Gary Moore
Still Got The Blues

THE REVIEW

By now you've become a gentleman in middle age... you still have long hair, you refuse to cut it, but despite this small legacy you know very well that there would be no point in playing "Out in the Fields" or "Run For Cover" once again. You look in the mirror, and you're happy with what you see, with what you've achieved... passion, energy, melancholy, and introspection coexist peacefully in every expression of yours, you show it clearly every time you pick up your Gibson... you could never conceal the infinite emotional transport you feel every time you play, even if it's just one single, simple, long note. You glance back, and you know very well that you could never deny what you've done in the past, but you also know it's time to move forward... the blues, Peter Green, his guitar that's now yours, that one symbolic coin passing from your hand to his... Here you are, now, once again with that precious instrument in your hands... a cry or a whisper, to violate it or caress it.

You stand still for a moment, and a smile escapes you: you're a damn heretic, you know that very well, or maybe others know it better than you! You decide not to care about purism and all that jazz, you're convinced that rock and blues coexist with such a naturalness as to seem inseparable (and maybe they really are)... Even King Albert seems to think so, while you play like two old friends, him with his unmistakable minimalist touch and you with that unstoppable cascade of notes. The blues is an old story, told a million times, perhaps obsolete, but you're capable of giving new life to those yellowed pages... You play the riff of "Still Got The Blues", a shiver runs down your spine: you're a good singer, but if you could, you'd let her sing alone. At midnight you launch your blues and every note seems like it's always the last, the most intense.

The years pass, and even in a quiet and twilight atmosphere, every one of your interventions stands out in a seductive contrast of lights... A dark-skinned old man comes in, with his usual hat and pipe giving him a strange smile. He too is called Albert, he too is a King, despite his last name being Collins. You say you're too tired but in reality, you give life to something vigorous and the old man's smile becomes satisfied. Here and there you enjoy Don Airey's Hammond, who decides to accompany you for much of the journey. You continue straight on your path until you meet a cockroach named George who graces you with his presence, smiling and affable. Now you are alone and decide to unleash all your love, loudly and boldly... You decide to unplug. You return from where you came, sit on the bed, take the guitar out of the case, and your mind returns to when, as a child, you tried to repeat the gestures and chords of Green and Hendrix... you shake your head, with a vaguely satisfied smile, and resume playing...