Brush with fame: Jack Bruce

When I was a kid, I went to a camp in the Catskills where I met my musical mentor, John Halberian. For a 13 year old kid in 1975, John was the epitome of cool. He had the great car (a Thunderbird convertible from the 1950's), a cool guitar (a black Fender Stratocaster like Clapton's Blackie) and an awesome, if unique, stereo (a Dual turntable plugged into a Fender Twin amp).

Best of all, however, was John's record collection. Vinyl being vinyl, and heat & humidity being what they are, John left his best records home. That meant there were no Beatles or Stones records for the entire summer. This wasn't a tragedy, it was a blessing. Through John I was introduced to the Allman Brothers, learned that Jimi Hendrix (sadly) had not retired but in fact had died, and was exposed to great music from artists such as Cream, Derek & the Dominos, Emerson Lake & Palmer, the Who, etc. We even devoted much time and discussion regarding side 2 (this was the era of vinyl after all) of Clapton's EC Was Here and declared it the single best 20 minutes of music available to us.

When I got home from camp my Aunt Seroun (from California) was visiting. While I knew who she was, we had never met. I suppose in an effort to ingratiate herself to me, she decided to take me to the record store and let me run wild. Armed with my Halberian inspired knowledge, I bought Eat A Peach, Who's Next, Layla, and Wheels of Fire.

The 70's being what they were, and Cranston RI being what it was, the rest of the decade was spent having to fight against the scourge that was disco. My friends and I fought the good fight and listened to lots of Allman Brothers, Pink Floyd, the Police and the Pretenders but there wasn't much love in my circles for Cream. Instead of rising to the top, Cream sort sank to the depths of my consciousness.

Enter Jack Spaulding. The year was 1984 and I was living in Washington DC and attending George Washington University. I met Jack while hanging around the sports complex. Jack was a few years older than me. He was a post hippie football player with eidetic memory and a vast knowledge of great literature. By day, Jack taught english lit to kids in DC's juvenile detention centers. In his off hours Jack liked to hang out, drink and listen to great music.

Unlike John, Jack had all his music with him. In fact, he had two floor to ceiling book cases filled with records. There was so much vinyl that he didn't need a sprinkler system. If there was a fire, there'd be enough melting, oozing vinyl to extinguish any fire. Bookcase number one was filled with Jack's classical and jazz collection. He was a completist so he had all 9 of Beethoven's symphonies, Mozart's 41 symphonies and even Haydn's 104 symphonies. Nice stuff.

But it was bookcase number 2 that was of greater interest to me. Hundreds of rock and roll albums including the Allmans, Hendrix, Mountain, Roy Buchanan, Derek & the Dominos, and yes . . . Cream. On a typical Friday evening Jack would pick me up in DC, we'd stop and get some take out food, a bottle of single malt or Bushmills and a bag of ice before heading to his house in Arlington, VA. We'd spend the evening polishing off the bottle and listening to some great music. The next morning we'd get up and play football at Haynes Point in DC. We were members of the only white team in an all African American flag football league. We didn't win many (or any, I just don't remember) games. Hung over, we never played well but we never felt any pain (aside from our massive headaches!)

On one of these Friday nights we were discussing the dearth of what we considered great music (even Led Zeppelin had recently broken up with the death of John Bonham) when an ad in the paper caught our eye:

One night only -- Jack Bruce at the 9:30 Club!

Naturally we bought tickets and made plans to attend the show. At the club's original location on F Street, there was a long, narrow corridor that led from the front door to the club. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Jack Bruce, and to the consternation of the bouncer, we hung out waiting for our hero. To say it was anti climatic would be a vast understatement. He did indeed come in the front door and we did get a chance to greet him but the reality didn't match the image. For years, he was a mythical figure, a musical giant. But the guy who walked past us was short (shorter than me!), had bad facial complexion, and he certainly looked pissed off. He didn't look like he wanted to be there.

From there it only got worse. We were expecting if not Cream, at least a small combo playing Jack's eclectic mix of jazz, blues and rock. We were expecting to hear Jack wail away on his EB3 and sing his ass off. We should have read the fine print. Jack was playing as part of Kip Hanrahan's band. Jack was indeed front and center stage but he was one of two bass players. And he stood in front of a music stand, reading sheet music. Instead of a small combo, it was a 13 piece big band. When the music started, Jack played 4 or 5 notes on his bass, wailed some unintelligible lyrics and then stood stoically for 3 minutes after which time he'd play a few more notes, sing a lyric or two and then return to his state of stony silence.

