Rory Gallagher could have been as big as Clapton, but his complex, insecure personality kept him from stardom, writes Tony Clayton-Lea
Everyone loves a hero, but it's the flawed anti-hero - the person who bucks against the system time and again yet never gives in, the person who battles against inner demons that threaten to bring them down - that truly wins the public vote.
A hero seems to be a specific type of person, clean-cut, invulnerable, always right, always there when you need them; an anti-hero, given the right or wrong circumstances, mistakes, misdemeanours, could be anyone.
Rory Gallagher - whose death by liver failure just over 10 years ago marked the passing of a more innocent, less mercenary time in Irish rock - was that anti-hero. He sidestepped big-time offers (the Rolling Stones came calling when Mick Taylor was ousted) and shunned the satin and velvet glamour of the international rock circuit. Gallagher was a provincial Irish guy not at home with urban sophistication; a musician who loved the music for what it was and not for what he could get out of it; a man embarrassed by music biz backslapping; a man who, in the early stages of his rise to success, carried a change of clothes in a paper bag. But he was also a musician of his time; he cared little about the business side of his work. It comes as little shock to know that he ended his days with fluctuating health and alcohol problems, and a substantial percentage of his income being frittered away on legal affairs (some of which dated back to the late 1960s).
It was all so much simpler back then. The financial scalp hunters were around, of course, but someone as young, fresh, talented and naive as Gallagher didn't care about the money. Born in Ballyshannon, Co Donegal, in 1949 (the family moved to Cork in 1956), Gallagher picked up a guitar at the age of nine, and joined the Fontana showband (later to become the Impact showband) at the age of 15. It was a swift, eye-opening entry into the world of show business - the Impact supported visiting UK bands such as The Kinks and The Who. It was exposure to them that prompted Gallagher, in 1965, to leave the Impact and their facsimiles of Top 20 hits, and form his own band.
Gigging in blues clubs in Hamburg and Northern Ireland set the tone for some years. Sticking to the blueprint of blues formats, Gallagher also attained a standard in guitar playing that would see him being compared to the likes of Jimmy Page and Eric Clapton. At one point, Gallagher's band, Taste, were poised to settle into the seat vacated by Clapton's Cream.
UNLIKE OTHER MUSICIANS, he had chosen a musical format that he stayed with until his death; his powerhouse, occasionally pedestrian blues and his mostly underrated acoustic roots/blues rode roughshod over progressive rock, glam rock, punk rock, post-punk, New Wave and pretty much everything else. He was no more and no less a working musician - the real deal in plaid shirt and denim jacket - focused to a large degree on his craft, yet so disorganised in other areas it worked against him in the short and long term.
Success, however, was not something the placid, unassuming Gallagher seemed to enjoy, and playing in front of thousands of people created a knock-on negative effect. His ideal performing pitch was in small clubs, where he could see people up close and personal. Not that this happened too often in the 1970s, the decade of Gallagher's most notable creative and commercial successes (he released eight studio albums from 1971 to 1978). Yet this same success clearly affected his output, his health, and eventually his creativity; his audience diminished radically in the 1980s (the decade in which he released a mere two studio albums). A final album (Fresh Evidence) was released in 1990. Five years later - forgotten by all but his staunchest fans, music associates, friends and family - he died, and was suitably mourned by thousands.
HIS LEGACY REMAINS one of triumphs and failures, a frustrating jumble of many fond memories, some great guitar work, one of the best live acts of the past 35 years, and more than a few dud songs. A technically astute and pinpoint perfect guitarist of the rock/blues/roots persuasion, Gallagher influenced many novice guitarists in the early to mid 1970s (including Johnny Marr of The Smiths and U2's Dave "Edge" Evans). Yet there was always a sense that he could have, should have, played more of a central role in rock music - if only he had had the nous or confidence. One can only imagine, for instance, how he might have thrived in a music scene that praises the White Stripes' stripped-down blues tropes.
A flawed anti-hero? Gallagher, as his long-time bass player Gerry McAvoy portrays him in a recently published book, Riding Shotgun, wasn't so much a saint as a complicated shadow: the withdrawn, moody, insecure and lonely Gallagher, capable of gross insensitivity, and unfair in finances and songwriting credits, contrasted starkly with the successful rock star whose ego was minimal, who was reserved, shy and unobtrusive, totally committed to the live rock show experience, a musician who wanted more from life than being known simply as a personality.
A dark side? Well, there is always a dark side. Gallagher, writes McAvoy, had a self-image of "a lonely, tragic figure, in the mould of the great bluesmen he loved and admired so much. He revelled in that until, ultimately, it ceased to be a romantic vision of himself and became a reality." Such dramatic and slightly cliched observations, however, don't necessarily ring true with the man whose face lit up whenever he took to the stage, swapping duck walking, machine-gunning guitar antics for superlative, subtle acoustic blues. Yet there's little doubt that through the years Gallagher had become a morose, bloated figure, experiencing a decline in his health and record sales. Reports of his final live shows in London highlighted an ailing man and a failing musician who was booed by audiences. How tragic is that? The music lives on, of course, capturing in aspic the many features of Gallagher's music that his fans loved: precision playing, an awareness of light and shade. Yes, his music toppled over into blustering arena rock at times, and yes, he showboated, but weren't these occupational hazards? The most important aspect to remember about Gallagher's career is that he remained steadfastly committed to the music - to the exclusion of virtually everything else, including his personal happiness. Sadly, though, integrity doesn't always pay the bills, or make you a healthy and happy person. The finest white blues guitarist of his generation? A one-man Led Zeppelin? You'd be hard pressed to deny either claim.
Riding Shotgun: 35 Years on the road with Rory Gallagher and Nine Below Zero, by Gerry McAvoy, with Pete Crisp, is published by SPG Triumph (£18.99)