He's been a prodigy since the seventies, taking direction from all the prominent artists. In my opinion, he borrows mostly from Steve Morse, Carlos Santana, and Eric Johnson. Actually, his style is so close to the other Eric, to be candid, it's scary. Then again, to call him a copy, clone, or wannabe would be an outright ignorant thing to say. It would be like debating what came first, the chicken or the egg. They both belong in the upper echelon of Fusion's evolution. To set the record straight, I'm not talking about the successor to the Mach 3.

He includes Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Paige, Jeff Beck, and Peter Frampton among his idols. He also incorporates elements from creative giants like Todd Rundgren, Pat Methany, and Allan Holdsworth. This Eric's efforts cover rock, pop, jazz, and the blues. Into the bargain, he constantly works in stuff found off the beaten path too. His music is grassroots at times while other times it's quite worldly. He hits upon all the methods, moods, and manners. He even enters into the mouth of madness intermittingly on occasion. He crosses through just about every kind of genre and terrain. As notorious as his influences might be, he pays homage to just about everything.

Seeing to the fact this was a guitarist's affair, I hate to admit it, but I braced myself for the standard gathering and routine happy hour. Not before long, I realized I was on the receiving end of an atypical endeavor. This is not what one would expect from a solo album. It's captivating and intriguing, but also quite breathless. In addition to that, it's progressive and has conceptual merit. It's obvious this album consumed much of his time and burned up much of his resources. The energy it incinerates requires total artistic fitness. It's evident he exerts much sweat and struggle in order to have this product carry his passion and personal stamp.

When John Petrucci puts out a no-frills album after a postponed and long-awaited arrival, you have to wonder if any guitarist can come up with something special. It seems bassists and keyboardists are putting out all the cutting edge music these days. The Unstruck Melody is not only immune to the common tenet; it's a paramount exception to the canon.

As the title states, there is hardly any friction or sludge holding it back. The wheels spin, but rather than get stuck in the muck, they easily drive ahead. By giving it gas, he spews all kind of blissful bric-a-brac. Furthermore, the inaction from this artist is brief at best. There is hardly any resistance in his ability to advance. He has inertia since this appliance is heavy-duty, durable, and resilient. The plainest parts occur only during the timely pauses. At these times, he's merely kicked in the clutch as he readies to gear up.

The instruments used by Eric consist of electric and acoustic guitars, synth, talk box, E-Bow, and Slide. While he puts a lot of himself into the compositions, he couldn't have completed this album without a little help from his friends. The cast includes John Falstrom (bass), Rusty Hall (keyboards), Patrick Doody (drums), as well as several talented guests. Between his credits, influences, and thank you's, it's quite the imposing list.

As Eric says on the spine and notes on its neck, in four plan words, let the musical journey begin, With that, let's start the engines, light this baby up, and give this melodic machine a spin:

Right off the bat, he takes a crack at the title track (to explain this better, it's seen later in the form of a reprise). Like the opening to Henning Pauly's An Absence of Empathy, he starts with a similar tactic. By this, I mean his initial strategy is to surf through a series of radio stations. These itty-bitty selections range from ballads to pop to country to jazz. No matter how many times I hear this trick attempted, if you ask me, it's always quite clever. Analogous the game of Chess, the technique is easy to learn, but it's almost impossible to master. In his attempts, he makes many shrewd moves and even fastens on a few unique features.

Afterwards, an uncontaminated cut curdles up. It's called Tribute and it's extremely jazzy. This isn't completely an Eric Johnson replica, but its resemblance is uncanny. While the genetic makeup isn't exactly identical, this twin is at least a fraternal match.

The next track, The Simple Things, keeps the alternator humming. To keep it fresh, it also features singing.

The first trio of tracks could have easily been on three separate albums. Whether it's bluesy, balladic, or rocking, he's confident and comfortable in all the various disciplines. Beyond the technique and the melody, it's even insightful. He has enlightening comments such as, "Fight for OUR country and you'll surely lose your land." Listen people, this advice is edifying, intellectual, and revealing. These kinds of lyrics frequently pop up in the pieces. This is no coincidence as Eric's been freed from The Matrix.

