hi,

this video is out for many years, but i haven't heard it till now,
what a solo from woody,

[www.youtube.com]

Yes, it`s great!!!

Yeah, he rocked!

That was his busiest years. He must have been really lubed. I mean - he hadn't stopped playing for 3 years straight.
That is a pretty organic sound. So that is all chops.

Edit - all though Charlie is no slouch either



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-13 20:27 by Palace Revolution 2000.

Nah. I like the intro with Billy but Ronnie lacks timing and the skills to pull off a solo unlike Taylor. Ronnie shows off a couple of tricks in this solo but it doesnt help since the solo isnt fluid.

This was my first Rolling Stones concert. Something I'll never forget.

Well, given Ronnie's obvious technical limitations it's really good, but the lead guitar on this one in 1972 and 1973 was waaaaaay bettah.

The tape is running a little bit too fast !! great solo indeed

This is Ronnie channeling Taylor, obviously this was the precise moment in time before the drugs cooked his brain and after he learned his craft. Yep the right mix of drugs here because Ronnie really can't, doesn't, will not play like this.
Shows how lazy the bastard became after this performance.

This is Ronnie channeling Taylor, obviously this was the precise moment in time before the drugs cooked his brain and after he learned his craft. Yep the right mix of drugs here because Ronnie really can't, doesn't, will not play like this.
Shows how lazy the bastard became after this performance.

Now listen to the real deal 3 years previous with M Taylor
This gives me goosebumps
[www.youtube.com]
And even better
[www.youtube.com]

Sorry to piss on your party, but i must admit Ronnie really surprised me how good he was in 75. Thanks for showing us thomashanck



Edited 4 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-13 23:39 by stone4ever.

Over and beyond it, I'd have to pick the one on L.A. Friday as exceptional. As a whole it's way more fluid. But this one has it's moments too. Thank you for posting.

Quote
stone4ever
This is Ronnie channeling Taylor, obviously this was the precise moment in time before the drugs cooked his brain and after he learned his craft. Yep the right mix of drugs here because Ronnie really can't, doesn't, will not play like this.
Shows how lazy the bastard became after this performance.

Now listen to the real deal 3 years previous with M Taylor
This gives me goosebumps
[www.youtube.com]
And even better
[www.youtube.com]

Sorry to piss on your party, but i must admit Ronnie really surprised me how good he was in 75. Thanks for showing us thomashanck

Hardly surprising after his Faces-years..

Quote
DandelionPowderman

Quote
stone4ever
This is Ronnie channeling Taylor, obviously this was the precise moment in time before the drugs cooked his brain and after he learned his craft. Yep the right mix of drugs here because Ronnie really can't, doesn't, will not play like this.
Shows how lazy the bastard became after this performance.

Now listen to the real deal 3 years previous with M Taylor
This gives me goosebumps
[www.youtube.com]
And even better
[www.youtube.com]

Sorry to piss on your party, but i must admit Ronnie really surprised me how good he was in 75. Thanks for showing us thomashanck

Hardly surprising after his Faces-years..

Nothing as challenging as Gimme Shelter in the Faces repertiore

Quote
Redhotcarpet
Nah. I like the intro with Billy but Ronnie lacks timing and the skills to pull off a solo unlike Taylor. Ronnie shows off a couple of tricks in this solo but it doesnt help since the solo isnt fluid.

Where's the :eye roll: emoji?

Quote
Redhotcarpet
Nah. I like the intro with Billy but Ronnie lacks timing and the skills to pull off a solo unlike Taylor. Ronnie shows off a couple of tricks in this solo but it doesnt help since the solo isnt fluid.

What are you talking about? Mick Taylor was fluid, but often fluid in a predictable way. There isn't just one style of guitar playing. When you listen to Mich Taylor soloing in the 70's you often know where he's headed after the first 5 notes.

With this Ronnie solo you get a completely different vibe with a more spontaneous approach to his playing, and you can tell he's inspired. Therefore I would say this Ronnie solo is fluid, but in a different way from how Taylor was fluid. The timing is just fine. To always use the same kind of timing can make one predictable and boring, Ronnie here is playing around with his timing in an intentional and interesting way.

I noticed that it was in stereo with the two guitars on separate channels. I'm going to guess that means it's a soundboard bootleg. I am not a bootleg guru, and if I am correct I wasn't aware of TOTA 1975 boots being captured from the soundboard.

I guess YouTube and downloading has nearly killed the bootleg industry. How can you complain that someone is posting your illegal boot in the first place?

Quote
TheBlockbuster
With this Ronnie solo you get a completely different vibe with a more spontaneous approach to his playing, and you can tell he's inspired. Therefore I would say this Ronnie solo is fluid, but in a different way from how Taylor was fluid. The timing is just fine. To always use the same kind of timing can make one predictable and boring, Ronnie here is playing around with his timing in an intentional and interesting way.

