Deathblog:

Dick Dale

(1937-2019)

“Listen to The King of the Surf Guitar,

Listen to The King of the Surf Guitar,

Listen, listen, to The King”

- sound advice from Dick Dale, The King of the Surf Guitar, on his 1963 vocal single, ‘King of the Surf Guitar’.

As witnessed by this classic recording, it is fair to say that Dick Dale was not without an ego. But, like the caricature of an all-American astronaut or pioneering surgeon, his energies were pushed so completely in the direction of positivity, productivity and general human dynamism that it really didn’t matter.

Harder, faster and more physically demanding than anything that preceded it in the popular realm in the early ‘60s (and pretty much retaining that distinction on his ‘roided up 90s comeback albums [see the awesome artwork for 1996’s ‘Calling Up Spirits’, reproduced above], the overdriven, bass-heavy, double-picking guitar style he made his trademark was wholly original, and remains instantly exhilarating to this day, whether it comes via the man himself or any of his countless successors in the field. To state the bleedin’ obvious, he is up there with Hendrix, Iommi and Chuck Berry in terms of his full spectrum influence upon the sound of electric guitar as we know it today.

Like those kids in “poor L.A.”, I was lucky enough to see Dick Dale play, about as far from the pacific surf as it’s possible to get, at the Luminaire in Kilburn in, I think, 2010 (I remember it was the night before I moved house). It was totally awesome, anyway. As was often the case, his backing band comprised former members of So-Cal punk legends Agent Orange, but it was definitely Dick who was large and in charge, like some Strat-wielding Colonel Kilgore, seemingly pushing his younger band-mates to play harder, faster, for longer. Plugged into a full stack in the small room, he was helicopter gunship loud, as we might reasonably have hoped.

I recall it being one of those shows where the headlining act are having such a great time that they just keep playing and playing, way beyond their allotted set time, seemingly oblivious to the audience thinning out as people duck out to get their last train home or relieve the babysitter. He played some numbers on the trumpet (just in case we didn’t believe he was a PROPER musician, he made clear), he sang ‘Peppermint Man’ at the piano, and delivered numerous thinly-veiled tributes to his own greatness.

No disagreements from this quarter. Slapping down the long term health problems that eventually got the better of him and touring the world kicking several hours-worth of ass on a nightly basis into his seventh decade, he gave every impression of being unstoppable back in 2010, endlessly roaring on like one of the super-charged vehicles his music so frequently evokes, and he could celebrate himself as much as he liked so far as I was concerned. Learning today that the engine has finally spluttered to a halt brings me great sadness. R.I.P.