Jack Bruce
Harmony Row

THE REVIEW

Even reduced almost to skin and bones by a terrible illness, with a consequent liver transplant full of complications (the price to pay for a life of serious abuses), the old Jack, born in 1943 in Glasgow, with all the stubbornness and courage of a true Scotsman, is still capable today of taking the stage, striving to remain almost always perched on a stool to conserve his limited energy, yet never failing to deliver to the audience his strong and far-reaching voice and, above all, his gnarled, creative, brilliant electric bass style.

The man has tried everything, during his fifty-year career, to fully ride the crest of the wave he surfed so splendidly during the brief season (1966-68) of the Cream, but there was no way, those times never returned and for a long time now Bruce is indeed still a point of reference, but essentially for musicians, aspiring ones, and professionals in general, as well as a handful of fans who are mostly somewhat elderly.

The jazz roots of this musician, eager to be appreciated in a well-rounded manner and not just as a bassist and singer, emerge clearly in his solo records. The laborious melodic and harmonic complexity of his songwriting stands out, almost convoluted as it seems pursued and studied in its unpredictability. The result is certainly personal, estimable but with something artificial and not very fluid, honestly almost never exciting: Bruce is a great musician, but when he does everything by himself, he lacks something... he is anything but predictable, however, without genius, he is intriguing but not very exciting. The effect is that his records cannot be remembered, the melodies slip away, and thus they do not tire, but neither do they create the desire to listen to them frequently.

When in 1971, he released this third solo album, his name was still firmly among the stars of fame, due to the still effervescent trail left by Cream. Nevertheless, it sold just right, as it lacks both commercial "hooks" in the verses and choruses, and stunning solo runs or other displays of instrumental virtuosity. Jack composes at the piano and acoustic guitar, getting help only from a couple of other musicians who never rose to prominence, guitarist Chris Spedding and drummer John Marshall. As usual, the lyrics are taken care of by his lifelong collaborator, Pete Brown.

Bruce's voice is distinctive: technically powerful and extensive, it may or may not appeal depending on how it is used. Surely his style is distinguishable from any other, but it has never driven me crazy. Regarding his bass approach, nothing but good can be said, indeed excellently: he has taught and made so many people fall in love with this (wonderful) instrument that he has no equal in the world. Meanwhile, the sound: deep and wide, assertive and often. Then the technique, precise and constantly "on point." Finally, the rhythmic/melodic creativity: infinite, legendary, courageous, audacious, innovative, exhilarating. Together with other luminaries of the time (John Entwistle of the Who, Chris Squire of Yes, Mel Schacher of Grand Funk Railroad, the most deserving) he managed to combine overflowing melodic creativity and a driving rhythmic frenzy, stealing the scene from the guitarist of the moment even if his name was Clapton (or Leslie West or Steve Hunter or Robin Trower, looking at the continuation of his career).

In short, Bruce as a bassist is a master beyond doubt, a saint, a guru. As a creator and arranger of songs and records, I wouldn’t say so. Of the handful of epochal tracks he has managed to write in his career (like "Theme from an Imaginary Western" from the debut album "Songs for a Taylor"), none belong to this album. Certainly close to excellence are "Escape to the Royal Wood (On Ice)", "Morning Story", and especially the extended "Smiles and Grins", where our artist's oblique melodies and the dry accompaniment of the group he assembled for the recording sessions travel compact and interesting.

Thank you for everything Jack, little and bold big man with the electric bass slung over your shoulder, keep holding on for many, many years.