Sunday, July 26, 2020

Obituary: Peter Green Is No More




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.

No comments: