It’s a terrible joke. Mutton is short for mutt ‘n’ jeff which is cockney rhyming slang for deaf. Sitting here in the cold California morning the day after hearing that Jeff Beck has died it seems appropriate. It’s not quite “the day the music died” but his playing has been an almost daily source of pleasure in my life for fifty years.
In the early years of a mid-teenage search for identity there were a number of things that were defining. Playing football, unrequited love and music were an entire universe and they defined who were your friends. Belonging was important but always tempered by the drive for individuality.
Geoffrey Arnold Beck arrived in the form of Beck-Ola one day when I was 14. I had read about him as one of the founding guitar gods of the 1960s alongside Clapton and Page. But the supergroups of Cream and Led Zeppelin had made them accessible and popular in a way that the moody, intransigent and wilful Beck was never going to be.
The real stimulus for learning more was when he joined David Bowie on stage at the final Ziggy concert at the Hammersmith Odeon on 3 July 1973. Beck was the guitar hero of Bowie’s guitarist Mick Ronson but the review of the concert carried a description of Ronson trying to shimmy his lurex clad self against Jeff who was having none of it. The phrase I recall, possibly inaccurately, was that Jeff was as “camp as a butcher’s dog”.
Ronson was a very good guitarist but the notion that he had a guitar hero was news, so I took a chance and Truth was purchased. Anyone who has ever put a needle onto vinyl to listen to a new record will know the excitement of the hiss and crackles before the music. To have “Shapes of Things” assault your ears as a first up track was proof that this was something different.
It’s a curious album in many ways. Second track “Let Me Love You” remains a favourite and has one of the most achingly good blues solos alongside Rod Stewart singing in his pre-celebrity pomp but on the same record there’s a version of “Ol’ Man River” and “Greensleeves”. Jeff was nothing if not eclectic and on the sleeve notes he makes the point that the last note of the album’s take on “You Shook Me” was his guitar being sick “and so would you be if I’d just ripped your guts out for 2minutes 33seconds”.
His playing was by turns visceral, playful, distorted, pure but always interesting and there are times when I have laughed out loud at a solo because for all the virtuosity there is humour and audacity. They are like a well told story where the punch line can be comedic, dark or just a statement but is always a surprise. They remind me of my favourite footballer of all time, Denis Law, who would score a goal then, with defenders scattered around him in despair, would stand still with one arm aloft, index finger in the air, as if saying “that is who I am”.
In terms of teenage identity Jeff was also perfect. As far as I know I was the first person in my year at school to discover him, he was as moody and petulant as any adolescent, and he chose to define himself rather than be beholden to anyone. The story of the Rolling Stones trying to hire him ends with him stealing away from Rotterdam in the middle of the night just leaving a note under someone’s door.
A man that can walk away from the biggest band in the world is one thing but the ability to redefine himself musically is another. The rock/blues of his Yarbirds years then Truth and Beck-Ola gave way to the soul and funk of Rough and Ready and the eponymous Jeff Beck Group albums. Then there was the ill-fated Beck, Bogert and Appice supergroup but it always seemed that Jeff needed to be free to play what he wanted with whoever he wanted whenever he wanted.
The moment I realised he was for life was when he persuaded me that fusion jazz/funk with no singer could be a pleasure on Blow by Blow and Wired. He challenged my narrow musical horizons and dared me to come on his journey. It’s been a lifetime pleasure to go along for the ride.
I could write a book on finding and discovering the delights of each album in turn. There is an intricacy to the playing that sucks me in but also an ability to cut through with a bold riff or unexpected sound that delights and thrills. He is never boring.
I eventually got to see him play live in 2007 at Ronnie Scott’s for one of the performances enshrined on “Performing this week…Live at Ronnie Scott’s” and I was there the night that Imogen Heap guested. My proudest fan moment was in the gents bathroom where I was able to break the news to another acolyte that Jeff had played a on a new version of 54-46 Was My Number with Toots and the Maytals. It’s a breathtakingly good solo reflecting his ability to play with empathy, touch and taste whatever the song.
Over the years I saw him at the Royal Albert Hall (terrible acoustics), where Dave Gilmour came on to trade solos, the O2 where he did a solo show then sat in for a song or two with Van Morrison, and here in San Diego where he played much of the Loud Hailer album. I also saw him guest with ZZ Top on his birthday and would swear that I can hear myself screaming with glee on the record as Billy Gibbons introduces him. My adoration knows very few bounds.
What’s not to love? Well, I’m still not sure, for many reasons, about his teaming up with Johnny Depp and Hi Ho Silver Lining remains a grim reminder that he couldn’t sing. But he was a patron of Folly Wildlife Rescue Trust and even had a hobby reconstructing hot rods from scratch.
As for the terrible joke at the start, I am sitting here listening to my With Jeff mix where he appears playing guitar alongside Tom Jones, Lulu, Seal, Toots, LeAnn Rimes, ZZ Top, Tina Turner, Buddy Guy and many others. Best not to be mutt when you can listen to Jeff. Thanks for the music, the memories and everything.