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.
Supergroups are in thrall to the idea of their own existence; the music trails sluggishly behind
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.
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