier, just plug in and make it as juicy as you can. Don’t worry, because there’s another gig down the pike where you’ll sound exactly like yourself.
On That’s the Price of Loving Me, “We’re Not Finished Yet” is a love letter to Wareham’s 1968 Gibson ES-335.
The singer-songwriter-guitarist, known for his time with indie rock heroes Galaxie 500, Luna, and Dean & Britta, reunites with producer Kramer on his latest song-driven solo effort, That’s the Price of Loving Me.
“You want there to be moments where something unexpected hits you,” says Dean Wareham. “They’ve done studies on this. What is it in a song that makes people cry? What is it that moves you? It’s something unexpected.”
The singer-songwriter, 61, has crafted many such moments—most famously during the late ’80s and early ’90s, helping cement the dream-pop genre with cult-favorites Galaxie 500. Take the tenor saxophone, by Ralph Carney, that elevates the back half of “Decomposing Trees” from 1989’s On Fire, or the Mellotron-like atmosphere that bubbles up during “Spook” on This Is Our Music from 1990—both of which, notably, were recorded with journeyman producer Kramer, who’s part of Wareham’s rich sonic universe once again with the songwriter’s new solo album, That’s the Price of Loving Me.
Following This Is Our Music, the final Galaxie 500 album, Wareham and Kramer went their separate ways. The former founded the long-running indie-rock band Luna, formed the duo Dean & Britta with now-wife Britta Phillips, worked on film scores, and released a handful of solo projects. Kramer, meanwhile, grew into a hero of experimental music, playing with and producing everyone from John Zorn to Daniel Johnston. They stayed in touch, even as they drifted apart geographically, and always talked about working together again—but it took the weight of mortality to make it happen.
“[Kramer has] been saying for years, ‘It’s crazy we haven’t made a record together,’” says Wareham over Zoom, his shimmering silver hair flanked in the frame by a wall-hung cherry red Gibson SG and a poster of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s 1975 drama Faustrecht der Freiheit. “He was living in Florida, and I was living elsewhere and doing other things. But I did lose a couple of friends over the pandemic, and it did occur to me, you can’t just say, ‘I’ll get to it’ forever. Not to be morbid, but we’re not gonna be here forever. We’re not getting any younger, are we?”
Dean Wareham's Gear
Wareham was a member of the early indie dream-pop trio Galaxie 500. After their split, he formed indie rock stalwarts Luna as well as Dean & Britta, with wife and Luna bandmate Britta Phillips.
Photo by Laura Moreau
Guitars
Amps
- Lazy J 20
- Mesa/Boogie California Tweed
Effects
- EAE Hypersleep reverb
- EAE Sending analog delay
- Dr Scientist Frazz Dazzler fuzz
- Danelectro Back Talk
- Joe Parker Raydeen overdrive
Strings, Picks, and Accessories
- Curtis Mangan nickel wounds (.010–.046)
- Dunlop Nylon .88 mm picks
- Truetone 1 Spot Pro CS12
In 2020, Dean & Britta recorded a covers album, Quarantine Tapes—the perfect opportunity, amid the agony of lockdown, to finally get Kramer involved. The producer mixed their hazy version of the Seekers’ “The Carnival Is Over,” which planted the seeds for a bigger collaboration on That’s the Price of Loving Me. At first, though, Wareham didn’t have any songs, so he gave himself a hard deadline by booking some time at L.A. studio Lucy’s Meat Market.
“What is it in a song that makes people cry? What is it that moves you? It’s something unexpected.”
“I don’t write songs every day—sometimes I don’t write songs for a whole year or something,” he says with a laugh. “The only thing that gets me to do it is booking studio time. Then I have to write some songs because it’ll be embarrassing if I show up with nothing.”
The space itself—decked out with a jaw-dropping amount of vintage guitars and amplifiers and keyboards—helped animate his sleepy-eyed and gently psychedelic songs. “I thought I had a few nice instruments,” Wareham says, “but I showed up, like, ‘Oh, your Les Paul’s from 1955? I think I’ll play this one. Your Martin is from the ’40s?’” Speed and spontaneity were essential: They worked six full days, with Kramer guiding him to capture every performance without overthinking it.
