By Mabel Suen
By Kris Wernowsky
By Daniel Hill
By Allison Babka
By Joseph Hess
By Allison Babka
By Joseph Hess
By Daniel Hill
The comparisons were immediate: Chris Duarte was the new Stevie Ray Vaughan. The latter had been dead for four years when Duarte's first proper album appeared in 1994, and fans of the late blues giant were still looking for a suitable replacement. Duarte was quickly appointed. The "new SRV" mantle was never a perfect fit. Certainly, there were some similarities -- gorgeous guitar tone, fiery solos, driving Texas rhythm and, sadly, a raging appetite for drugs.
But the differences were just as great.
For starters, Duarte never harbored any burning desire to become a blues-rock god. He still doesn't. In fact, when talking with him, the conversation turns only fleetingly to blues. He'd rather talk jazz, and while he doesn't fancy himself a jazz musician, he'd like to be. "I still lean on John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, Weather Report. John McLaughlin is my favorite guitar player," Duarte says. "I love those jazz guys. That's what I aspire to be. I don't consider myself a jazz player, but it's definitely a big factor in my playing."
Still, Duarte doesn't bristle at the SRV comparisons, nor does he mind the Hendrix associations. "Look, those guys are immortal, and it's flattering to be mentioned in the same breath with them," he says. "But I'm confident enough in my abilities to know that I'm not a clone. I'm trying to build on what they did, not repeat it. If you go to a Chris Duarte concert, you're not going to hear 'Pride and Joy' or 'Voodoo Chile.'"
Perhaps not, but even Duarte would acknowledge the impact these songs and their ilk made during his formative years. Raised in San Antonio on a steady diet of rock, Duarte spent the better part of the '70s with his brother's guitar perched on his knee while the record player spun albums by everyone from Hendrix and Black Sabbath to Bob Dylan and the Beatles.
In 1979, at the age of sixteen, Duarte moved out on his own and headed for Austin. By then a serious jazz fan, Duarte would soon fall under the spell of the blues, as well. Austin was a blues town with a thriving local scene headed by a then little-known Stevie Ray Vaughan. Duarte was among those who took notice of the guitarist. "I guess you could say he turned my head," he understates.
Duarte spent the 1980s hopping from band to band, alternately playing jazz-fusion and roadhouse blues. As Vaughan's star was rising on a national level, Duarte was one of a handful of Austin guitarists to fill the local void. It was during this period that he really developed his chops. It was also then that he developed a taste for heroin.
"I started using in the late eighties, but it wasn't a full blown monster until the early nineties," Duarte admits. Unlike many musicians whose bad habits escalate on the road, Duarte actually took to touring in an effort to quell his addiction. "If you look back to our schedule in '92 and '93, we were touring constantly. A lot of that was just to keep me clean," he says. Back home in Austin, clean living was more difficult. "I didn't even have to leave the house," he says. "All I had to do was pick up the phone and have it delivered to my front door."
Despite his addiction, the early- and mid-nineties marked a period of great success for the guitarist. In 1994, his first album, Texas Sugar/Strat Magik, was released to widespread acclaim. Packed with shuffling Texas blues, the album was a hit among both blues and rock fans. In 1995 he was named Best New Talent in Guitar Player magazine.
1997 saw the release of Duarte's sophomore album, Tailspin Headwhack. More experimental than its predecessor, Tailspin brought Duarte's love of jazz closer to the fore and featured punk and funk elements as well. Critics loved the album, and its release seemed a sign of good things to come. But it wasn't to be. The album sold well enough by blues standards but failed to meet the success of Texas Sugar/Strat Magik. His label, Silvertone Records, wasted no time in dropping Duarte from its roster. In short order, his wife threatened to do the same.
"Basically, my wife told me I had to make a choice between her and drugs," Duarte says. "It seems like an easy choice now, but it didn't at the time."
Duarte doesn't go into detail about the death throes of his addiction, but he makes it clear that kicking the habit was no easy task. Of course, neither was re-igniting his recording career after regaining sobriety.
"I had to go out there and prove to the industry that I was still hungry," he says. "That's something I'm really proud of, that I was able to do it on my own."
The result of his efforts is an alliance with Rounder Records. Last month, the label released Duarte's second album since he joined the fold in 2000. The new disc, Romp, moves Duarte ever further from the Vaughan/Hendrix nexus. The album doesn't completely forego those influences, but it presents them in a more tongue-in-cheek fashion. The second track, "101," all but shouts: "You want your Hendrix rip-off? I got your Hendrix rip-off right here." Duarte also tips his hat to fellow Texan Eric Johnson on the track "Like Eric."