Excuses, excuses, excuses for mediocre timing, mediocre fluidity and noticable lack of melodic sense.

Ronnie kills it here. The Buffalo-version isn't my favourite, mainly due to the sound, the mix (Ronnie too up front) and the reversed channels.

Non-melodic? I can't remember that the untouchable original had melodic solos on it. One of the best songs recorded - ever.

This one is really great. Timing problems? Put down the crack pipe!





[www.youtube.com]



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 10:26 by DandelionPowderman.

take off nicely; toward the end the typical fauxh hysteria; no fludity rhyhme or 'reason' contexturally is right. at the ultimate finish there's a lot of just flapping on one note bacially, or a couple of them in a partial chord while bending and flailing meaningnlesly; there is no 'sense' to it or ultimate resolving 'riff's or figures...it goes nowhere and ends nowhere...with a lot of fast right hand flappa flappah and hoding on two a position with his left hand. amateur hour with nothing really to 'say' to really add or further define...
not mick taylor. not any of dozens much more than good enough but they need Ron to kinda pretend he's a real Rolling Stone with built in adualtion, as

of it developing and peaking; well developing a little but it doen't really go anywhere imo;

'what a solo' in the title here should maybe read more like

"what??? a solo???!"

in Faces and early Rod he was so great and it would not have been so without him. with nicky and micky and jeff his bass guitar credit on those two would be his most innovative and should be his most proud accoplish; maybe compteting with a LOT of reallytruly deservedly called GREAT guitar playing as the single guitar player and Faces...and also adding distinction tone and melody to Rod's besteset early stuff before he pretty much, thankfully, finally disapperaed for the most part...at least in any serious way as a contributor of meaningful songs or performances...imo..
_____________________________________________________________

here's a review of the L.A. show that year; one of my favorite concert reviews of all time...:

Charles Bukowski

Jaggernaut (Jagger naught?

Wild Horse on a Plastic Phallus



"They opened on the 9th at the Forum and I went to the track the same day. The track is right across from the Forum and I looked over as I drove in and thought, well, that's where it's going to be. Last time I had seen them was at the Santa Monica Civic. It was hot at the track and everybody was sweating and losing. I was hungover but got off well. A track is some place to go so you won't stare at the walls and whack-off, or swallow ant poison. You walk around and bet and wait and look at the people and when you look at the people long enough you begin to realize that it's bad because they are everywhere, but it's bearable because you adjust somewhat, feeling more like another piece of meat in the tide than if you had stayed home and read Ezra, or Tom Wolfe or the financial section.

The tracks aren't what they used to be: full of hollering drunks and cigar smokers, and girls sitting at the side Benches and showing leg all the way up to the panties. I think times are much harder than the government tells us. The government owes their balls to the banks and the banks have over-lent to businessmen who can't pay it back because the people can't buy what business sells because an egg costs a dollar and they've only got 50 cents. The whole thing can go overnight and you'll find red flags in the smokestacks and Mao t-shirts walking through Disneyland, or maybe Christ will come back wheeling a golden bike, front wheel 12-to-one ratio to rear.

Anyhow, the people are desperate at the track; it has become the job, the survival, the cross...instead of the lucky lark. And unless you know exactly what you're doing at a racetrack, how to read and play a toteboard, re-evaluate the trackman's morning line and eliminate the sucker money from the good money, you aren't going to win, you aren't going to win but one time in ten trips to the track. People on their last funds, on their last unemployment check, on borrowed money, stolen money, desperate stinking diminishing money are getting dismantled forever out there, whole lifetimes pissed away, but the, state gets an almost 7 percent tax cut on each dollar, so it's legal. I am better than most out there because I have put more study into it. The racetrack to me is like the bullfights were to Hemingway -- a place to study death and motion and your own character or lack of it. By the 9th race I was $50 ahead, put $40 to win on my horse and walked to the parking lot. Driving in I heard the result of the last race on the radio -- my horse had come in 2nd.

I got on in, took a hot bath, had a joint, had 2 joints (bombers), drank some white wine, Blue Nun, had 7 or 8 bottles of Heineken and wondered about the best way to approach a subject that was holy to a lot of people, the still young people anyhow. I liked the rock beat; I still liked sex; I liked the raising high roll and roar and reach of rock, yet I got a lot more out of Bee, and Mahler and Ives. What rock lacked was the total layers of melody and chance that just didn't have to chase itself after it began, like a dog trying to bite his ass off because he'd eaten hot peppers. Well, I'd try. I finished off the Blue Nun, dressed, had another joint and drove back on out. I was going to be late.

