In 2017, for the first time, I bought an album based solely on a review I had read without listening to it first. It was a weirdly fascinating experience, the excitement upon discovering what I’d purchased, the anticipation of experiencing the music behind the words that had inspired me, that had been able to convince me. It felt special in a time where we get most of our music from streaming services, a time in which we can almost always listen to an album multiple times on repeat before awarding it the honour of being bought as a physical copy.
A lot of the music my parents own has been bought because of reviews, read in a magazine or paper or heard on the radio. I wonder whether they felt the same excitement, the same anticipation, the same fascination I experienced before sliding that newly bought CD into the stereo for the first time. I wonder what it felt like to listen to the first bars, the first song, the entire album, hearing the sounds behind the reviewer’s words, forming an opinion on something you already decided to own. It’s fascinating to think about how much my process of discovering new music differs from that of my parents back then. But still, I would have never stumbled upon the wonderful Joe Satriani album The Extremist if it hadn’t been for that difference and my father’s interest in music reviews.
I don’t have much experience with instrumental rock music. I had never heard of Joe Satriani before, only now finding out about one of the most skilled and established guitarists of all time. But I have saved this record as one of my favourites and I have listened to it several times this week, not for review but simply for pleasure. Just the opening track had me hooked: Friends is a solid starting point, hitting the ground running as a brilliant opener. The guitar sound is marvellous, transitioning between registers at just the right moment, moving in lines with such inexplicable ease. Layered on top of straightforward drum and bass tracks it is a virtuosic display of Satriani’s craft and musicianship. His guitar can screech, it can punch, it can wail, it can soar – and it does all that even more beautifully on the following track, the titular The Extremist. The guitar’s grittiness is matched only by a genius harmonica solo, the two chasing each other in astonishingly powerful riffs, one following the mastery of the others. It’s just an incredibly cool song, insanely driven and gutsy.
But there is more on this record than rock heavy guitar anthems. Cryin’, as the title might suggest, takes a softer approach to the showcasing of the electric guitar. I hear the versatility in the melodic lines, the different pronunciations, the different inflections creating this rather sultry ballad. And then suddenly, there is a hint of a piano, just peaking in between the held chords and crashing drums. It’s a song that shows off the melodic side of the instrument, revealing the power that can lie in simplicity, in the absence of the insane glissandos, the highest possible squeal. I could write the same about Rubina’s Blue Sky of Happiness, a song that lies on the simpler side of composition but that nonetheless has become my personal favourite: I might be in love with its carefree strumming, its beautiful little bass lines, the ease with which the electric guitar finds its way into a rather acoustic soundscape. Listening to this on repeat, I close my eyes and let the melody resonate in my ear, letting it transport me to the open road, the blue sky beaming before my eyes. The sun sets, I smile, in love with the driving force of the deep pounding drums and the melodic sharpness of the electric guitar.
The Extremist explores genres, explores sound, explores the width and depth of a single instrument. How funky can you make an instrumental rock track on Why? Sliding up and down between notes, adding so much pedal and grove and sass to a classic rock line-up – there seems to be no stopping point. The entire album is a wonderful showcase of the many colours the electric guitar can wear, it is a true homage to the magic of music and the beauty that can lie in a bunch of strings if played to their fullest by a true master.
I am sitting here, entranced by a recording from 1992, cheering on a performance that is frozen in time, an unchangeable voice that is still able to move someone after more than 20 years. A voice that moves me in its exploration of the blues sound on New Blues, switching location to a mysterious, smoke-filled room with the walls painted black. A voice that knows how to play with subtlety and anticipation, creating tension with its simplicity of percussion and melodic lines. This last song is a wonderful moment of reduction and build-up, building up intensity only to fall back into simplicity. The track’s last minutes feel like a camera zooming out, but in the widening of the frame we don’t loose anything, instead, as the shot gets wider and wider, the image becomes more present.
Judging by the cover and the genre description alone I would have never imagined this record to fascinate me as much as it did. I didn’t really see myself enjoying instrumental rock music. But there is something fascinating about the versatility of the electric guitar, the many facets it can wear, the many voices it can take on. The beauty of a single instrument played with absolute mastery, captured on a single record of incredible depth and splendour.
Want more instrumental rock music? Give The Aristocrats – The Aristocrats a go!
The Dad Anthology 