Peter
Green's Fleetwood Mac, "Need Your Love So Bad."
One
of the crying shames of the 1960s music scene was that the lists for
the musical Mount Olympus were kept too short. We could be overly
judgmental then and, if the comments on YouTube are any indication,
there's an excess of judgment in circulation to this day. Best band,
best drummer, best bass player, best, best, best. The most highly
contested race was best guitar slinger. “Eric Clapton is God” was
just hitting the walls of rock club bathrooms when Jimi Hendrix came
along, and each had his legions of backers for the title. I have
always thought that this was a bit problematic.
Unfortunately
for anyone wishing to take this competition seriously, the discussion
was usually limited to guys in the most popular musical genres, rock
and, for a time, “blues.” That left out some real contenders in
the guitar scene, like Wes Montgomery, Chet Atkins, Kenny Burrell,
and Les Paul, to name just a few. For that matter, even the real
blues guys were left out! The three Kings* got a mention, but where
was Wayne Bennett? Or Earl Hooker? Otis Rush? Magic Sam? Those guys
would cut other players to ribbons, given half a chance. In the
“stage battle” sense, of course.
Myself,
I'm not a “best” kind of guy. I rather think that there is always
a number of people clumped together around the top of the list. Most
beautiful woman in the world? Even if it were possible to judge the
entire field, you'd never narrow it down to fewer than ten million.
Oddly
missing at the time from the list of contenders were two players who
had a good claim to the title: Jeff Beck and . . . Peter Green. In
Jeff's case, he just seemed to be having too much fun. He made it all
look easy, so casual observers didn't take him seriously. Jeff, God
bless him, continues to confound observers to this very day.
Guitarists with talents measurable within the normal human range
still don't even know what he's doing most of the time, but by now
everyone agrees that he's a phenomenon, and, more importantly, a
pleasure to listen to. Peter Green represents another forgotten
group: guitar players who were on the shy side, who perhaps lacked
charisma, guys who were never quite comfortable in the limelight.
When he disappeared, after about five years of impressing the hell
out of anyone that mattered, most people didn't even notice.
Why
did he disappear? It does not seem to have been a matter of simply
giving it up, or of the shyness becoming too much to overcome. No, it
was due to his whole personality being driven off of the tracks by a
malign outside influence. The band, “Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac,”
arrived in Germany and Peter was enticed to join a group of
Euro-trash, jet-set hippies who promised him nirvana. Nirvana in the
form of some really, really great acid (LSD). Peter left with them in
their vehicle, and he was never the same again.
DISCLAIMER:
I am not now, nor have I been for many decades, involved with illegal
drugs. Neither am I familiar with the fate of Peter Green from any
personal experience or inside information. Regarding the former, I
know what I know; regarding Peter Green, I know what information has
been available to interested parties over the years.
These
were the kind of young or youngish rich Europeans who have plenty of
money, great connections, and time on their hands. They know what to
listen to and what to wear, from research rather than from personal
interest, and they know what is in and what is out. Someone who
didn't look carefully enough could be fooled into thinking that they
were hip. Someone particularly stupid or gullible might think that
they were cool. My guess would be that they were neither hip, nor
cool. Just a pack of wannabes. Regarding Peter, my guess is that he
was on the gullible side. And it was all about the love, baby! The
freedom! Let's go! I have twenty-four hours before the next show! Big
mistake.
Not
that those pseudo-hipsters intentionally destroyed the life and
livelihood of Peter Green. They may have had good intentions. Maybe
they were just showing off for a genuine English rock star. They may
have believed that if a little acid is good, a lot is probably
better, and way too much is probably just about right. That logic was
afoot then, believe me, and it might have worked fine regarding many
of the popular drugs of the day. But with LSD there are rules, oh,
are there rules. Violate the rules at the peril of your immortal
soul. Just ask Sid Barrett. Or Skip Spence. Or a certain German rock
musician from a band that was popular at the time, whom I met in Los
Angeles a few years later. He couldn't talk on the phone anymore,
because the receiver looked “like a bone.” Or any number of any
other insufficiently cautious individuals who lost everything on a
roll of laughing Sam's dice.
LSD
is powerful stuff. Doses are measured in micrograms. One microgram is
one-thousandth of a milligram. For reference, my beta-blocker is
two-point-five milligrams. One good street dose of LSD was about 250
micrograms, or one-fourth of a milligram. That would set you up nice
for the entire afternoon and most of the evening. When you read about
LSD in blotter form, or on sugar-cubes, those are about 250
micrograms. Take two of those and you are in for a wild ride. I knew
one guy who tried 1000 mics one time, that would be one milligram.
When you are talking about powerful drugs, and you move from the
normal scale of measurement to the next level, you are riding the
tiger. He came through that okay, but it took him a few days to
settle down.
I
have a hunch that those European hipster wannabes took Peter to a
house somewhere in the German countryside that was filled up with
exotic musical instruments, Afghan vests, Italian scarves, Moroccan
hats, and drugs of all kinds. I'd bet that they had a big block of
great hashish, cigarettes from France, England, and America,
pharmaceutical cocaine, jars of pills of all descriptions, and a
small bottle of LSD right from the factory. “Now be sure to put
only one small drop on a sugar cube or something,” somebody had no
doubt explained to them. “Don't get carried away.” And a firm,
German version of, “this shit means business.” My best guess is
that they dosed Peter with a few milligrams, just pour some into a
glass of Coke or something. One normal dose is a trip. Just pour some
from the bottle into a Coke? That's an intergalactic journey. You'll
see things that aren't there, and you will achieve insights that you
will never be able to explain to anyone after you come down. You may
“understand” the entire universe, and you may find that your
relationship to human reality has changed. Whatever it was for Peter,
it was the end of his successful music career.
You
can read about it in the real obituaries, or on websites. He eventually returned to
music, but he was never the same.
You
have to feel bad for the guy, because he really was one of the best.
He had a great touch on the electric guitar, fantastic tone. The
guitar is all in the hands, really. Two decent guitarists play the
same rig and the sound is different, because their touch is
different. No less an authority than B.B. King waxed poetic about
Peter Green's tone. Mr. King would always speak politely of other
guitar players, but I think that he reserved his highest praise for
Peter Green. He could feel it.
Well,
his road is at an end now, so that ship has officially sailed. Water
under the bridge, as they say, that's where our lives are going, and
his is gone. Fare thee well, Peter. Thanks for everything.
*The
three Kings, B.B., Albert, and Freddie.
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