I remember listening to John Renbourn when I was on the road. His music was such an inspiration for me, mainly because it was technical, but also imbued with feeling and furthermore, was a part of a really quite ancient tradition. Yet more than that, it was contemporary. There is a great musician that I have had the honour of playing music with one time, Jerry Cahill, another fantastic guitarist. I met him once at a bus stop, in Exeter, when he was going to his home in Silverton, and I was headed nowhere in particular (being a wandering minstrel myself). He said to me, "You're like a young John Renbourn." As it happens, the musician I was jamming with at the time (another fantastic, blinding guitarist, by the name of Stephen Pearson, who still lives in Exeter, as far as I know) was well acquainted with the late great John Renbourn's son, Joel Renbourn. Joel played punk music, not the refined, classical style which his father, John Renbourn, played, but still, there existed a connection.
I remember being on the far side of the ocean and meeting beatniks from the sixties that adored John Renbourn's playing. I asked the guy in question about John's singing voice (which, like Hendrix's, was not the greatest, but was just about good enough) and he said, "That's John Renbourn." John made the guitar sing.
I also remember, one time, a good friend of mine (who knew I loved John Renbourn's music) took me to see him play live in Bristol. After the gig John walked through the audience and came straight up to me (he knew who I was...). I had all these things I had wanted to say to him, pre-prepared, things like, "You've been such an inspiration to me, throughout my life." (etc.) Yet all I could manage (being awestruck) was, "Thank you."
Beyond the great music he played, his favourite drink was calvados (fifty to a hundred year old apple brandy from Normandy). He would sometimes have to battle with his own rage - for he was an artist in the truest sense of the word. I remember seeing one documentary about Bob (that is the Bob, Bob Dylan) when he was in London in the sixties. Someone had thrown an empty vodka bottle out the window on to the London street. Bob made a big deal of it, and squared up to John Renbourn (who towered over the little man, both in stature and accomplishment as a classical guitarist). Bob soon backed down: all bark and no bite.
Stephen Pearson once told me that he too went to see John Renbourn play, to try and glean something of his genius (Steve is by no means an amateur guitarist, but well practised, accomplished, and stems from a family of great guitarists). Steve said that though he went there to try and learn from him, when he saw John Renbourn play, his mind went completely blank. He was mesmerised, enchanted, and could do nothing but surrender to the sweet sound he made, and immerse himself in his music. There was no room for learning minutiae of technique, but solely a gentle bliss of enjoying the sonorous melodies of this master.
John Renbourn was not just any old guitarist, but he was the guitarist's guitarist.
Max.
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