S.O. And the parking lot was full. I circled around and found the closest street to park in -- at least a half mile away.
I got out and began to walk. Manchester. The street was full of private residents behind iron bars with guards. And funeral homes. Others were walking in. But not too many. It was late. I walked along thinking, shit, it's too far, I ought to turn back. But I kept walking. About halfway down Manchester (on the south side) I found a golf course that had a bar and I walked in. There were tables. And golfers, satisfied golfers drinking slowly. There was a daylight golf course but these kitties had been shooting for distance on the straight range under the electric lights.

Through the glass back of the bar you could still see a few others out there Jerking off golfballs under the moon. I had a girl with me. She ordered a bloody mary and I ordered a screwdriver. When my belly's going bad vodka soothes me and my belly's always going bad. The waitress asked the girl for her I.D. She was 24 and it pleased her. The bartender had a cheating, chalky dumb face and poured 2 thin drinks. Still it was cool and gentle in there.
"Look," I said, "why don't we just stay in here and get drunk? @#$%& the STONES. I mean, I can make up some kind of story: went to see the STONES, got drunk in a golfcourse bar, pewked, broke a table...knitted a palm tree towel, caught cancer. Whatcha think?"
"Sounds all right."

When women agree with me I always do the other thing. I paid up and we left. It was still quite a walk. Then we were angling across the parking lot. Security cars drove up and down. Kids leaned against cars smoking joints and drinking cheap wine. Beer cans were about. Some whiskey bottles. The younger generation was no longer pro-dope and anti-alcohol -- they had caught up with me: they used it all. When 27 nations would soon know how to use the hydrogen bomb it hardly made sense to preserve your health. The girl and I, our tickets were for seats that were separated. I got her pointed in the direction of her seat and then walked over to the bar. Prices were reasonable. I had two fast drinks, got my ticket stub out, put it in my hand and walked toward the noise. A large chap drunk on cheap wine ran toward me telling me that his wallet had been stolen. I lifted my elbow gently into his gut and he bent over and began to vomit.

I tried to find my section and my aisle. It was dark and light and blaring. The usher screamed something about where my seat was but I couldn't hear and waved him off. I sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette. Mick was down there in some kind of pajamas with little strings tied around his ankles. Ron Wood was the rhythm guitarist replacing Mick Taylor; Billy Preston was really shooting-off at the keyboard;

Keith Richards was on lead guitar and he and Ron were doing some sub-glancing lilting highs against each other's edges but Keith held a firmer more natural ground,

albeit an easy one which allowed Ron to come in and play back against shots and lobs at his will.

Charlie Watts on tempo seemed to have joy but his center was off to the left and falling down. Bill Wyman on bass was the total professional holding it all together over the bloody Thames-Forum.

The piece ended and the usher told me that I was over on the other side, on the other side of row N. Another number began. I walked up and around. Every seat was taken. I sat down next to row N and watched the Mick work. I sensed a gentility and grace and desperateness in him, and still some of the power: I shall lead you children the shit out of here.

Then a female with big legs came down and brushed her hip against my head. An usher. Grotch, grotch, double luck. I showed her my stub. She moved out the kid on the end seat. I felt guilty and sat down on it. A huge balloon cock rose from the center of the stage, it must have been 70 feet high. The rock rocked, the cock rocked.

This generation loves cocks.
The next generation we're going to see huge pussies,

guys jumping into them like swimming pools and coming out all red and blue and white and gold and gleaming about 6 miles north of Redondo Beach.

Anyhow, Mick grabbed this cock at the bottom (and the screams really upped) and then Mick began to bend that big cock toward the stage, and then he crawled along it (living that time) and he kept moving toward the head, and then he kept getting nearer and then he grabbed the head.

The response was symphonic and beyond.
The next bit began. The guy next to me started again. This guy rocked and bobbed and rocked and rolled and flickered and rotor-rooted and boggled no matter what was or wasn't. He knew and loved his music. An insect of the inner-beat. Each hit with him was the big hit. Selectivity was Non-comp with him. I always drew one of these.

I went to the bar for another drink and after getting this kid out of my $12.50 seat again, there was Mick, he'd put his foot in a stirrup and now he was holding to a rope and he was way out and swinging back and forth over the heads of his audience, and he didn't look too steady up there waving back and forth, I didn't know what he was on, but for the sake of his bi-sexual ass and the heads he was going to fall upon I was glad when they reeled him back in.

