Back before the turn of the decade, at some point during Cream's "Farewell Tour" with the last shards of Clapton's lengthy and embittered guitar solipsisms still crawling out of their ears, every major rock critic-to-be turned to his colleagues and said, in a rare instance of universal cognitive response, "Well, that should be enough lead guitar for at least the next 30 years."

Since that magic moment, it's been real tough for rock guitar soloists to get a nod from any critical faction. For most of these, lead guitar can only be effective during quick eight-bar bursts neatly tucked away into "great" songs by a Chuck Berry, Graham Parker or a Rod Stewart. They love Pete Townshend not just because he's smart, but because he plays a lot of chords. In fact, many hard-liners still refuse to accept the guitar outside of its traditional role as a rhythm-section instrument.

Admittedly, Jeff Beck has been making major inroads with LP reviewers in the last two years, but he has two things going for him right from the outset: the Yardbirds-Jeff Beck Group nostalgia wedge, plus the fact he's been playing strong material (Lennon-McCartney's "She's a Woman," Mingus' "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat"). Roy Buchanan, whose early recordings exerted an acknowledged influence on Beck's style, has seemingly been "reinspired" by the young British master and is now also entering into the no man's land of instrumental fusion music.

Loading Zone, Buchanan's second solo album for Atlantic, is produced by Stanley Clarke, a built-in guarantee for jazz-rock legitimacy. More importantly, Clarke's rep as the killer bass player of the decade has had a positive, prodding effect on Buchanan's playing. He shifts into overdrive on the first track, a fiery and propulsive Clarke composition entitled "The Heat of the Battle," and never looks back for the whole album. He has always been the master of the Fender Telecaster squeal, but on some of these tracks his frenzied excursions into overtones, harmonics and tight clusters of notes played largely in the upper register of the instrument move beyond traditional lead-guitar histrionics. One gets an acute physical sense of Buchanan literally shredding his way through the blues-rock clichés to get to a higher, abstract plane. Sometimes he tries too hard—even the majestic exchange with Steve Cropper on the supersonic remake of "Green Onions" threatens to run on too long. But, like Beck, he is trying to take lead guitar into another dimension and his sparkling work on tunes like "Judy," "Hidden" and the tongue-in-cheek "Adventures of Brer Rabbit and Tar Baby" (featuring Clarke on "country-sprung" bass) augurs well for his continuing development.

Simply put: Al Di Meola is a young man with a lot of chops. He once told me that, during his Berklee days, he used to lock himself up in a closet and practice for ten or 12 hours a day. Whether or not this obsessive zeal has produced great guitar music or aimless technical perfection has yet to be determined. Make no mistake, Elegant Gypsy has been generating healthy sales for a jazz-rock offering, but it's still a guitarists' album. Discounting the March of the Ten Thousand Note Soldiers that pours forth from every selection, Di Meola's tone is very cold and distant while the relentless nature of his attack can become wearisome after a short time. Only on the flashy acoustic duet with flamenco whiz Paco de Lucia does his playing show any real melodic development.

Lee Ritenour. Contemporary American session guitarist, L.A. division. Could be subcategorized as a clean, tasty, "schooled" player who'll do nicely when Larry Carlton isn't available. A bit harsh for someone who's devoted the major portion of his adult years to his craft, but Ritenour's faultless renditions of unremarkable syntho-funk tunes don't inspire much of a passionate response. Plugged into all of the latest electronic hardware, he uses synthesizers to add color and dimension to the guitar sound but only succeeds in further muting the emotional impact of the instrument. Captain Fingers is doubtless pleasant and mildly diverting, and bits from introspective pieces like "Dolphin Dreams" show a strong melodic streak, but what is the real locus of this album? There's something so damned temporal about all of this stuff.

And who is this Janne Schaffer character anyway? A leading Scandinavian session player and guitarist for Abba, that's who. And also another leading contender from the exploding European school (Philip Catherine, Jan Akkerman, Terje Rypdal). One good reason to keep your eyes and ears on Schaffer and his colleagues is because they all share a common heritage: Django Reinhardt. Which makes for speedy execution as well as a continually evolving melodic sense throughout the life of the solo—a combination American and Anglo guitarists have yet to absorb. Forget the heart-stopping stupidity of the liner notes and the immediate Beck/Strato-caster influence (which has already been felt 'round the world); Schaffer has something to say and the means to express it, especially on slower passages like the second half of "Stocking Suite." With newcomers like Schaffer and oldsters-chomping-at-the-bit-of-change like Buchanan, guitar albums may have something for everyone in the years to come. (RS 242)

JEAN-CHARLES COSTA