Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow - Rising 12" Vinyl LP Album

Jimmy Bain, for me, is a perfect example of how a great bassist can be both glue and engine at the same time—solid timing, fat tone, and just enough bite to keep things from getting polite. Timeline-wise, I always track him from Harlot (early 1970s) into Rainbow (1975–1977), then a long stretch with Dio (1982–1989, plus later returns like 1993–1994 and 2004), with plenty of side quests in between—most famously with Vivian Campbell’s band Riverdogs (1990–1993). Jimmy Bain Wiki

Ritchie Blackmore is the sort of name I see on a sleeve and instantly expect sparks: born Richard Hugh Blackmore (1945), he’s an English guitarist who helped hard-rock riffing grow teeth and then politely refused to stop. His era-stamps are basically whole chapters of rock history: Deep Purple (1968–1975, 1984–1993), where the riffs got louder, sharper, and more dramatic; Rainbow (1975–1984, 1993–1997), where he leaned into melody and fantasy like it was a weapon; and Blackmore’s Night (1997–present), where the electric storm calms down into Renaissance-folk textures without losing that unmistakable Blackmore touch. I love that arc: from amp-stacks and arena thunder to lutes-and-candles vibes, like he just swapped dragons for different dragons.

"Blackmore Signature Strats" I’ve spent too many nights chasing that Blackmore chime. Fender’s Artist Series Strat is a love letter to his ‘70s obsession—Olympic White with a graduated scalloped rosewood board that makes your fingers feel like they’re floating. The electronics are pure Ritchie logic: two Seymour Duncan Quarter Pounds for the bite and a dummy middle pickup. It’s a prop, a plastic decoy for us mortals. Then there’s the Fender Japan ST72-145RB. MIJ builds have a surgical precision, keeping the ‘72 vibe alive for the obsessive collector. We hunt these like lost relics, justifying the cost because a standard neck feels one-dimensional by comparison. It’s a specialized tool for a very specific kind of madness. But then, isn't that the whole point?

I always track his timeline like chapters I keep re-reading: Elf (1967–1975) where he sharpened the blues-rock grit, Rainbow (1975–1979) where the fantasy thunder really took off, Black Sabbath (1979–1982, 1991–1992) where he helped reboot the doom machine, Dio (1982–2010) where he built his own kingdom, and Heaven & Hell (2006–2010) where the classics came roaring back live.

Ronnie James Dio, I don’t just hear a singer here — I hear a frontman who could make a chorus feel like a battle standard and a quiet line feel like a warning whispered in a cathedral. When he lit the fuse in Rainbow on “Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow” and especially “Rising” (yeah, that one), it was all high drama and sharpened melody. When he walked into Black Sabbath and dropped “ Heaven and Hell ” and “Mob Rules,” he didn’t “replace” anyone — he gave the band a whole second spine. And when he planted the flag with Dio on “Holy Diver” and “The Last in Line” (and later “Sacred Heart” for the big-chorus arena punch), the signature stayed the same: massive hooks, bigger conviction, and that unmistakable “this matters” intensity that makes you sit up like the record just called your name. Ronnie James Dio Wiki

Cozy Powell, for me, is the textbook example of “power that still swings”—he can be thunderous without turning stiff, flashy without turning messy, and he always leaves space for the riff to breathe. When I hear him, I hear commitment: the snare cracks, the toms roll like incoming weather, and the whole band suddenly sounds like it got upgraded to arena mode. Timeline-wise, I always map his career in loud chapters—The Jeff Beck Group (1970–1972), Rainbow (1975–1980), Michael Schenker Group (1980–1982), Whitesnake (1982–1985), Emerson, Lake & Powell (1985–1986), Black Sabbath (1988–1991, 1994–1995), and the Brian May Band (1991–1992, 1993–1994, 1998).