Mick wore down after that, decided to change pajamas and sent out Billy Preston who tried to cheese and steal the game from the Jag and almost did, he was fresh and full of armpit and job and jog, he wanted to bury and replace the hero, he was nice, he did an Irish jig painted over in black, I even liked him, but you knew he didn't have the final send-off, and you must have guessed that Mick knew it too as he buried wet ice under his armpits and ass and mind backstage. Mick came out and finished with Preston. They almost kissed, wiggling @#$%&. Somebody threw a brace of firecrackers into the crowd. They exploded just properly. One guy was blinded for life; one girl would have a cataract over the left eye forever; one guy would never hear out of one ear. 0.K., that's circus, it's cleaner than Vietnam.

Bouquets fly. One hits Mick in the face. Mick tries to stamp out a big ball balloon that lands on stage. He can't push his foot through it. One saddens. Mick runs over, jumps up, kicks one of his fiddlers in the ass. The fiddler smokes a smile back, gently, full of knowledge: like, the pay is good.
The stage weighs 40 elephants and is shaped like a star. Mick gets out on the edge of the star; he gets each bit of audience alone, that section alone, and then he takes the mike away from his face and he forms his lips into the silent sound: @#$%& YOU. They respond.

The edge of the star rises, Mick loses his balance, rolls down to stage center, losing his mike.
There's more. I get the taste for the ending. Will it be "Sympathy for the Devil"? Will it be like at the Santa Monica Civic? Bodies pressing down the aisles and the young football players beating the shit out of the rock-tasters? To keep the sanctuary and the body and the soul of the Mick intact? I got trapped down there among ankles and @#$%& hairs and milk bodies and cotton-candy minds. I didn't want more of that. I got out. I got out when all the lights went on and the holy scene was about to begin and we were to love each other and the music and the Jag and the rock and the knowledge.

I left early. Outside they seemed bored. There were any number of titless blonde young girls in t-shirts and jeans. Their men were nowhere. They sat upon the ends of bumpers, most of the bumpers attached to campers. The titless young blonde things in t-shirts and jeans. They were listless, stoned, unexcited but not vicious. Little tight-butted girls with pussies and loves and flows.
So I walked on down to the car. The girl was in the back seat asleep. I got in and drove off. She awakened. I was going to have to send her back to New York City. We weren't making it. She sat up.

"I left early. That shit is finally deadening," she said.

"Well, the tickets were free."
"You going to write about it?"

"I don't know. I can't get any reaction, I can't get any reaction at all."
"Let's get something to eat," she said.
"Yeah, well, we can do that."
I drove north on Crenshaw looking for a nice place where you could get a drink and where there wasn't any music of any kind. It was 0.K. if the waitress was crazy as long as she didn't whistle.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 10:33 by hopkins.

Typical great 75 Ronnie!!!

Since when a solo needs to be "fluid" or "melodic" to be good?

Thank god there are no fixed rules in rock and roll ...



C

Quote
stone4ever
This is Ronnie channeling Taylor, obviously this was the precise moment in time before the drugs cooked his brain and after he learned his craft. Yep the right mix of drugs here because Ronnie really can't, doesn't, will not play like this.
Shows how lazy the bastard became after this performance.

Now listen to the real deal 3 years previous with M Taylor
This gives me goosebumps
[www.youtube.com]
And even better
[www.youtube.com]

Sorry to piss on your party, but i must admit Ronnie really surprised me how good he was in 75. Thanks for showing us thomashanck

[www.youtube.com]

1:55 thru 2;05

[www.youtube.com]

2:10 thru 3:25

Quote
liddas
Typical great 75 Ronnie!!!

Since when a solo needs to be "fluid" or "melodic" to be good?

Thank god there are no fixed rules in rock and roll ...



C

since forever.
well if you're talking great...if you're talking 'good' well it's sorta almost that for awhile. good is cheap; great is impossible almost. ron struggles for the former, others can't even play without producing the latter.
ron has no real greatness as a Rolling Stones; he's really good sometimes; he's sort of adequate for what they're doing the rest of the time MOSTLY; Of course there's some really good Ron stuff w the Stones...he was great with Faces...all thoswe solos sort of 'meant' something...they sort of told their own story while at the same time being completely complementary to what the others are putting down...

Most importantly Ron is skinny and has good rock style hair and is in image fit...
he doesn't mind dressing like a clown and being an eternal apologist and promoter,,,taylor's a musician. a truly great one. oh how i hate to contribute to making it a ron vs mick thing because there's never really a comparison; i mean not one really....ron is lucky to have great stuff; he worked hard on adtl and some others to capture most of the part and all that...

