#cliff gallup

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Cliff Gallup

Cliff Gallup was an influential American lead guitarist best known for his fiery, virtuosic work with Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps in the 1950s.

Cliff Gallup: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cliff_Gallup

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Cliff Gallup ( with Gene Vincent)

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Cliff Gallup and Gene Vincent

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Gene Vincent: “Be-Bop-A-Lula” / “Lotta Lovin’” (1956 / 1957)

None of the charter members of Rock & Roll’s original 1950s class was more tragic, troubled or, in a roundabout way, triumphant, than Vincent Eugene Craddock, known to you and me as Gene Vincent.

Though his numerous personal demons would defeat him by age 36, Vincent, achieved so much in a very short time,

And, this, despite major setbacks like the motorcycle accident that left him physically impaired for life and another crippling car crash that killed fellow rocker Eddie Chochran, followed by a quick fall from chart grace while Elvis and other peers continued to thrive.

But, with his breakthrough bazillion-seller “Be-Bop-A-Lula” (*), Vincent became a household name in ‘56, eagerly worshipped by teenagers and roundly despised by their parents, in part because he was giving Jerry Lee Lewis a run for his money as Rockabilly’s ultimate bad boy.

To that point: this footage from ‘63 really tells it all, as the already sickly-looking, not yet 30-year-old Gene shudders and sweats like a leather-draped Lothario (**), desperately supplicating to his lover, or maybe the heavens, as was his trademark -- at once vulnerable and unnervingly threatening.

Now, this particular 45 is a 1974 reissue, if I’m not mistaken (the original was released on 78 RPM shellac!), and it replaces the original B-Side, “Woman Love,” with the far more interesting (in my opinion) “Lotta Lovin’” -- a decent hit in its own right back in '57.

So, as mercurial as Vincent’s trajectory turned out to be, it’s no wonder his legend remains forever burnished upon Rock history.

* Featuring one of Rock’s first guitar heroes in Cliff Gallup.

** Note just one leather glove -- suck it Michael!

More Vintage Rock & Roll and Rockabilly: Chuck Berry’s The Great Twenty-Eight, Freddy Cannon’s “Tallahassee Lassie,” Eddie Cochran’s “Summertime Blues,” Esquerita’s Esquerita!, Buddy Holly’s Buddy, Johnny Kidd & The Pirates' "Shakin' All Over," Bobby Lewis’ “Tossin’ and Turnin’,” Jerry Lee Lewis’ “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On,” Little Richard’s Little Richard, Roy Orbison's "Oh, Pretty Woman," Carl Perkins’ “Blue Suede Shoes,” Elvis Presley’s Elvis Presley, Larry Williams’ “Bony Moronie.”

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Gene Vincent and His Blue Caps - Race with the Devil (1956) Sheriff Tex Davis / Gene Vincent from: "Race with the Devil" / "Gonna Back Up Baby" (single) "The Gene Vincent Box Set: Complete Capitol and Columbia Recordings 1956 - 1964" (1990 Compilation | CD1)

Rockabilly | 1st Wave Rock and Roll

MP3 File Tumblr (left click = play) (320kbps)

MP3 File @Archive (left click = play) (VBR)

MP3 File SnuhFiles (left click = play) (192kbps)

Personnel: Gene Vincent: Vocals / Guitar Cliff Gallup: Lead Guitar “Wee” Willie Williams: Rhythm Guitar Jack Neal: Upright Bass Dickie Harrell: Drums

Produced by Ken Nelson Publishing: Campbell Connelly (James Campbell and Reginald Connelly)

Recorded: @ The Bradley Film & Recording Studio in Nashville, Tennessee USA on May 4, 1956

Released: September, 1956 Capitol Records

♪♪♪ ♪♪♪ ♪♪♪

Well I've led an evil life, so they say But I'll hide from the devil on judgement day

I say, Move, hot-rod, move man Move, hot-rod, move man Move hot-rod, move me on down the the line, oh yeah

♪♪♪ ♪♪♪ ♪♪♪

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Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps - "Cruisin'"

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Guitarist Cliff Gallup (June 17, 1930 – October 9, 1988)

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I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

April 1964. I was about to turn ten years old, and I was facing a dilemma that seemed insurmountable. I wanted a guitar more than anything in the world. I had the money from my newspaper route to buy one. But my father had forbidden it. He didn't think his son should play guitar and listen to rock-and-roll music.

