Where have all the guitar heroes gone?

They’re dinosaurs of a different sort – a rare breed on the brink of extinction. Loathed by some, revered by most, their names alone elicit awe and respect among mere mortals. Even after death, their legacies continue to inspire generations who dare to tread upon the same path. They’re monsters all the same, but carnage isn’t their game.

Unlike their metaphorical counterparts who wield their limbs and extremities as weapons of destruction, these so-called monsters rely on deft fingers to create their masterworks: a flurry of notes and mystifying melodies that transcend boundaries of time, creed and musical style.

They’re the guitar virtuosi – fearless paladins of six-string wizardry, warriors of the tonal realm, musical savants whose unearthly skills have even spawned rumors of furtive pacts with the devil. As the popular lore goes, desperate washouts and dismal flops sold their souls for a shot at instant fame and fortune. As a last-ditch attempt, it was a measly price to pay for a lifetime of musical bliss.

Dismissing such mythical allusions as idle prattle, the virtuosi attribute their digital dexterity to hours of tedious work. Driven by their consuming passion, they can lock themselves up in solitary confinement and shred ‘til their fingertips bleed or their eardrums pop. Heck, some of them even sleep with their guitars. The raging, tinkering genius has its price, however. Bloated egos and a host of eccentric quirks often spur these reclusive entities to seek solace in frequent mind-blowing trips and other self-destructive excesses.

Brimming with formidable chops and compositional savvy, these trailblazers eventually found themselves at the nucleus of various seminal groups, some of which have been propelled to fame by virtue of their presence alone.

Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page, Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, John Mc-Laughlin, Al DiMeola, Allan Holdsworth, Eddie Van Halen, Yngwie Malmsteen, Steve Vai and Eric Johnson – these are just some of the guitar gods who have been venerated by generations of fans with juvenile notions of idol worship. To devout musicologists and guitar aficionados, however, their improvisations are food for thought, meant to be transcribed, dissected and hopefully imitated.

True enough, their discursive solos have inspired and fostered subsequent generations of fledglings. The scary part is that these kids often turn out to be light years ahead of their predecessors – younger, louder AND faster. With a wealth of technological and theoretical knowhow at their fingertips, these scions have evolved a crossbreed of styles ranging from seamless saxophone-like phrasing to baffling classical-sounding modes, making their pseudo-gods sound all the more like wailing sissies.

It’s not hard to spot them. They’re the ones who play Eruption, the official shredders’ anthem – with their teeth! They’re the ones who piously cop Charlie Parker’s blistering bebop lines for breakfast, and Paganini’s punishing arpeggios for dinner. Damn, they could blitz through Coltrane’s fingerbusting chordal labyrinth, Giant Steps – backwards!!!

The sad thing is, despite their frighteningly-freakish guitar histrionics, these young lions probably won’t sizzle as much as their forerunners did. For one, less is more, and a surfeit of notes and mind-boggling speed at cranked-up volumes are not enough for them to eclipse their elders’ rudimentary, yet tasteful licks. Secondly, with the exception of nostalgia buffs and guitar fans, virtuosity holds no meaning for today’s kids, whose musical acumen ranges from Jennifer Lopez’s vital stats to Ricky Martin’s latest capers.

As for their patriarchs, they too seem to be on the verge of fizzling out. Apart from being kept busy by occasional tours and lame recording outputs, it’s only a matter of time before their feeble limbs force them to trade in their trusty Strats and Marshall stacks for a rocker and a hearing aid – that is, if they still haven’t gone completely deaf from a lifetime of playing at earsplitting volumes.

Like the dinosaurs, the guitar gods are bound to suffer a similar fate, but unlike the beastly giants whose demise was attributed to an earthbound comet, the virtuosi’s imminent extinction seems to have been heightened by a catastrophe of equally stellar porportion – the boy bands.