Jeff Beck: Blow by Endless Blow

Maybe 60 years is not enough.

One night in New York

We take the ‘C’ train down to the garden. It’s always buzzy in Manhattan. But when we get off the train, our hearts are racing faster. Our eyes are a little wider. The air is sharper.

We find our way to the end of the subway platform and climb the steel-plated stairs.

Clapton is playing tonight. Big night. The place is sold-out. It’s a Clapton crowd, but we’re not there for Clapton. We’re there for the opening act.

I was raised in London in the 60s, haunted the clubs, saw every incarnation of the Yardbirds, Clapton to Page to Beck. Three years of three guitar gods in and out. Those other guys were okay, but to me, it was always about Beck.

Hard to say why. I mean hard to put in words. I know why. There was this aura around Jeff Beck. Does that sound weird to you?

Did you ever see the man play? Because if you did, you know exactly what I mean. And if you didn’t, well, you missed something.

We’re climbing the subway stairs in New York, and I’m thinking back to London. I’m thinking back to nights at places like the Marquee and Tiles. Theaters like the Hammersmith Odeon. The Yardbirds were one of those bands wrapped in magic.