The solution came from an unexpected source—Niko Konialidis, my elderly Greek customer who lived at the end of a long dirt driveway on my paper route. Niko was no ordinary customer. He was the cousin of Aristotle Onassis, and over our regular evening visits—where he'd teach me to drink martinis and tell me stories about the old country—we'd become genuine friends.

One evening, as I sat in his parlor warming myself by the fire, I told him about my birthday wish. "What I really want is a guitar. A good guitar, and lessons on how to play," I said. "But my father doesn't think his son should play guitar and listen to rock-and-roll music."

Niko sat back in his chair and began laughing at me. "What are you laughing at?" I asked.

"You're ten years old, almost a man! You don't have to always listen to your father, do you?"

He had a point. "Actually Niko, I hardly ever listen to my father."

"Then what's the problem? If you hardly ever listen to your father and he is going out to sea in a few weeks, what are you waiting for?"

The plan was simple: I could order my guitar and have it delivered to Niko's house. My father would never know. Niko even offered to pay fifty percent of the cost and said he had a good friend who taught guitar lessons—I could take them right there in his living room.

After looking through the catalogs Niko provided, I chose a 1964 Flat Top Gibson LG-1 Tobacco Sunburst. The price was steep at $125.00—an expensive guitar in 1964. I felt guilty wanting such an expensive guitar, but Niko didn't even flinch. "That's an excellent choice for a first guitar," he said. "I got off easier than I thought I would."

On April 4th, the day before my birthday, I gave him my half—$62.50. He grabbed my hand, looked me in the eye, shook it, and said so sincerely, "Happy Birthday, my friend. Welcome to adulthood. I hope you are blessed with all your desires." Then he gave me a big, burly Greek hug.

My tenth birthday was significant and memorable—exactly as Niko had promised.

A few weeks later, I rode my Whizzer over to the music shop to redeem my certificate for yearly guitar lessons. While waiting for the instructor to come out of the backroom, I noticed pictures on the wall—a man standing with Paul McCartney, laughing and shaking hands. Several of them.

The man came out. He was the same one in the pictures.

"Do you know Paul McCartney?" I asked immediately.

"I do. I played with Paul McCartney years ago when I was in London."

He looked at my certificate. "So you're the young man that Niko was telling me about?"

It was at that point I realized Niko and he were friends. His name was Cliff Gallup.

I reached for his hand to shake it, remembering what my Papa had told me about handshakes—that you can tell everything about a person from their grip, their eyes, and how they present themselves. Cliff's grip was firm and his hands were soft—the hands of a musician. His eyes were kind, with weathered wrinkles around them.

"My name is Tom, and it's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Don't call me sir. Just call me Cliff."

We set up a schedule: Tuesday and Thursday lessons each week.

As I was leaving, Cliff said, "Niko told me about your dilemma with the guitar and your mother and father. I have a solution if you are interested. Just mention you met me at the talent contest, and I offered you a rent-to-own program with lessons that you could afford. I will back you up. Then you could take your guitar home and throw yourself into learning how to play."

"That might work. That's brilliant."

It did work. My mother agreed without much resistance. "As long as you can afford it, you should give it a shot."

My first lesson was Tuesday, May 5th, 1964. There was no way of knowing at the time just how powerful and significant that day was going to be in my life. The chain of events that would be created would make waves with ripples that would spread throughout my entire life.

I arrived at the record store a few minutes early. I called out for Cliff. No answer. As I approached the doorway with beads hanging, I got a whiff of a very familiar smell—the sweet smell of marijuana.