His feq major contributions in the studio are respected and anppreciated for me. I love HG and that '78 tour...here is playing w mac again and it's a thing of joy witha lot of spark...i've heard him knock off some blistering stuff with The Stones, I'm not on the war path about him; but i'm not going to pretend the Stones have a great lead guitarist.

if people enjoy these ron's efforts thats fine w me; just saying what i'm inspired to write based on my own taste and personal experience with both lead guitarists live....even from same venue...
many years later in 89 when Ron was really fully integrated; imo he wasn't as dynamic as some of the great freat hANDESOME GIRLS 78 tours where he seemed locked in and exciting to me...and by '81 he was more than servicable but never the guy who has these stunning great leads consistenly or even every once in a while...

he's so talented...i mean he pulled off sf at fonda...but mostly u know...i find him pretty expendable; i mean he looks like he belongs. he has great hair; he didn't mind being dressed up like an idiot....The Faces looked cool, dressed cool and were cool...

jef beck would be his most important contribution next to FAces....as an original dynamic foundational guitarsit...

I reeally don't think anybody considers Ron to be a 'great guitarist'....
maybe the 'perfect fit' for many; he's been there forever now and has a history of fans who appreciate him...

he's the original player on which and how many studio tracks that are used in their standard set?
that's right. almost none of them.
he's best when he sits down and plays acoustic slide during Keith's set occasonally imo.

but one he was King of the world for a bit there; really fine creative, awesome in lots of ways....i don't see much of that w The Stones; he is clearly second tier and i think treated as such....the boyish clowing act is hard to beat; it brings a little zest to it...he's around forever thru some high and lows so it's always a kick when things start to see him bounce out from backstage and all that...but



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 11:12 by hopkins.

Are you telling me that the original Gimmie Shelter, with Keith's solo, isn't great, hopkins?

Do I need to re-learn everything I know about rock'n'roll and guitar playing now?

There is no fixed rule, you know. The Stones were at their greatest in the 60s, imo - with Keith and Brian. No one played melodic/symphonic pieces back then, did they? No one counted notes, and Keith was voted as one of the greatest guitaristsin the UK BEFORE he learned how to play open G.

And btw, both Mick Taylor and Ronnie squeeze out all the notes to be found in the pentatonic box - albeit differently. Their focuses are different: Ronnie listens to the band, and tosses in a little tiara here and there. Taylor takes over the band while soloing.

Both approaches work.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 11:14 by DandelionPowderman.

are you telling me that the original Keith solo on anything compares with Ron's copies on anything?

yes you might possibly do. I don't know; give it a try.
actually i wasn't 'telling you' anything; i don't think about you when I post.

i'm not counting notes either; ron would win for a lot of notes that don't mean anything go anywhere or inspire anybody else to any heights or drive.

a tiara? that's nicky. if you're gonna clone speak keithfucious get the context right.

hey if it works for you have fun with it.



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 11:24 by hopkins.

You want GREAT Ron guitar? Listen to Faces or early Rod solo albums. the rhythm and leads are groundbreakingly wondrous. and lovely and melodic; on a few the rhythm guitar sounds beat anything ever recorded in rock except for maybe the dance little sister kinda raunchy heat kinda thing...imvho

wish you were with me at Faces at Fillmore East circa long player and a nod is as good as a wink; you'd be thrilled...i mean any of you; most of you know already.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 11:28 by hopkins.

Quote
hopkins
are you telling me that the original Keith solo on anything compares with Ron's copies on anything?

yes you might possibly do. I don't know; give it a try.

i'm not counting notes either; ron would win for a lot of notes that don't mean anything go anywhere or inspire anybody else to any heights or drive.

a tiara? that's nicky.

hey if it works for you have fun with it.

The tiara-quote was Stu (and we shouldn't forget). The comparison is still valid, though, because it symbolises an attitude and a way of playing that doesn't include taking over the band. In fact, it's genius. It took me decades to understand as a musician myself (yeah, I'm slow)

I don't follow you on «Ron's copies on anything?».

If you mean that Ronnie tried to copy any of them, you're simply wrong. Playing someone else's songs doesn't mean you're copying anything. Ron Wood is pretty easy to spot. In fact, it only takes a tenth of a second to spot his style. You can't say that about many guitarists.

whatever you think is ok by me...i find your defensesiveness silly

yeh ron came up with the exact same lead (attempt) on atdl just out of thin air and it's coinidence that it matches Mick's original amazing ground breaking earth shaking contribution....right.... i'm wrong you're right whatever...






When asked about stepping in for Taylor, Wood said "I knew those solos in my head. I could reproduce them, with tremendous respect for Mick."
He added "Technically I?m not as good a guitarist as Mick." He laughs off the thought of screwing up on stage. "The only way I can f**k up is by playing too loud. That's a sore point with Mick and Keith. I'd get my guitar wrapped around my head by Keith."

spoken like a true sidekick. mick taylor was nobodys sidekick.



Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 11:38 by hopkins.

