Love, Lungs and Link Wray
Originally Published for the
I love Link Wray. I am hopelessly, unceasingly, pulse pounding in my throat, head over heels in love with Link Wray… well, with his music, anyway.
For years, my knowledge of the guitar virtuoso had been limited to his biggest hit, 1958’s “Rumble”, a gritty, slinky tune filled with frantic bursts from Wray’s guitar and band mate Shorty Horton’s walking bass line. The song always conjured images of leather clad, switchblade wielding, James Dean-styled juvenile delinquents circling one another on some desolate, rain-soaked street. “Rumble” peaked at number 16 on Billboard’s Hot 100 singles chart, and surely would have climbed higher, had it not been banned from rotation in several radio markets, including New York City. Apparently, Wray’s “Rumble” was too sexy; too suggestive for music consumers to hear, reasoning that seems laughable by today’s relaxed music standards. Logic made all the more ridiculous by the fact that “Rumble” had no lyrics; it was entirely instrumental.
Listening to “Rumble”, included on several rockabilly compilation albums that I owned, moved me to obtain more of Wray’s work. I picked up a greatest hits CD from an area record shop, unsure of what to expect. Link Wray and the Wraymen — or Raymen, after a minor name change — were, primarily, an instrumental group; I feared that their catalog would be filled with formulaic tunes that would make me regret plunking down 15 of my hard-earned dollars.
My apprehension was unfounded, as I heard a collection of one innovative, brow raising track after another. When it came to creating music, Link Wray was a master. I delighted in rediscovering Wray’s 1959 “Rumble” follow-up, “Raw-Hide”, a bouncy romp steamrolled along by older brother Vernon’s pumping piano and the aforementioned Horton’s thumping bass. In an effort to capitalize on the success of competing guitar instrumentalist, Duane Eddy — and to smooth out their charge’s nonconformist edges — Epic Records encouraged Wray to record some less boisterous music. One result was “Dixie-Doodle”, a mashup of the Confederate anthem “Dixie” and “Yankee Doodle”, and the B-side to “Raw-Hide”. “Raw-Hide” — not be confused with the television show of the same name — became a hit, peaking at number 23, somewhat of a vindication for Wray.
There was a version of the oft-covered “Ace of Spades”, one of several recorded by Wray and the Raymen, and the Doug Wray drum heavy “Deuces Wild”, a rowdy foot stomper which quickly earned a place amongst my most favorite tunes. Link Wray had become as familiar and welcoming to me as an old friend — you know, the one your parents didn’t like because he was a little too wild.
Wray was a rock ‘n’ roll pioneer, utilizing techniques and sounds that were generally foreign to rock music at the time. He made the power chord a rock ‘n’ roll standard, and laid the foundation for the music of Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin and the countless rockers that followed. He punched pencil holes into the speakers of his amplifier to achieve the double tracked fuzzy effect on “Rumble”. Wray attained the echo tone heard on “Jack the Ripper” — a galloping number named not for the famed serial killer, but for a racy dance — by recording his amp at the end of a staircase.
But it was his occasional foray into singing that made Link Wray’s talent and influence all the more prevalent. 1960’s bluesy “Ain’t That Lovin’ You Babe”, a cover of the Jimmy Reed tune, dripped with raunch, as if Wray’s voice had been immersed in sin, wrung out, then soaked again, for added measure. Wray’s 1965 version of “Good Rockin’ Tonight” became a staple in my car stereo, while his rollicking rendition of Willie Dixon’s “Hidden Charms” was the perfect head bopping, hip swaying, raucous antidote to whatever ailed me. I began to wonder why Wray’s instrumental songs far outnumbered his vocal ones. Yes, his voice was rough, as if he’d gargled with gravel, but it was the 1960s. If Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan could make careers out of singing, why couldn’t Link Wray?
The answer was an unexpected one: Wray had only one lung. A tuberculosis infection, contracted sometime during the early 1950s while serving a two-year Army stint in Germany and Korea, went undetected until it was too late. Wray’s destroyed lung was removed, and he was instructed to leave the singing to someone else. Thankfully, Wray gave a halfhearted listen to the advice, and his single lung-powered voice became a second instrument, as ragged and nuanced as his guitar playing.
Wray was the embodiment of cool; a guitar wizard steeped in blues — thanks to an African-American man named Hambone, who taught Wray how to play.
His music is timeless, as fresh-sounding and exhilarating today as it was 50 some years ago. He was ahead of his time, too, playing surf music prior to the Ventures, and punk before the Ramones and body piercings were cool. He developed an independent musician’s ethos, and frequently released singles and albums on homegrown or smallish record labels. He often declined interview requests, lending an aura of mystery to his defiant image. Although Wray’s manager, Milt Grant, frequently received a co-writer credit — as did, oddly enough, Link’s father, Fred — Link composed much of his own material. His skills as a musician have earned him a place alongside influential guitar gods Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry — Pete Townshend of the Who credits Wray’s “Rumble” with inspiring him to pick up a guitar. He recorded with numerous notables, including rockabilly musician Robert Gordon and the Grateful Dead’s Jerry Garcia, and eventually moved to Denmark. Wray continued to tour and record music, and released his final album, Barbed Wire, a mix of unreleased tracks and live performances, in 2000 at the age of 71… and no, that’s not a typo.
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| The late, great, incredible Link Wray. Photo courtesy of Lastfm.es. |
Link Wray passed away on Nov. 5, 2005, and, while Link Wray, the person, may be gone, his lengthy list of contributions to music continues to impact rock ‘n’ roll today. You can hear it in the use of every power chord and in each reworking of “Ace of Spades”. So, why does Link Wray’s extensive resume continue to be overlooked? Why hasn’t he been inducted into Cleveland’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Why does the Rock Hall continue to ignore him?
Maybe that’s the way Link Wray would have liked it. After all, he was a rebel.
