All part of Nugent’s massive ego trip you might say, but that didn’t stop my estimation of the man growing quite dramatically all the same. I mean, I can’t think of any other who would allow a mealy-mouthed rock journalist to sit so close and allow him to hear numbers in their raw, formative stages of being played. I’ve never come across a musician so eager to share his music with people. It could have been rather embarrassing, but instead it was utterly compelling, Nugent’s enthusiasm for his new compositions – “Ultimate rock’n’roll songs, the best I’ve ever written” – holding no bounds. An impromptu, completely off-the-cuff preview of four new songs by the mad, raw-meat-eating Detroit guitar hero. And even with just the tiniest of amplifiers, the Nugent axe noise still manages to roar about the room like a Kawasaki at top revs, the riffs meaty and growling, the note-sustains long and unquavering, the playing speed both fast and furious. Nugent’s directly opposite me, handling his hefty, deep golden brown-coloured guitar as if it was a time bomb and he was a crazed bomb disposal expert – treating it with respect whilst recognising, with an evil glint in the eye, its potential to inflict real injury at any given time. The two of us are sitting in a bare, stark room somewhere in the bowels of Cleveland’s vast Richmond Coliseum concert venue. His right arm at once tensed, he strikes again and again, right to the heart of his instrument, getting that tone, grimacing with cruel satisfaction, and then cravingly coming back down for more. Rather, even during an unceremonious prior-to-gig warm up session, Ted still brings the hammer down, attacking his Gibson Byrdland with a venom I thought he reserved for the stage alone.
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