Quote
hopkins
whatever you think is ok by me...i find your defensesiveness silly

yeh ron came up with the exact same lead (attempt) on atdl just out of thin air and it's coinidence that it matches Mick's original amazing ground breaking earth shaking contribution....right.... i'm wrong you're right whatever...






When asked about stepping in for Taylor, Wood said "I knew those solos in my head. I could reproduce them, with tremendous respect for Mick."
He added "Technically I?m not as good a guitarist as Mick." He laughs off the thought of screwing up on stage. "The only way I can f**k up is by playing too loud. That's a sore point with Mick and Keith. I'd get my guitar wrapped around my head by Keith."

spoken like a true sidekick. mick taylor was nobodys sidekick.

Defensiveness?

I just didn't agree with you when you claimed that Ronnie was copying Taylor (and Keith?) on Gimme Shelter.

Some motifs are immortal, like All Down The Line. You take them away and the song is almost unrecognisable. That was a wise move by Ronnie.

However, we discussed Gimme Shelter here, and unless my ears are failing me big time, Ronnie din't copy anyone there

u got issues, a techno-crat wanna be; u missed the whole thing; you'll never get it but want to project yourself in the illusion of it. many layers of lost. you'll never hear the golden band right from their amps, sweat and natural authentic revelatory brilliance. A lot of fans younger than you totally get it so it's not even age w you. there are certain clear types on the intertubes i guess. masquerade and illusion dandelionpowertrip heh heh...the outreach is over; you miss by a mile and think you're at the center. the sad thing is you think you're informing others of something key about the very best of what they've blessed us with, and cheapen it, bring the brilliance down to the level of an awkward cover band conciousness like the kid torturing stairway to heaven in every guitar shop, more grimace than grit, not getting the grace; non-sensical grievances false equivalencies. sillyboy



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-05-21 22:15 by hopkins.

Quote
hopkins
take off nicely; toward the end the typical fauxh hysteria; no fludity rhyhme or 'reason' contexturally is right. at the ultimate finish there's a lot of just flapping on one note bacially, or a couple of them in a partial chord while bending and flailing meaningnlesly; there is no 'sense' to it or ultimate resolving 'riff's or figures...it goes nowhere and ends nowhere...with a lot of fast right hand flappa flappah and hoding on two a position with his left hand. amateur hour with nothing really to 'say' to really add or further define...
not mick taylor. not any of dozens much more than good enough but they need Ron to kinda pretend he's a real Rolling Stone with built in adualtion, as

of it developing and peaking; well developing a little but it doen't really go anywhere imo;

'what a solo' in the title here should maybe read more like

"what??? a solo???!"

in Faces and early Rod he was so great and it would not have been so without him. with nicky and micky and jeff his bass guitar credit on those two would be his most innovative and should be his most proud accoplish; maybe compteting with a LOT of reallytruly deservedly called GREAT guitar playing as the single guitar player and Faces...and also adding distinction tone and melody to Rod's besteset early stuff before he pretty much, thankfully, finally disapperaed for the most part...at least in any serious way as a contributor of meaningful songs or performances...imo..
_____________________________________________________________

here's a review of the L.A. show that year; one of my favorite concert reviews of all time...:

Charles Bukowski

Jaggernaut (Jagger naught?

Wild Horse on a Plastic Phallus



"They opened on the 9th at the Forum and I went to the track the same day. The track is right across from the Forum and I looked over as I drove in and thought, well, that's where it's going to be. Last time I had seen them was at the Santa Monica Civic. It was hot at the track and everybody was sweating and losing. I was hungover but got off well. A track is some place to go so you won't stare at the walls and whack-off, or swallow ant poison. You walk around and bet and wait and look at the people and when you look at the people long enough you begin to realize that it's bad because they are everywhere, but it's bearable because you adjust somewhat, feeling more like another piece of meat in the tide than if you had stayed home and read Ezra, or Tom Wolfe or the financial section.

The tracks aren't what they used to be: full of hollering drunks and cigar smokers, and girls sitting at the side Benches and showing leg all the way up to the panties. I think times are much harder than the government tells us. The government owes their balls to the banks and the banks have over-lent to businessmen who can't pay it back because the people can't buy what business sells because an egg costs a dollar and they've only got 50 cents. The whole thing can go overnight and you'll find red flags in the smokestacks and Mao t-shirts walking through Disneyland, or maybe Christ will come back wheeling a golden bike, front wheel 12-to-one ratio to rear.

