Gentleman behind the drums

I read that Bill Bruford has written his autobiography. Bruford is clearly a no-nonsense man, reflected in the fact that his book is called Bill Bruford: The Autobiography. It is published by Jawbone and you can buy it here.

The man who reversed the usual journey and went from rock stadiums to small jazz venues has always struck me as a true gentleman. At least that is the impression one gets as an audience member. I find it intriguing the impression that musicians can make, both with their music and their personality, across that space between stage and seating. Twice, I have enjoyed Bill and his Earthworks band in the extremely modest surroundings of the Guildhall, a hundred-seater council chamber of sorts in the small English city of Lichfield, a short walk into town from where I live.

On both occasions, Bill and his band seemed delighted to be here and turned in a storming set or two. Bill told his audience that while he might have been playing to thousands from a huge stage with all the apparent benefits of a tour with a big name rock band like Yes, he was far happier playing to us – and he really seemed genuinely to mean it.

Another favourite Bruford anecdote comes from a fellow jazz journalist who was interviewing Iain Ballamy and Django Bates, back when they were ambitious young guns on the British jazz scene and, with Loose Tubes behind them, were early members of Earthworks. This was at the Outside In Festival at Crawley back around 1990, and my friend asked them what it was like working with Bill. They said it was great but slightly strange because backstage, while they were earnestly going over last minute details on their sheet music, ever the studious jazzers, Bill would be relaxing, golf iron in hand, practising his putting…

Bates and Ballamy still don’t strike me as natural golfers, but Bill is never one to be typecast.

What really is intriguing in Bruford’s book, and revealing not only about his creative heart but, I suspect, ringing a chord with many others, is that he has grown less confident of his ability as he has grown older.

He writes: “As a youngster I couldn’t stop playing. Now it seems I cannot start. Then, every note was perfect, polished, wreathed, garlanded and bedecked with self confidence; now every note is riddled with maggots of self-doubt…”

This highlights just how delicate that balance has to be between the self-confidence to create in the first place and the self-criticism to make what you create really as best as you can make it. If the balance shifts one way you lose the quality of the art, while if it shifts the other way, you risk stopping creating all together.

It sounds like the latter imbalance has beset Bruford, which is a crying shame but one I am sure we will all respect. His retirement from the business seems to be as dignified and well thought through as his participation in it all these years.

And we certainly have some great recordings and memories of great gigs to treasure still, and the hope that maybe one day Bill will be able to restore that creative balance and we will hear him again.