The musical master at whose feet I have often sat is sadly no more. His life ended nigh abruptly, as if truncated by savage Fate, the guitar maestro Clifton Glasgow and his dulcet live offerings we will now be denied.
More hurtful is that never again will we settle – Cliff and I – in that Taylor’s Gap patio of his, ruminating on the energetic works of Mozart, the orchestration of James Last, the fingerings of Laurindo Almeida, the sweet melodies of present and past, hearing his own interpretation of them.
Like an alchemist, Clifton Glasgow would turn the most commonplace melody into the highest exotically executed tune. Early One Morning, Yellow Bird, Linstead Market, Welcome The Morning Sun, Yesterday and the like metamorphosed into a “goose-pimpling” air à la stimulating arrangement by genius fingering and chording on the guitar, which he called his woman.
There was an unspeakable extrapolation of this. I assumed the guitar – collectively, for there were three he practised on daily: an Ovation, a Yamaha Electric Classic, a multithousand-dollar stereo Takamine – was the other woman, for his wife, the welcoming Mrs Glasgow, took first place for me.
It was her peace and space I often invaded to lure Clifton back out to the front of their Martindales Road home to hear Romanza, and his interpretation of many a Celtic folk song, and to have him segue into a tutorial for moi.
Sometimes it was inspiring; other times it was daunting. When I considered that Clifton’s mantra was practise, practise, practise – every day – I knew I could never be a Glasgow. His guitar was his woman (mine definitely was not). And I learned how because of it the guitar had come to fall in love with Cliff, giving him that self-completeness.
There was no denying, once you heard him play, Clifton Glasgow did for the guitar what the soul does for the body.
I never got between him and his woman of an instrument. Once, we got to talking about travel, and I enquired if he had ever thought of working in the bigger countries.
“Barbados has been very good to me,” he said passionately. “And I intend to spend my time right here.”
He definitely would. Glasgow could have gone to the United States, Canada or Europe to live and work permanently, given his accomplishment on the guitar. But except for a number of short stints in America and Canada, he was content to do the bulk of his virtuoso performances right here in Barbados, the home of his maternal grandparents.
He was at his highest state of ecstasy here playing the guitar, whether he was offering you Cavatina or Tears In Heaven.
The St Lucian-born Barbadian has always been in touch with music – listening and playing. He was not into reading music. Yet nothing ever seemed lost to this most acute musical ear.
Actually Clifton thought he had been a better guitarist for it.He was the only one I?knew who would listen to a recording of a complicated classical piece once – or maybe twice – and then interpret it in his five-finger-playing perfect guitar styling.
Up to his untimely death, Clifton Glasgow still had the hots for this island – ever since those days of the 1950s when he lured thousands to Coconut Creek Club, The Lamplight and Club Morgan. And for 20 years, from 1962, he would be the star performer of the Sandy Lane Strings.
Since 1982, Clifton was mostly a solo act, occasionally satiating the egos of a few like me with special public accompaniment.
The imagery of this musical icon, dapperly presented, with signature toothpick at right of the mouth, and deft fingers a-picking, is forever forged in my memory. But equally riveted, and lamentably so, is the recall of procrastination in visiting Clifton this year as I had promised – and the pain of guilt.
• Ridley Greene is a Caribbean multi-award-winning journalist.