Anyhow, the people are desperate at the track; it has become the job, the survival, the cross...instead of the lucky lark. And unless you know exactly what you're doing at a racetrack, how to read and play a toteboard, re-evaluate the trackman's morning line and eliminate the sucker money from the good money, you aren't going to win, you aren't going to win but one time in ten trips to the track. People on their last funds, on their last unemployment check, on borrowed money, stolen money, desperate stinking diminishing money are getting dismantled forever out there, whole lifetimes pissed away, but the, state gets an almost 7 percent tax cut on each dollar, so it's legal. I am better than most out there because I have put more study into it. The racetrack to me is like the bullfights were to Hemingway -- a place to study death and motion and your own character or lack of it. By the 9th race I was $50 ahead, put $40 to win on my horse and walked to the parking lot. Driving in I heard the result of the last race on the radio -- my horse had come in 2nd.

I got on in, took a hot bath, had a joint, had 2 joints (bombers), drank some white wine, Blue Nun, had 7 or 8 bottles of Heineken and wondered about the best way to approach a subject that was holy to a lot of people, the still young people anyhow. I liked the rock beat; I still liked sex; I liked the raising high roll and roar and reach of rock, yet I got a lot more out of Bee, and Mahler and Ives. What rock lacked was the total layers of melody and chance that just didn't have to chase itself after it began, like a dog trying to bite his ass off because he'd eaten hot peppers. Well, I'd try. I finished off the Blue Nun, dressed, had another joint and drove back on out. I was going to be late.

S.O. And the parking lot was full. I circled around and found the closest street to park in -- at least a half mile away.
I got out and began to walk. Manchester. The street was full of private residents behind iron bars with guards. And funeral homes. Others were walking in. But not too many. It was late. I walked along thinking, shit, it's too far, I ought to turn back. But I kept walking. About halfway down Manchester (on the south side) I found a golf course that had a bar and I walked in. There were tables. And golfers, satisfied golfers drinking slowly. There was a daylight golf course but these kitties had been shooting for distance on the straight range under the electric lights.

Through the glass back of the bar you could still see a few others out there Jerking off golfballs under the moon. I had a girl with me. She ordered a bloody mary and I ordered a screwdriver. When my belly's going bad vodka soothes me and my belly's always going bad. The waitress asked the girl for her I.D. She was 24 and it pleased her. The bartender had a cheating, chalky dumb face and poured 2 thin drinks. Still it was cool and gentle in there.
"Look," I said, "why don't we just stay in here and get drunk? @#$%& the STONES. I mean, I can make up some kind of story: went to see the STONES, got drunk in a golfcourse bar, pewked, broke a table...knitted a palm tree towel, caught cancer. Whatcha think?"
"Sounds all right."

When women agree with me I always do the other thing. I paid up and we left. It was still quite a walk. Then we were angling across the parking lot. Security cars drove up and down. Kids leaned against cars smoking joints and drinking cheap wine. Beer cans were about. Some whiskey bottles. The younger generation was no longer pro-dope and anti-alcohol -- they had caught up with me: they used it all. When 27 nations would soon know how to use the hydrogen bomb it hardly made sense to preserve your health. The girl and I, our tickets were for seats that were separated. I got her pointed in the direction of her seat and then walked over to the bar. Prices were reasonable. I had two fast drinks, got my ticket stub out, put it in my hand and walked toward the noise. A large chap drunk on cheap wine ran toward me telling me that his wallet had been stolen. I lifted my elbow gently into his gut and he bent over and began to vomit.

I tried to find my section and my aisle. It was dark and light and blaring. The usher screamed something about where my seat was but I couldn't hear and waved him off. I sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette. Mick was down there in some kind of pajamas with little strings tied around his ankles. Ron Wood was the rhythm guitarist replacing Mick Taylor; Billy Preston was really shooting-off at the keyboard;

Keith Richards was on lead guitar and he and Ron were doing some sub-glancing lilting highs against each other's edges but Keith held a firmer more natural ground,

albeit an easy one which allowed Ron to come in and play back against shots and lobs at his will.

Charlie Watts on tempo seemed to have joy but his center was off to the left and falling down. Bill Wyman on bass was the total professional holding it all together over the bloody Thames-Forum.

The piece ended and the usher told me that I was over on the other side, on the other side of row N. Another number began. I walked up and around. Every seat was taken. I sat down next to row N and watched the Mick work. I sensed a gentility and grace and desperateness in him, and still some of the power: I shall lead you children the shit out of here.

Then a female with big legs came down and brushed her hip against my head. An usher. Grotch, grotch, double luck. I showed her my stub. She moved out the kid on the end seat. I felt guilty and sat down on it. A huge balloon cock rose from the center of the stage, it must have been 70 feet high. The rock rocked, the cock rocked.

This generation loves cocks.
The next generation we're going to see huge pussies,

guys jumping into them like swimming pools and coming out all red and blue and white and gold and gleaming about 6 miles north of Redondo Beach.

