You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! Because the truth is that Truth, guitarist extraordinaire Jeff Beck’s 1968 debut solo LP is, well, a mere notch above meh. Truth—a collaboration of sorts with Rod Stewart aided by Ronnie Wood on bass and Mickey Walter on drums, has been lauded by fans and critics alike as a masterpiece.
But how great can it be when it includes covers of both hoary folk traditional “Greenssleeves” and 1927 show tune “Ol’ Man River”? To say nothing of a re-recording of “Shapes of Things,” a song first released by The Yardbirds during Beck’s stint with the band? Nor does it speak well of the LP that it includes only three Beck/Rod Stewart originals, supplemented by songs by Jimmy Page, folkie Bonnie Dobson, and three de rigueur covers of songs by Black American bluesmen. And have I mentioned that one of its songs boasts canned applause, much like the laugh track on The Brady Bunch?
Three things save the LP from mediocrity. The first is is its heavy sound—Truth has been lauded as a seminal work of heavy metal. The second is Beck, who despite his myriad faults shoots guitar shoots sparks and sounds like said guitar is powered not by an amp but by a large industrial generator. And then there’s Rod Stewart, the ex-Steampacket vocalist with the raspy voice who would go on to become one of rock’s greatest vocalists and songwriters with the Faces and as a solo artist.
Opener “Shapes of Things” is a much heavier lift than The Yardbirds’ original—sounds to me like Beck shot the this song full of steroids. And it works. Gone are the psychedelic pop overtones of the original, replaced with raw power and a higher excitement quotient. Beck joins Stewart on co-lead vocals on the powerhouse “Let Me Love You,” one of the three Beck/Stewart collaborations on the album. It doesn’t win any originality awards—truth (there’s that word again) is it could be a Cream song, with the exception that Eric Clapton is no Stewart, or Jeff Beck for that matter.
The group’s surprisingly powerful cover of the Bonnie Dobson downer “Morning Dew” opens with bagpipes, and is a riveting example of Stewart’s vocal gifts, supplemented by the mighty guitar riffs and axe pyrotechnics of Beck as well as the piano of largely unsung rock great Nicky Hopkins. And Beck—never a proponent of song bloat—has the native intelligence not to go the shambolic way of the Grateful Dead, whose version of the song on Europe ‘72 meanders on for ten-plus minutes. On his cover of Muddy Waters’ “You Shook Me,” Beck gussies things up with Hopkins’ piano and the Hammond organ of guest John Paul Jones. Unfortunately I find both keyboardists a distraction, and it’s a gosh darn shame that Beck reserves his guitar pyrotechnics for the song’s end..
As mentioned, Stewart (and guest Keith Moon’s portentous timpani) make a valiant effort at saving “Ol’ Man River.” Unfortunately it’s as doomed as the Titanic, and it doesn’t help that—just as with “You Shook Me”—Beck’s guitar arrives on the scene towards the end of the song in a classic example of too little, too late. The Tudor era “Greensleeves” is “Greensleeves,” and Beck’s instrumental acoustic guitar take on the song should be illegal except at those hateful abominations called Renaissance Faires, where you’ll often find complete morons clanking about in the full suits of armor necessary to protect them from the fifteen-pound turkey legs hurled in their direction by haters like me.
The album’s second Beck/Stewart collaboration, “Rock My Plimsoul,” also reeks of Cream, but on this one Beck actually condescends to make his guitar rumble and stab. The instrumental “Beck’s Bolero” is Truth’s sole masterpiece, and he gets by with a little help from his friends, who include Jimmy Page on 12-string guitar, Keith Moon on drums, and John Paul Jones on bass. It’s a sort of “Layla” in reverse—the opening half is lovely, and the second half is a testament to the power and glory of rock and roll played with consummate skill at very high volumes.
“Blues Deluxe” comes on like a hard-nosed, gut-punch blues, but the canned applause is a ridiculous touch and total distraction and Hopkins’s piano, which dominates much of the song, is too fancy for its own good. And while Beck plays lots of tasteful fills he once again only cuts loose at the song’s three-quarter mark, and what you’re left with is the wish that there was less Hopkins and more, much more, Beck.
Closer and Willie Dixon cover “I Ain’t Superstitious” is one of the precious few songs on Truth I’d label “heavy metal,” as Beck’s monstrous power chords attest. It’s also a showcase for Beck’s formidable guitar talents on an LP where he lets gives his guitar free rein far too seldom. I could do without the drum close-out, but such annoyances were popular back in the day and we should count ourselves lucky Beck didn’t slap it smack dab in the middle of the tune.
1969 follow-up Beck-Ola by what was now being officially called the Jeff Beck Group was a definite improvement on Truth, but the band’s two subsequent albums were disappointments, as was his one-off eponymous LP with power trio Beck, Bogart and Appice. As for his instrumental jazz fusion LPs Blow by Blow (1975) and Wired (1976) they were clinical and soulless affairs, and his subsequent LPs, while not instrumental, mined the same ground.
Beck was a technician and stylist and in short a guitarist’s guitarist, greatly admired by listeners except by those like me who prefer their music with red blood running through its veins. Beck never approached the success of his fellow Yardbirds alumni Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page, and there are reasons for that. For one, he was never a good songrwriter. What’s more, he let his mastery of his instrument stand in the way of simply letting loose. He was too tightly wound, and always insisted upon playing his guitar instead of letting it play him.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
C+