When Cliff emerged, he took me to the back room. It looked like a full recording studio—I knew what a recording studio looked like because I'd been on the Bozo Show. We would record skits there.

Cliff began my education not just about guitar, but about music itself. "I've been involved in some pretty big bands working with some trend changers," he told me. "I've toured with them in Europe. Worked with two Beatles once. I played lead guitar for Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps and backup guitar for Gary U.S. Bonds."

"I don't know who those people are," I admitted.

"Exactly," he said, and smiled.

Over the next several weeks, Cliff gave me albums to listen to after our lessons—all recorded right there in that studio by a producer named Frank Guida and Legrand Records. Tommy Facenda. Gene Vincent. Gary U.S. Bonds. The Church Street Five. This was the "Norfolk Sound"—music history being made right where I was taking guitar lessons.

Then came Thursday, August 6th, 1964.

When I arrived at the record store, the parking lot was full of cars and a couple of Volkswagen vans. I opened the door and the air was very smoky and full of the sound of instruments tuning and drums pounding.

A man in a black suit came out and seemed surprised and disturbed that I was there. "Can I help you?"

"I am here for my lesson with Cliff."

He called for Cliff, who came out saying, "Tommy, you didn't get my message? We had to cancel today's lesson because we're recording today."

Just then, the bell rang as the front door opened. Entering the store was a line of musicians, most carrying instrument cases of all sizes and shapes. I recognized a couple of them from their album covers—Tommy Facenda and Gene Vincent.

They all stopped and greeted the man in the suit with handshakes and hugs. They all called him Frank.

Frank Guida. The owner of Legrand Records.

After the room emptied and only Cliff, Frank, and I remained, Frank's demeanor completely changed when he learned who I was.

"You said you called Niko to leave him a message," Frank said to Cliff. "Is this the kid that Niko told me about?"

"Yeah, Frank. This is Tommy. Niko's friend, remember?"

Frank approached me and reached out his hand. "Hello Tommy, my name is Frank Guida. I am the owner of the store and studio. I have heard a lot about you from my dear Greek friend Niko. When Niko told me about your Garage Beatles and that you wanted to learn how to play the guitar, I asked Cliff if he would take you under his wing to get you started. How is it working out?"

"Great, Mr. Guida."

"Please call me Frank or Frankie. That's what my friends call me."

Then Frank turned to me and said, "Tommy, would you like to sit in on the recording session?"

All I could do was nod. My throat was all choked up.

Frank led me into the studio where there were probably a dozen musicians. I was told to sit in the booth—the glass room where the technician was sitting. There was a chair in the background behind the audio mixing board. I had a front-row seat watching accomplished professionals make records and music.

I watched Cliff, my teacher, and was impressed by just how good he was at playing the guitar and singing. I watched Frank move from the studio to the booth and back, giving instructions, loosening his tie, talking about different sections of the song.

I learned a lot just watching the process. That experience sitting in a chair in the back of a recording booth helped me in many of my directorial positions throughout my life—not just in the arts, but in all my people management positions.

Looking back on it now, the pattern is clear. If my mother hadn't taken me downtown the day of the Bozo audition, I would have never been on the Bozo show. If I hadn't been at the bowling alley when my mother was at work, I would have never met Henry and gotten my paper route. Without the paper route, I would have never met Niko. Without Niko, I would have never gotten my guitar. Without the guitar, I would have never met Cliff and taken music lessons. Without Cliff, I would have never met Frank and sat in on recording sessions with renowned musicians who helped shape rock-and-roll, blues, and jazz of the 1950s and 1960s.

One thing is for sure: this pattern never ended and still goes on to this day.

At ten years old, I had a six-degree separation from Paul McCartney through my guitar teacher. I was in the right place at the right time with the right people, watching history being made.

That day alone defined who I was going to become and what would always be important to me.

Unbelievable?...but it happened.