Anyhow, Mick grabbed this cock at the bottom (and the screams really upped) and then Mick began to bend that big cock toward the stage, and then he crawled along it (living that time) and he kept moving toward the head, and then he kept getting nearer and then he grabbed the head.

The response was symphonic and beyond.
The next bit began. The guy next to me started again. This guy rocked and bobbed and rocked and rolled and flickered and rotor-rooted and boggled no matter what was or wasn't. He knew and loved his music. An insect of the inner-beat. Each hit with him was the big hit. Selectivity was Non-comp with him. I always drew one of these.

I went to the bar for another drink and after getting this kid out of my $12.50 seat again, there was Mick, he'd put his foot in a stirrup and now he was holding to a rope and he was way out and swinging back and forth over the heads of his audience, and he didn't look too steady up there waving back and forth, I didn't know what he was on, but for the sake of his bi-sexual ass and the heads he was going to fall upon I was glad when they reeled him back in.

Mick wore down after that, decided to change pajamas and sent out Billy Preston who tried to cheese and steal the game from the Jag and almost did, he was fresh and full of armpit and job and jog, he wanted to bury and replace the hero, he was nice, he did an Irish jig painted over in black, I even liked him, but you knew he didn't have the final send-off, and you must have guessed that Mick knew it too as he buried wet ice under his armpits and ass and mind backstage. Mick came out and finished with Preston. They almost kissed, wiggling @#$%&. Somebody threw a brace of firecrackers into the crowd. They exploded just properly. One guy was blinded for life; one girl would have a cataract over the left eye forever; one guy would never hear out of one ear. 0.K., that's circus, it's cleaner than Vietnam.

Bouquets fly. One hits Mick in the face. Mick tries to stamp out a big ball balloon that lands on stage. He can't push his foot through it. One saddens. Mick runs over, jumps up, kicks one of his fiddlers in the ass. The fiddler smokes a smile back, gently, full of knowledge: like, the pay is good.
The stage weighs 40 elephants and is shaped like a star. Mick gets out on the edge of the star; he gets each bit of audience alone, that section alone, and then he takes the mike away from his face and he forms his lips into the silent sound: @#$%& YOU. They respond.

The edge of the star rises, Mick loses his balance, rolls down to stage center, losing his mike.
There's more. I get the taste for the ending. Will it be "Sympathy for the Devil"? Will it be like at the Santa Monica Civic? Bodies pressing down the aisles and the young football players beating the shit out of the rock-tasters? To keep the sanctuary and the body and the soul of the Mick intact? I got trapped down there among ankles and @#$%& hairs and milk bodies and cotton-candy minds. I didn't want more of that. I got out. I got out when all the lights went on and the holy scene was about to begin and we were to love each other and the music and the Jag and the rock and the knowledge.

I left early. Outside they seemed bored. There were any number of titless blonde young girls in t-shirts and jeans. Their men were nowhere. They sat upon the ends of bumpers, most of the bumpers attached to campers. The titless young blonde things in t-shirts and jeans. They were listless, stoned, unexcited but not vicious. Little tight-butted girls with pussies and loves and flows.
So I walked on down to the car. The girl was in the back seat asleep. I got in and drove off. She awakened. I was going to have to send her back to New York City. We weren't making it. She sat up.

"I left early. That shit is finally deadening," she said.

"Well, the tickets were free."
"You going to write about it?"

"I don't know. I can't get any reaction, I can't get any reaction at all."
"Let's get something to eat," she said.
"Yeah, well, we can do that."
I drove north on Crenshaw looking for a nice place where you could get a drink and where there wasn't any music of any kind. It was 0.K. if the waitress was crazy as long as she didn't whistle.

Yes Ron does flutter up on that high note towards the end of the solo, but I think we need to keep in mind that Ronnie is playing with a very organic, clean sound. it is a lot harder to solo on certain songs like that. It's all right out front. Plus he has virtually no sustain. So he almost HAS to pick fast like that to deliver the notion of climax to the solo.
And in fairness to him he does wrap it up, up there. It is Keith who comes in on HIS guitar, walking up from underneath, and kind of ruins the moment.


Edit - I think it was a long time until Ronnie started using real processed f/x sound on stage. Matter of fact, his sound became even smaller,as he started using the Strat more and more. very ploinky ploinky.
But then with "Start me Up", on the short solo, and really for CYHMK he got a fancy sound.
It is interesting to check his various phases. Like Hopkins said - his early sound with the Faces is downright unique. That dirt he got on "Stay with me", "Too Bad", Debris - actually the entire "Blind Horse" album. The jewels are the first and last song. The opening "Miss Judy" is another one of those life changing moments for me; that guitar. And then "Thats All You Need" - which I always see as their "Hats off to Roy Harper" thing.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 2017-03-14 12:32 by Palace Revolution 2000.