A few quick thoughts on the passing of the amazing Dickey Betts. First, let’s go to the (permanent) record: if this is the first item on your CV, you’re a first ballot guitar god, songwriter, and American icon…other stuff, too:
Since he shared the glory with the Twin Towers, Gregg & Duane, it was always unlikely he’d be accorded his fair share of credit and celebrity; it’s not (remotely) meant to diminish the outsized impact of Duane or especially Gregg (who managed to be somewhat under-appreciated in his way) to opine that he was all-world yet still somehow existed under the radar, at least commensurate with the acclaim and critical rewards he deserved. In a band crowded with talent, Duane gets credit for being the heart and Gregg the soul, Dickey was, if not the brains, certainly the motor that kept that greyhound bus rolling down Highway 41 (of which, more shortly).
Look at that picture above: dude isn’t just holding that guitar; he was a technical master but played with feeling that oozed like the dew on Georgia kudzu. His guitar work always balanced the proficiency with emotion, hitting all the sweet spots that a billion imitators could never fathom much less replicate. I don’t think many folks fully appreciated or even understood how huge DB’s impact was, both as a guitar presence and songwriter.
Duane was Sui generis, and his intolerably early passing ensured him the type of legacy we reserve for our icons who disappear too soon….but that tragedy tended to crowd out the love we all might have shown to DB, the dude without whom we wouldn’t have the twin-attack so immortalized on the “Fillmore East” masterwork…but also, just to name a handful, “Revival,” “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” (!!!!), “Les Brers in A Minor,” “Blue Sky,” “Jessica” (!!!!), and –of course– “Ramblin Man” which, even if we’ve heard it a million times, is a pure masterpiece of country-rock bliss, and that’s a signed sealed and delivered DB joint; his sky-point for pop-culture immortality, not only an indelible song but a blueprint for many, many lesser wannabes to imitate. This snippet is pure poetry, but also an entire novel:
Well, my father was a gambler down in Georgia / And he wound up on the wrong end of a gun
And I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus/ Rollin’ down highway 41…
R.I.P. to Dickey B., and cheers to a legend who left this world a hell of a lot better than he found it.