Wareham’s latest was produced by Kramer, a former member of Shockabilly, Bongwater, and the Butthole Surfers who owns the legendary underground label Shimmy-Disc. He produced all three Galaxie 500 LPs.
“[That’s] how I worked with Kramer back in the day too,” he recalls. “Maybe it kinda spoiled me—he was always like, ‘Yep, that’s it. Next!’ I got lazy about going back and redoing things. We’d make the decision and move on: keep that drum track and bass track. Maybe Britta [bass, backing vocals] would change a few things. Sometimes you’re with people who think every single thing should be replaced and made perfect, and you don’t actually have to do that. When it came time for me to overdub a guitar solo or something, Kramer would just allow me two takes generally: ‘Do it again a little differently. That’s it. That’s good.’”
“I thought I had a few nice instruments, but I showed up, like, ‘Oh, your Les Paul’s from 1955? I think I’ll play this one.’”
The material itself allowed for such malleability, with ringing chord progressions and gentle melodies often influenced by the musicians who happened to be gathered around him that day. “You Were the Ones I Had to Betray” has the baroque-pop sweetness of late-’60s Beatles, partly due to the sawing cellos of L.A. session player Gabe Noel, who also added some boomy bass harmonica to the climax. “It’s an instrument you’d mostly associate with the Beach Boys, I guess,” Wareham says. “It kinda sounds like a saxophone or something.”
Wareham, his 335, and Mesa/Boogie California Tweed at a recent Luna show, with bassist Britta Phillips in the background.
Photo by Mario Heller
It’s easy to get wrapped up in the warm hug of these arrangements, but it’s also worth highlighting Wareham’s lyrics—whether it’s the clever but subtle acrostic poetry of “The Mystery Guest” (“I’d never done that before, and it’s not that hard to do actually. Sometimes it’s just to give yourself a strange assignment to get yourself thinking in a different way”) or the hilarity of “We’re Not Finished Yet,” which scans as carnal but is actually a love letter to his semi-recently acquired 1968 Gibson ES-335.
“Sometimes it’s just to give yourself a strange assignment to get yourself thinking in a different way.”
“I read this poem about a guy polishing an antique wooden cabinet or something,” Wareham explains. “I thought, ‘That’s funny—it’s vaguely sexual, how he’s like rubbing this thing.’ I thought it would be funny if I wrote a song not about a piece of furniture but about the guitar—the experience of buying this. The lyrics in there: ‘I waxed you; I rubbed you; I reamed you.’ It all sounds like a dirty song, but it’s like, ‘No, I had to get the peg holes reamed!’ It works kind of as a love song, but that’s what it’s really about.”
Which brings us back to that idea of the unexpected. The most beautiful touches on Loving Me, crafted with his ol’ producer pal, are the ones that appear out of nowhere—like the blossoming guitar overdubs of “New World Julie” and “Dear Pretty Baby.” Kramer, he says, liked to “run two or three guitar tracks at once, where it becomes a symphony of guitars.”
These surprises, indeed, are the moments that stick with you.
YouTube It
Luna’s four-song performance on KEXP showcases Dean Wareham’s sparse, low-key indie rock vibe as well as his simple and sweet guitar embellishments.
In the ’80s, Peter Buck’s clean, chime-y arpeggios defined the sound of alt-rock to come.
In the ’80s, Peter Buck’s clean, chime-y arpeggios defined the sound of alt-rock to come. From R.E.M's start, his post-Roger McGuinn 12-string style served as the foundation for the band’s simple, plain-spoken approach, offering a fresh take on what an independent band could be and inspiring generations of artists to come. Buck not only found his sound quickly, he evolved throughout the band’s career. By the ’90s, R.E.M.’s sound had evolved to incorporate organic, acoustic textures, and eventually leaning into a glam- and grunge-inspired, distorted-guitar-focused sound on 1994’s Monster.