On December 3, 1983, I approached Eric Clapton backstage at the star-stuffed Action into Research for Multiple Sclerosis (ARMS) concert in San Francisco. The tour was heading to Los Angeles with an off night between. I informed E.C. that on the fourth, Duane Eddy was playing the Baked Potato nightclub, with his sometime bandmate Albert Lee on second guitar.
“Oh!” he perked up. “We’ll have to go to that.”
When Eddy took the stage, he looked down to find Clapton and Jeff Beck sitting in the second row, having taken a cab straight from the airport.
The death of Duane Eddy on April 30 was not unexpected; he was 86 and had cancer. But it hit close to home.
He was a guitar hero to countless. I was hooked the instant I heard “Rebel Rouser” at age five, long before I touched an instrument. I’d heard Chuck Berry, Scotty Moore, and James Burton, and my dad had records by Chet Atkins, Tal Farlow, and Barney Kessel. But Duane’s twangy tremolo and reverb registered as electric to me. When I picked up guitar at 12, I learned his songs, as well as the Ventures’ and surf music, even though the Beatles had by then pushed instrumental rock out of the spotlight.
It’s no exaggeration to say that Duane contributed to my eventual career path. So I was excited when, in 1977, a publicist phoned my office at Guitar Player asking if I’d like to interview the man. Being Assistant Editor was a dream gig, and by then I’d interviewed some favorites, including Jimmy Reed, J.J. Cale, Albert King, Lindsey Buckingham, and David Lindley. But the prospect of meeting Duane Eddy was another level of thrill.
It was even more satisfying to find that he was down to earth and personable. So was his future wife, Deed, who sang on the single he was promoting, a cool twang-laden “You Are My Sunshine” also featuring Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.
Intermittently, Duane and I kept in touch over the years, and I got to see him in concert for the first time when he played Santa Cruz, Berkeley, and San Francisco in ’83, backed by his original saxophonist, Steve Douglas, drummer Hal Blaine, keyboardist Don Randi, bassist John Garnache, and Ry Cooder on slide. The effect of his records was riveting, but his guitar sounded twice as big live. That resulted in a second GP interview and, when he cameoed with Art Of Noise in San Francisco in ’86, we spoke again.
In ’93, I got to help compile and write the booklet notes for Rhino Records’ Twang Thang: The Duane Eddy Anthology. I traveled to his home near Nashville and spent the weekend. After coffee and breakfast, we’d retire to his music room, taping hours of conversation, going through boxes of photos, and he even offered some unreleased tracks for the double-CD.
In 2008, I was honored to play Deke Dickerson’s Guitar Geek Festival, in Anaheim. Deke always put together a great lineup for receptive crowds, but two years later, he was having trouble landing a headliner. I put him in touch with Duane, who initially balked at having a backup band that was unknown to him. I volunteered that I’d seen Deke and his guys back eight acts in a weekend, nailing every style. The combination not only worked famously, Duane used Deke’s group on subsequent engagements.
In July, 2010, Deke called to see if I could fill in on rhythm for Duane at Ponderosa Stomp, in New Orleans. Of course I jumped at the chance. Then I was informed that the promoter was a stickler for adhering to the old records – on which Corki Casey played acoustic rhythm. I had to borrow a proper guitar and bone up, and Susan Cowsill was nice enough to loan me her Taylor 814ce. George Benson once told me, “Duane Eddy’s music felt good, man!” – and it was indeed a blast to stand onstage with him. In the photo here, that’s Deke on bass, and the foggy apparition in the rear is yours truly.
At that first meeting in ’77, Duane had his Guild signature model, and I noticed a thumbpick threaded into the headstock. He explained with a shrug that he just fooled around with Travis picking – as he played “Cannonball Rag” perfectly.
I got excited and said, “Nobody knows you do that. You should put some on your records” – and he did in ’87, with “Rockabilly Holiday,” co-written with Jeff Lynne. But at the time, he said, “No, it wouldn’t be Duane Eddy.”
He wasn’t speaking in third-person à la Bob Dole, and it wasn’t ego; it was just the opposite. He was referring to the artistic style he’d staked out. It wasn’t a burden to him, or just something fans expected. But it struck me that, while he could show more-technical cards if he chose to, he understood that he had something that was his own. After all, Merle Travis didn’t play his licks (at least not in public); why would he play Merle’s? He was Duane Eddy.
© 2024 Dan Forte; all rights reserved by the author.
This article originally appeared in VG’s August 2024 issue. All copyrights are by the author and Vintage Guitar magazine. Unauthorized replication or use is strictly prohibited.
