Review: Jeff Beck Is The Supreme Guitar God And The Last Of His Kind
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. Jeff Beck emerged from the wings of the Huntington Bank Pavilion at Northerly Island with all the confidence and swagger of a man who’d done this sh*t a thousand times before, which, of course, he had. More like 10,000 times if we’re being real? A white Stratocaster clattered against his denim blue vest and his arms were bare except for a single, silver, sequined sweatband that cuddled his right wrist. As he strode to the center of the stage where the spotlight waited, he threw on a pair of dark, black aviators and gazed out at the people waiting to hear him pluck out those first gorgeous notes on his guitar. Cool as a cucumber, ready for anything.
Listen To This Eddie is a weekly column that examines the important people and events in the classic rock canon and how they continue to impact the world of popular music.