Rory Gallagher gave his guitar its own
language, compressing endless sensations in each note. His was an old and
battered guitar that moaned and howled after having been inflamed with songs of
Lonnie Donegan, Guy Mitchell, Eddie Cochran, Bo Carter, Son House and Chuck
Berry. Similarly, when the guitarist sang, a stream of black soul, rough, warm,
a torn voice of tribal dialect that directly communicated with the most seminal
rural blues emerged from him. His live performances were interactive storms in
which rock and blues exploded like emotional shrapnel. And although it is true
that Gallagher career remained always in the shade of his distinctive
colleagues of instrument and generation, just is to recognize as well that very
few of them could face the instinctive brutality of the Irish. Too much
charisma, too much energy scattered on stage. Rory was a person dedicated
entirely, in body and soul, to a vital necessity of expression. It is for that
reason that never gave up to the pressure of the record industry, always stayed
aside of all fashion or prevailing tendency, and its records arrive to us like
honest excesses of rock craftsmanship.
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