There are extroverted artists who incorporate the latest electronic gadget, the weirdest Third World beat or the most exotic classical influence into an endless search for new noise. And there are introverted artists who are never satisfied that everything has been done with the old noise.

John Fahey is about as introverted as an artist can be and still play different notes. He's been mining the same musical shaft ("American Primitive Guitar") for twenty-five years now and always manages to come up with new nuggets. (Actually, only one new nugget–a haunting version of "Waltzing Matilda"–on Live in Tasmania, plus many repolished and slightly retitled gems from his two out-of-print Warner Bros. discs, Of Rivers and Religion and After the Ball.)

Fahey can get away with cannibalizing his previous work because there's so much of it and because it's as beautiful and hypnotic as almost any music ever made. His right hand is one of America's great musical treasures. Short of Pete Townshend doing a birdman, I know of no guitarist who can stroke with Fahey's power. This stems partly from sheer finger muscle, but mostly from clearness of musical vision.

I own nineteen of Fahey's twenty-odd albums and can't write a word without one of his LPs on the stereo. It probably has something to do with the shift from left mode to right mode in brain function. This music connotes no skyscrapers, no right angles, no George F. Will, no mouthwash, no electricity, no words. It does connote rivers and religion: the twisting bayous where American Primitive Guitar (and rock & roll) originated, where Jesus or Satan might jump out at you from the nearest patch of mist. Fahey's depictions of extreme good ("On the Sunny Side of the Ocean") and evil ("The Approaching of the Disco Void") are truly stunning.

Live in Tasmania is pretty accessible, as Fahey records go. Uninitiated listeners ought to be able to appreciate his strong stroke and profound sense of rhythm quite easily. The new LP also contains John Fahey's first recorded stage rap, in which he chides the Tasmanians for being insufficiently "esoteric." A legendary character in concert, Fahey was apparently in one of his unpredictable good moods so far from home. Let me follow suit and chide my own audience for not buying enough of his albums. (RS 345)

CHARLES M. YOUNG