In the sweltering summer of 1988, as hair metal reigned supreme and Nashville’s outlaws still echoed from the ’70s, a Brooklyn stage became ground zero for one of music’s most improbable collisions. The Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) hosted “Les Paul & Friends: He Changed the Music,” a tribute concert that pulled together a supergroup lineup straight out of a fan’s fever dream: guitar pioneer Les Paul himself, blues titan B.B. King, country rebel Waylon Jennings, hard rock shredder Eddie Van Halen, jazz innovator Stanley Jordan, and blues-rock staple Steve Miller. It wasn’t just a birthday bash for the 73-year-old Paul—whose inventions like multitrack recording and the iconic solid-body electric guitar shaped modern music—it was a seismic reminder of how six-string sorcery transcends genres, egos, and eras.

The event, filmed for an HBO special and later released on VHS, drew a crowd of wide-eyed insiders and superfans to BAM’s intimate confines. Organized by producer and Paul confidant Jeff Wald, the night blended reverence with raw energy, kicking off with heartfelt nods to Paul’s innovations before exploding into all-star jams. “Les didn’t just play guitar; he built the damn thing,” Wald later quipped in a MusicRow interview, capturing the evening’s dual role as celebration and history lesson. What unfolded was less a polite tribute and more a barroom brawl of brilliance, where legends traded solos like punches, forging moments that still ripple through YouTube clips and guitar forums today.

To understand the supergroup’s alchemy, start with the man in the spotlight: Lester William Polsfuss, aka Les Paul. Born in 1915 in Waukesha, Wisconsin, Paul was a tinkerer from the jump. By his teens, he’d hacked together crystal radios and amplifiers, earning local radio gigs as “Rhubarb Red,” a hillbilly persona that masked his inventive mind. The 1940s saw him pioneering overdubbing and delay effects on hits with wife Mary Ford, like “How High the Moon,” which topped charts in 1951. But his true legacy? The Gibson Les Paul guitar, launched in 1952—a mahogany slab of sustain and bite that became the holy grail for everyone from Jimmy Page to Slash. By 1988, Paul was a grizzled survivor of strokes and car wrecks, still slinging licks at Manhattan’s Fat Tuesday club every Monday. “I play until they turn the lights out,” he’d growl, embodying the DIY ethos that lured this eclectic crew to his side.

Enter B.B. King, the undisputed King of the Blues, whose “Lucille” guitar wailed with the pain of Mississippi Delta cotton fields. Born Riley B. King in 1925, he rose from radio DJ “Blues Boy” to global icon, with 15 Grammys and hits like “The Thrill Is Gone” that bridged juke joints and arenas. King’s appearance at the tribute was poetic—Paul’s electric innovations amplified the blues’ emotional core. During the finale jam on Carl Perkins’ “Blue Suede Shoes,” King’s stinging bends cut through like a switchblade, earning nods from the rockers onstage. “Les gave us the tools to scream louder,” King later told Rolling Stone, his vibrato-heavy style a masterclass in less-is-more. At 63, King was at his peak, fresh off his 1985 Blues Brothers collab, and his presence grounded the night’s flashier fireworks in soul-deep authenticity.

Then there’s Waylon Jennings, the long-haired outlaw who flipped Nashville the bird and helped birth a revolution. Born in 1937 in Littlefield, Texas, Jennings dodged the 1959 plane crash that killed Buddy Holly—after giving up his seat—only to crash his own life into amphetamines and excess. By the ’70s, he’d teamed with Willie Nelson for the platinum “Wanted! The Outlaws,” snarling anthems like “Luckenbach, Texas” that spat at Music Row’s suits. At BAM, the 51-year-old Jennings brought cowboy grit, his Telecaster twang adding honky-tonk swagger to the mix. He wasn’t there to shred; he was the storyteller, grinning wide as Jordan tapped harmonics during “Blue Suede Shoes.” Jennings’ raw baritone backed vocals with wife Jessi Colter, who joined for duets, turning the stage into a family hoedown amid the virtuosity. “Waylon was the heartbeat,” recalled Stray Cats’ Brian Setzer in a 2020 Guitar World retrospective. “He reminded us it ain’t about speed—it’s about feel.” Jennings, who’d kick his addictions by 1984, used the gig as a bridge between his rebel past and a cleaner future, influencing a generation of mavericks from Chris Stapleton to Sturgill Simpson.

