As a teenager in the late sixties, I was drawn magnetically to the blues - not the unpolished American acoustic Delta blues but its English, electric blues-rock offspring: Eric Clapton, Peter Green, Paul Kossoff.
As a teen, I practiced on my first acoustic-guitar-with-electric-pickup in my bedroom until my fingers calloused - blasting the house through the valve-radio amp; at university I played lead guitar in a four-piece band with a second-hand Fender Stratocaster, covering Cream, Free, Hendrix, and the standard electric blues repertoire.
We once opened for Free, blew up the university amp, and had to borrow theirs - an act of stunning kindness.
I actively disliked The Rolling Stones (pretentious strutting, I reckoned) and Pink Floyd (just pretentious).
I wanted directness and authenticity - delivered with craft and extreme volume. Unfortunately I wasn't really that good.
Now, in my seventies, I have a renewed appreciation for the virtuosity and diversity of Led Zeppelin and the stage impact of Rory Gallagher; I listen to Walter Trout, and sometimes to Ally Venable, Joe Bonamassa, and the Zac Schulze Gang.
And, as I practise blues fingerstyle, my callouses have come back.
