So, freed from the shackles of preparing a new Friday Night Music Club mix every week, the question is: what on earth shall I write about?
Looks out of the window for inspiration
I’ve been told by two reputable sources (my mate Richie, and a taxi driver, so perhaps one more reputable than the other) that the road I’ve moved to is renowned for being…how can I phrase this…an area of disrepute, frequented by “ladies of the night”. Other than hearing somebody whistle at a taxi I’d booked late at night (and that’s not great evidence), I’ve seen nothing to support this (and Lord knows ‘ve looked…). Maybe I need to update my idea of what a sex worker looks like these days – do they still wear fishnet stockings (and little else) under fur coats? Do they look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman? No thanks.
Anyway, other than suspecting that the woman who lives upstairs from me may be running a brothel (I have no real grounds for this, other than she has mostly male visitors at all hours, and they never come in via the front door, always via the fire escape to the rear of the building, hidden behind a gate), I can’t back this up. But I’m notoriously bad at spotting this kind of thing anyway.
Years ago, living in London during a bout of unemployment, and long before my various ailments took a hold, a mate of mine, a plumber, asked me to help him out with a job he had, where he just needed “some muscle”, by which he meant “someone who can help me lift things” rather than “must have a basic understanding of plumbing”. He must have been desperate to ask me, but he did, and I jumped at the chance to spend a couple of days in the company of one of my best mates for a bit of cash-in-hand work (shhhh!).
One day, on a lunch/cigarette break, stood to the front of the building we were working in, a woman approached us.
“Alright gents,” she said, “working here, are you?”
My mate ignored her, I answered: “Yeh, just some plumbing work.”
“And are you looking for business?” she asked me.
“You’d better ask him,” I said, innocently gesticulating towards my mate, and completely misunderstanding the question. “He’s the boss.”
My mate looked up from the cigarette he was studiously rolling. “No thanks, love. We’re alright.”
She wobbled off in her dodgy heels and leopard-print wrap, at which point my mate pointed out who it was we’d just been speaking to.
Me: “Ohhhhh…that kind of business…..”
So, I won’t be posting songs about sex workers here, not least because once I’ve got past Roxanne, Mystery Song and When the Sun Goes Down, I’d be struggling for content.
Luckily, the internet came to my rescue.
Whenever I open my internet browser of choice, I’m confronted by a load of news feeds, algorithms chancing their robotic arm that they’ve found an article I may be interested in. At the moment, these are mostly about how my beloved Spurs are about to be relegated (which they are, I’d just rather not have it confirmed by others, thank you very much) but there, amongst the temptingly clickable link, was one entitled “The 30 greatest guitar riffs of all time”, with a picture of the Ramones underneath it.
This could be interesting, I thought, before noticing that the article had appeared in The Telegraph, a very right-wing newspaper which I would ordinarily avoid like the proverbial plague.
But instead, I thought: “This could be very interesting!”, expecting it to be full of records which categorically did not feature ‘The 30 greatest guitar riffs of all time’, but rather some records which some toff who wrote for the paper had heard of.
Imagine my surprise, then, when the list turned out to be not half bad.
I’m mindful, of course, of the fact that many moons ago I started looking at the 100 best UK #1 singles, as chosen by The Guardian, a series I will be returning to and reinvigorating soon, having stalled on #84 some time ago.
Surely, I can manage 30 posts on the topic of great guitar riffs, right?
But first, here’s their criteria:
Weâre going to fall out about this, obviously. But here we go. Letâs just start with the idea that a riff is a short, repeated musical figure that can be melodic or rhythmic. Weâve allowed for a bit of progression â letâs call it prog â or weâre going to have all sorts of trouble getting some great guitarists in here (looking at you, Brian May).
And weâre going to demand that the riff is sort of the main hook of the song. Weâve tried to avoid bass riffs, unless theyâve clearly become the lead riff. And weâve favoured electric guitar over acoustic guitar, with exceptions. Itâs strictly one entry per guitarist in this list, too. Apart from that, itâs a bun fight. This could easily run to a hundred riffs â if your favourite isnât there, let us know in the comments section.
As far as methodology goes, this was always going to be subjective, but hours and hours have gone into it, from scouring guitar mags to dredging the depths of online forums, polling everyone I know, listening to dedicated playlists, putting things in, taking things out, leaving out lots of my own favourites, accepting that every genre of music and every set of fans has its own hierarchy for this stuff and will know that this list is plain wrong.
There may be also be a slight Anglocentric bias that will wind up Strokes, Fontaines and Aerosmith fans, equally. But above all, guitar riffs ultimately tell a remarkable story of ongoing musical evolution. So here goesâĻ“
Oh, to be paid by the word.
Here’s #30:
Ike & Tina Turner – Nutbush City Limits
And here’s what they had to say about it:
This could just as easily have been in the top 10 but we needed something great to kick us off. Iâve only moved it here because this crunchy, funk stomper is actually two guitars melded together. Itâs made more fun by the fact that thereâs a mystery about who played them. Rock legend would have it that Marc Bolan, of all people, played the fuzz rhythm and James Lewis, from Ikeâs backing band, the wah-wah that wreathes around it like a snake.
I have nothing to add to that, other than embedded in a pop music quiz on a school trip to Norway at the age of 15, I was the only one who knew this song. My mate Tommy, who I shared a tent with on the trip and who was on my team for the quiz (and had no idea of my nerdiness) was delighted by his choice of compadre.
More soon.