The one who gave depth to Clapton’s guitars
Eric Clapton needs no introduction; Ginger Baker, not even. But the fact that that of Jack Bruce – who left us exactly eleven years ago, on 25 October 2014 – is not a name as well known as the others, it is an injustice that we should put an end to. Just as John Bonham was not just “Led Zeppelin’s drummer”, Jack Bruce he wasn’t just “Cream’s bassist”. He was a genius, an amazing voice and a composer who redefined the language of rock and blues.
Born in Bishopbriggs, near Glasgow, in 1943, he was never just a co-star. This is (too) often thought of when it comes to bass players: it is an instrument that tends to have a supporting role, or little more. Bruce brought him center stage. His way of playing – technical but visceral, melodic and percussive at the same time – changed the rules of the game. Especially in Cream, the first true rock power trio that staged a continuous dialogue between instruments, in which the bass became voice and the voice became an instrument. Immortal songs like “Sunshine of your love” (together with Clapton), “White room”, “I feel free” or “Politician” bear Bruce’s signature. And even when Cream’s parable ended, after the glorious three years between June 1966 and November 1968, Jack didn’t stop experimenting.
Although far from the spotlight, she embarked on a rich and complex solo career. From the jazz rock of “Songs for a tailor” (1969) and “Harmony row” (1971), to the collaborations with Lou Reed, Tony Williams, John McLaughlin, Robin Trower and Gary Moore, Bruce always pursued an ideal: never stop, never repeat yourself. Not even after his health put him to the test. In the summer of 2003 he was diagnosed with a liver cancer; in September of the same year he underwent a transplant which risked being fatal due to a rejection crisis. Two years later he was already on stage at the Royal Albert Hall in London and Madison Square Garden in New York to bring Cream back to life one last time.
Bruce was a living oxymoron. And perhaps the most beautiful part of his genius lies precisely in the contrast: between anger and grace; between culture and passion; between the soul of a bluesman and that of a classical composer. In fact, not everyone knows that at the age of 17 he enrolled at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music for study cello and composition; alongside the blues of Muddy Waters and the modern jazz of Charles Mingus, a formation emerged that never abandoned him and that, from time to time, made him say things like “some of the best bass parts ever written are the work of Johann Sebastian Bach”.
From Bach he inherited the taste for counterpointparticularly evident in Cream, when he loved to play and fit his bass between voice and guitar, anticipating the school of Paul McCartney post “Revolver”. If you pay attention, his bass doesn’t just keep time: it creates the theme. And his lines – especially in certain cases, like in “Sunshine” – are as epochal as the guitar riffs. His compositions they broke the mold of the canonical blues, between suspended chords and unexpected (or unpredictable) modulations, and forced Clapton and Baker to go beyond the boundaries of rock, fusing jazz, the so-called classical and psychedelia. There must be a reason why Eric defined him as “the man who gave depth to my guitars”. Who can give depth to an already so sumptuous and eternal guitar, if not a genius?
His last album, “Silver rails” (2014), published a few months before his death, is an elegant and moving farewell: a collection of mature, reflective songs that tell the story of a man aware of his own path and his extraordinary, immense legacy.
