John Fahey - God, Time and Causality (Shanachie)

Near as I can figure Shanachie pioneered the practice of including detailed guitar tablatures with Pre-War blues reissues. Their two-volume Charley Patton set (now made obsolete several times over by a succession of superior releases on other labels) is a prime example. The liner author (who’s name escapes me since I’ve long since anted up for the aforementioned upgrades) goes to great (some might say exorbitant) lengths in ascribing each string stroke and fret slide by the Masked Marvel with the proper terminology. For the layperson all that lingo quickly wears out its welcome. My pet theory posits Fahey, and albums like this one, as the culprits for this practice. With Fahey and apostles like Peter Lang, John Renbourn and Stephen Grossman came a fascination and occasional preoccupation with the technical side of acoustic guitar lore. But to his credit & like fellow iconoclast Robbie Basho, Fahey never lost sight of the mystical, primordial side of his art in a way that peers like Leo Kottke did. In his callused hands the guitar becomes vessel for ingress into the limitless sound cosmos that Folkways swami Mose Asch believed the principle pipeline of cultural information.

This disc is among Fahey’s most nakedly virtuosic. It’s a master class recital in steel-string technique, employing a familiar cache of Fahey themes as fodder for some truly staggering displays of fret dexterity. In his own words: “I practiced a lot to save on studio time. I don’t think there’s one edit on the whole record.” A plurality of sources serve as launching pads: blues, old timey, classical, flamenco, bossa nova, raga forms and Tin Pan Alley, to name a few. Another advantage is the limpid studio fidelity, scrubbed clean of the fine-grain Sligo silt that dusted so many Takoma platters. Annotations take the place of strict tablatures in the notes with each tune and medley placed in proper context. Fahey’s playing is near flawless. The glissing slides that punctuate so much of his playing on previous records are largely absent here, but the results are hardly antiseptic or stolid. Dark locomotive runs dominate “The Red Pony.” Fahey undercuts the staccato main line with a shimmering bass string drone that targets the shadowy side of the psyche- a murder ballad without words. A bottleneck medley of “Snowflakes/ Steamboat ‘Gwine Around the Bend/ Death of the Clayton Peacock/ How Green Was My Valley” exhibits startling lap steel skill as Fahey adroitly massages Dobro bar against frets to create a dew-dappled web of harmonics. There’s a wealth of great Fahey out there, but this is one I reach for when attempting to persuade neophytes of his lionized worth as both visionary guitarist and tongue-in-cheek thaumaturgist.