Why supergroups nearly always suck

Recently in these pages, ruminating on the ghastly Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I wrote that music does not conform to any equation. I should have added: except, of course, for the occasions when it does. One tried-and-true formulation is that ‘super-groups’, those bespoke vehicles bringing together artists best known either for working alone or within other bands, tend to add up to considerably less than the sum of their parts.

We could blame Eric Clapton. Indeed, it seems remiss not to. Blind Faith – a fatally untidy union of Clapton (ex-Cream), Steve Winwood (ex-Traffic) and Ginger Baker (exhausting) – started the whole thing off in 1968, and not in a good way. Blind Faith simply felt like a poor fit: under-rehearsed, musically non-simpatico, a rash idea whose time hadn’t come.

Each era has its own versions. Few linger long in the memory. Can you whistle anything by the Power Station, the 1980s rock band comprised of Robert Palmer and members of Chic and Duran Duran? Of course you can’t. Generally, supergroups are in thrall to the idea of their own existence; the music trails sluggishly behind. Most are a mere indulgence, which is forgivable. Much worse is when everybody involved sublimates their best selves to some polite, compromised vision of the collective. Others are nakedly needy: X needs Y to lend legitimacy to some new artistic fancy.

Only a handful forge a genuinely distinct creative identity. Crosby, Stills & Nash transcended the significant groups (the Byrds, Buffalo Springfield and the Hollies, respectively) the members left behind. The Good, the Bad & the Queen – Damon Albarn with the Clash’s Paul Simonon and late, ace Afrobeat drummer Tony Allen – did a decent job, though it was clear Albarn was always running the show.