No supergroup like this would be complete without Eddie Van Halen, the Dutch immigrant kid who detonated rock guitar in 1978 with Van Halen’s self-titled debut. Born in 1955 in Nijmegen, Eddie and brother Alex fled Amsterdam for Pasadena, where Eddie’s two-handed tapping—hammering notes with both hands for fluid, synth-like runs—redefined shred. Tracks like “Eruption” made jaws drop, selling 80 million albums worldwide and earning a spot in the Rock Hall. At 33, Eddie was at his acrobatic zenith, fresh from 1984’s synth-heavy “Jump.” For Paul’s tribute, he honored his hero with unaccompanied solos blending “Cathedral”—a volume-swell technique echoing Paul’s experiments—and a revamped “Hot for Teacher” dubbed “Back Pain Boogie.” Swapping licks with session ace Tony Levin on bass and Jan Hammer on keytar, Eddie’s Frankenstrat (a hybrid Super Strat) wailed with glee. “Without Les, I couldn’t do half the things I do,” Eddie told Paul onstage, per VHND archives. Their chemistry was electric—Paul, the elder statesman, beaming as Eddie’s fireworks lit the fuse. Tragically prescient, Eddie passed in 2020 from throat cancer, but clips from BAM show a joyful peak, his innovation nodding to Paul’s foundational sparks.

Stanley Jordan, the jazz wunderkind, added cerebral fire to the fray. Born in 1959 in Chicago, Jordan dropped out of Princeton to chase his “touch” technique—tapping with fingertips for piano-like precision, tuned to all-fourths for fluid scales. His 1985 Blue Note debut “Magic Touch” topped jazz charts for 51 weeks, earning Grammy nods and spots on Carson and Letterman. At 29, Jordan was the night’s wildcard, his two-guitar setups (one for melody, one for bass) turning solos into symphonies. During “Blue Suede Shoes,” he tapped ethereal runs that left Jennings slack-jawed, per fan footage. “Stanley’s like a surgeon with strings,” Steve Miller later said in a JazzTimes profile. Jordan’s fusion of classical harmony and electric edge—honed with Dizzy Gillespie and Miles Davis—elevated the jam from bar band to avant-garde, proving Paul’s tools could sculpt jazz’s infinite palette.

Rounding out the core was Steve Miller, the blues-rock everyman whose “Fly Like an Eagle” defined ’70s radio. Born in 1943 in Milwaukee, Miller grew up trading licks with Les Paul himself as a teen—Paul gifted him early lessons and gear. By 1988, at 45, Miller was a hit machine with 13 top-10 smacks, blending Chicago blues with psychedelic pop. His set at BAM included behind-the-back flourishes on a Les Paul (ironic nod), his clean tones weaving through King’s grit and Eddie’s blaze. “Les was family,” Miller reflected in his 2016 memoir. As the supergroup’s connective tissue, Miller’s presence tied rock’s commercial pulse to Paul’s inventive roots, his “The Joker” vibe lightening the intensity.

The night’s pinnacle? That chaotic “Blue Suede Shoes” encore, with Stray Cats’ Brian Setzer hollering for guests like Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour (whose liquid bends added prog shimmer) and Hammer’s keytar synths. What started as a rockabilly romp devolved into glorious mayhem: Eddie’s tapping frenzy, King’s stinging retorts, Jordan’s harmonic haze, Miller’s playful flips, Jennings’ rhythmic anchor, and Paul—center stage—grinning like a kid as he riffed classics. The crowd erupted; cameras caught the sweat and smiles. “It was magic—pure, unscripted,” Setzer told Ultimate Classic Rock in 2021. The VHS release sold briskly, introducing casual fans to the supergroup’s spark.

But BAM’s impact stretched beyond the footlights. For Paul, it reaffirmed his relevance, inspiring late-career albums like 2005’s “Les Paul & Friends: A Tribute to a Legend.” King, who’d collaborate with everyone from U2 to Eric Clapton, saw his blues canonized further, paving for his 2008 Kennedy Center Honors. Jennings, battling health woes, used the gig’s camaraderie to fuel sobriety, joining The Highwaymen for ’90s triumphs before his 2002 passing from diabetes. Eddie carried Paul’s experimental torch into Van Halen’s ‘5150’ era, while Jordan’s technique influenced tappers from Buckethead to modern jazzers like Julian Lage. Miller, ever the survivor, toured into his 80s, crediting Paul for his blues foundation.

Critics hailed it as a “guitarist’s wet dream,” per Village Voice archives, but whispers of chaos lingered—egos clashed off-mic, amps buzzed, and not every lick landed perfectly. Yet that’s the beauty: raw, unpolished genius mirroring Paul’s own garage tinkering. In an era of MTV gloss, the tribute championed collaboration over competition, genres bleeding into one another like wet paint.

Today, as AI amps and digital plugins echo Paul’s multitrack wizardry, BAM ’88 feels prophetic. Streaming clips rack millions of views; forums debate “who shredded hardest.” For a new generation chasing viral riffs, it’s a lesson: Legends don’t compete—they commune. As Paul quipped post-show, “Music’s like a river—jump in, and let it carry you.” That night, six giants did just that, flooding Brooklyn with a current that still electrifies.

In a fractured industry, such cross-pollination is rare. Recent nods—like 2023’s Rock Hall inductions blending blues and metal—owe a debt to this supergroup. Paul died in 2009 at 94, King in 2015 at 89, Jennings in 2002 at 64, Eddie in 2020 at 65. Miller, 81, and Jordan, 66, carry the flame, touring with fresh takes on old fire. Their 1988 union? A snapshot of American music’s melting pot—defiant, diverse, unbreakable.