Rory

Rory was an Irishman, a cheerful and talkative guitarist, a slightly sloppy rock singer, a fan of old-fashioned blues, a humble drudge, a generous but stubborn person.

He was never far from a twist of gin in a jar of beer. He had a big heart and a liver twice as bad, which had to be removed, transplanted… but the transplant didn’t take, or perhaps the heart didn’t want to, and that was it. Rory Gallagher bowed out. Discreetly, awkwardly as usual.

His hair stuck to his forehead from the effort, his scraggly long sideburns, his quick chubby fingers and his eyes closed and the ancient Strat, for so long tenderly abused, will no longer delight his numerous fans who gathered to hear his rough and full-bodied songs, spat in a gruff and robust voice like the antenna of a winning football club on Saturday evenings in Ballyshannon.

Rory was no Jimi (Hendrix). He knew it. He didn’t give a damn and laughed gladly. But his first successful group Taste (69-71) [sic] didn’t deserve the condescending quip that the petty English press gave them: “a poor man’s Cream”. If Gallagher is not Clapton either, his friendliness is worth much more than the dandyism and moves of the eulogised God.

Cut from the same cloth and wanting nothing more than to give pleasure, his solo albums – a good 15, of which at least three definitely do not age: “RG”, “Blueprint” and “Calling Card” – only partially reflect how and why this simple man was somehow the object of an enthusiastic and massive cult between 72 and 76, but in Europe exclusively. He hated flying! 

His thing, his life, his grace, was the stage, and his masterpiece is clearly titled: Irish Tour 74 – sweat, balls and blues galore… plus some more! Eternal among his peers, whether they are already up there with God or down here on earth: Phil Lynott, Steve Marriott, Eric Burdon and Robin Trower, to name but a few.

A last word on Rory Gallagher: Laundromat. The title of his favourite song. He never washed his famous plaid shirts; rather, they were etched onto him, alive.