Of course it didn't help matters that we, and I in particular, were drunk as could be. Who knows, it might have been a great show. But to us, it wasn't. And while he was standing stoically on stage I'm sure Jack Bruce heard some drunken idiot screaming "White Room! White Room!" He had to hear it; I mean I was screaming like a mad man. :-) After 20 minutes, we had had enough (as I'm sure Mr. Bruce had) and we left. I figured I'd never see him again.

Then, 4 years later and 400 miles to the north, Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker were scheduled to play at the Living Room on Promenade street in Providence RI. I tried to limit my expectations and my alcohol intake this time. The show was phenomenal, everything the first show wasn't. It wasn't without it's hiccups though. If you don't know anything about Jack and Ginger's relationship, let's just say they regularly fight like they're cats and dogs. I got the feeling that Ginger didn't want to play any of Jack's solo material so a compromise was struck. The first set consisted of Jack's solo material and Tom Goss played drums. The second set consisted of material from Cream and thus featured Ginger on the drums.

Of course the show started late and Jack insisted that Ginger hadn't shown up yet and that's why Tom was behind the drum kit. And because they started so late (90 minutes) the second set was short. In fact, about 15 minutes before curfew time the club manager told Jack the show had to end at 1:00 a.m. Poor Ginger was in the middle of his tour de force (Toad) when Jack screamed at him to finish up so that they could play Spoonful and Sunshine of Your Love, songs which highlighted Jack, not Ginger. Toad, which featured Ginger's drum solo and typically was 10 - 15 minutes long, was shortened to a mere 5 minutes.

Still, it was a great show and one that I always remembered fondly. And then, thanks to the magic of the internet, I was able to download a bootleg recording of that show. Sound quality wasn't bad and the performance was even better than I remembered. Funnily enough, when I listened to the show I heard a drunken idiot screaming out a song request. This time it was Deserted Cities of the Heart and the voice wasn't mine . . . but it could have been.

Prince Miroslav

I've never actually met a member of the Croatian monarchy (or any Balkan monarch for that matter) but there's a guy at the gym who certainly seems to fit the bill. He's not too tall, has real busy eyebrows, a little on the dark side and is quite aloof. He wears a towel around his neck that he tucks into his shirt -- looks like he's wearing an ascot. If not a member of some Balkan royal family, perhaps he was a communist overlord operating behind the iron curtain. I've nick named him Prince Miroslav. In addition to his royal upbringing and/or years of Stalinist indoctrination, he must have received some training in the dramatic arts. Heck, that kind of training always comes in handy when your subjugating the populace.

The Prince certainly is a regular at the gym. Like me, he's there nearly every morning. He always comes in with a large Starbucks and a liter of Smart Water . . . and he just leaves them wherever he pleases . . . he's quite the diva. And never has anyone lifted so little and grimaced as much as our dear Prince. Believe me, he's not a frail guy and he must have some inner core of strength in order to yield a truncheon the way I'm sure he did in the old country. But here in the U.S., lifting a 10 pound weight and twisting his body 3 inches in either direction certainly appears to be quite an effort for this former leader. Or perhaps, to quote Saturday Night Live's Jon Lovitz, "that's acting!"

Like any good actor, Miro (as I like to call him) certainly is no stranger to make up and costumes. I've already mentioned his pseudo ascot. But what really amazed me was his locker room set up. The first time I saw it, I thought I was in the ladies locker room. On a counter (that's 4 feet long!) in front of a mirror (naturally) he laid out three bags filled with all sorts of lotions & potions, creams & powders, colognes, and other assorted grooming products. All that seemed to be missing were those light bulbs that surround the mirrors in all the finest dressing rooms. Come to think of it, the Prince probably gets his workout just carrying his gear into the gym. If you don't believe me, look at the picture below.

I'll do my best to keep you informed of the Prince's activities. He spoke to me the other day. You never know, I could be headed to the Balkans as part of his coup team. Check back here for updates.