He continues to make headway and feeds the furnace with coal. To put it plainly, The Real You is an authentically austere and esthetic rocker. Like a pair of exquisite earrings, the keyboards accentuate the ears and complement the rest of the wardrobe. Weirdly enough, this reminds me of Ides of March's golden oldie known to us as Vehicle. That's a favorite of mine and this classic is found in mint condition. Therefore, this is a preferred means of expression to extract from the attic.

Tai-Chi has oriental influences branded into its flesh. The fusion and banter comes to us in a flash. This one too is a prime example of his songwriting skill. He plays some acrobatic licks over a hypnotic hip-hop beat. Every now and then, he exhibits an outrageous impulse to land a kamikaze kick.

Subsequently, Shine On is so much like Tribute that it's not worth the discussion. Since the earlier number was noble, nothing more is needed to augment the analysis or add on to the syllabus.

The album moves from one thought to the next. It never lingers nor does it waver. It's as effective and safe as a jolt from a Taser. To remain active, it's always recalibrating and changing. In songs like Under a Different Light, it starts one way and then charges off into another. It has that boomerang effect of Kingda Ka, the tallest and fastest roller coaster. If the last made you sick, you won't get much of a chance to let your stomach settle down. Following this thrill ride is the rising and falling of a grand Merry-Go-Round.

Some songs are softer like Why So Lonely, which is basically a tenderized ballad. If the motion sickness made you queasy and unwell, this is as easy to ingest as a gel-coated capsule.

Following his instructions, we take Exit 10. You could say it's strictly Steve Morse in its direction. This is a formula that's frequently copied. To be more specific, it's like the complex set of systems behind the Cruise Control option. It's slightly askew and a pole position apart from the original. It's as gleeful as a kid playing Leapfrog or King of the Hill. In this imitation he hops along on the hydraulics of a progressive pogo stick. With each springy coil, he showcases a wealth of snazzy guitar licks.

To make the charter, we steer into the terminal. Wing's of Fire is on the same wavelength, but it boards a jazzy jetliner. Rather than skip down the sidewalks and remain on the ground, this big boy is designed to be airborne.

Then we're ready to break and take five in the form of Intermission. It has the Indian influences of Garaj Mahal, but alas, it's a short-lived experience. After activating the seatbelt sign, we're back in the hot seat. We nestle up to a gal named Gloria. Her cooing is as soothing as the tentative strokes from Santana.

With that, we step off the flight deck and instantly begin Act II:

Finger Pickin' Country has hooting and hollering of a square dance. It's another instance that demonstrates he doesn't stop infusing individualism and new stimulus. Just when you think the dirt paths can't get any rougher, he turns the wheel and the road slaps back much harder. This medium is meant for the dunes, but it's not all that buggy. Like army ants, they stand to attention and press on to the strict stanza of "Oh When the Saints Go Marching In." When it comes time to coast, this militant mass is flooded with Ritalin.

The Indian element returns in the form of a rebuttal. What transpires is the title track's main thesis and reprisal. When the melodies re-emerge and materialize, they're changed for the better in existential ways. He trades in his owner's manual for Zen's guide to motorcycle maintenance and introspective diary. The second edition is a creamy melange of sound. When taking this trip in self-discovery, what's lost is now found.

As a trailer, Don't Let the Day Go By gripes with the same symphonic grit of Enchant. His decision to put it here could have been any wiser, selfless, or considerate. It's the right time to retreat, retract, or withdraw from the battle. In other words, it's shows proper judgment to double-back and flank before striking us with this incredibly timely encore.

Like Michael Jordan coming out of retirement when he ended his career on the ultimate buzzer-beater jumper, Eric is not satisfied with a championship ring or the ideal finish. Utilizing the spare seconds that remain on the disc, he fits in an odd country western clip. With songs that are seriously suave and urbane, this last gesture shows another side, another layer. When peeled away we encounter his sense of humor.

It's apparent that Eric is not commonplace or pedestrian. For starters, he puts twenty amazing tracks on a single release. He shows us traits similar to Johnson, Morse, Santana, and all the recognized rest. Yet, it's his technical savvy, breadth, and depth that make him atypical, adroit, and adept. To take a break from the alliteration, limericks, and rhymes, I'll make a point that's so clear, it's opaque. If you're ready for it, here it goes, This is the best jazz fusion disc I've ever heard!

9/10