As the Rolling Stones were gearing up for their current tour, Keith Richards revealed that he had seriously considered forcing co-founding Stone Bill Wyman to perform at the point of a gun when Wyman announced he was leaving.
Leaving aside the fact that not even Richards could play the riff to “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” while also training a weapon on someone, the question arises: Why should the most inspired rocker ever to fire up an electric guitar be so adamant in his desire to continue performing with Wyman, whom no one has ever accused of being a bassist possessed of inspiration, great chops or even much flair?
The Stones will never be quite the same after the retirement of Wyman, his unremarkable bass skills notwithstanding. The death of Brian Jones and the departure of Wyman represents a significant change in the band’s chemistry, and when it comes to rock ‘n’ roll bands, chemistry is everything.
A band’s most essential stock in trade is its sound. The songs are like bottles of various shapes in which the sound is contained, then decanted for the listener’s pleasure. The sound is always unique and indefinable, and always the direct product of the band’s chemistry.
It is the inscrutable requirements of band chemistry that make Bill Wyman a Rolling Stone and new bassist Darryl Jones a mere sideman, just as they caused Pete Best to become a baker while his replacement, a drummer of no great distinction named Ringo Starr, climbed aboard Best’s old band, the Beatles, just as it was gathering speed on the runway to glory.
Good band chemistry doesn’t necessarily result in a well-oiled, well-synchronized sound. From the early Stones all the way to Nirvana, sometimes you think the whole sonic enterprise is about to come apart at the seams in midflight.
The entire band-chemistry mystery really begins with the Beatles.
Once the Beatles got past their irreverent Liverpudlian years, there ensued a four- or five-year period of musical, thematic and emotional development, culminating in the so-called White Album and “Abbey Road,” musical documents as important as Bartok’s string quartets. When John Lennon sang “Dear Prudence” and Paul McCartney sang “You Never Give Me Your Money,” it was clear that the band’s creative chemistry amounted to something far greater than mere irreverence.
In fact, no one really understood band chemistry-no one even really knew there was such a thing-until the bands that had it in spades began to fall apart under the strain of burgeoning egos. Then it became obvious, for example, that Paul McCartney the solo artist (with or without the backing of Wings) was not the same thing as Paul the Beatle.
The most noteworthy proof that band chemistry was the name of the game resulted from what seemed like a brilliant, genre-advancing stroke of genius that fell flat on its face: the Blind Faith debacle.
You can just imagine the promoter types who masterminded Blind Faith slapping each other on the back and making room in their bank accounts for a massive influx of pounds and pence.
What, after all, could be more sure-fire? You extract from a great band named Traffic its most virtuosic and charismatic talent, Steve Winwood.
Then you extract from Cream-the first power trio, with lineage going back to the legendary Yardbirds-its two most appealing thirds, Eric Clapton and drummer Ginger Baker.
You put the three together, add one or two players who seem to fit in OK; you put Winwood and Clapton to writing songs, hold some rehearsals and voila-Blind Faith, the first “supergroup,” which cuts what everyone assumes to be a can’t-miss album and goes on tour.
And goes right into the toilet. The next thing you know, Winwood is back with Traffic making the classic “John Barleycorn Must Die” and then a couple of lesser albums before going solo. Clapton takes the solo route. And Baker takes on a low profile for two decades.
The exception that proves the band-chemistry rule is Crosby, Stills & Nash-another “supergroup,” featuring David Crosby (ex-Byrd), Stephen Stills (ex-Buffalo Springfield) and Graham Nash (ex-Hollies), and sometimes Neil Young (also ex-Springfield).
Even a non-fan of CSN (and sometimes Y) has to admit that it did possess chemistry, no doubt because these guys-unlike the superstar victims of the Blind Faith catastrophe-got together out of a natural affinity.
Great latter-day bands tend to bear out the band-chemistry hypothesis. Talking Heads, the Clash, the B-52s, REM-a cursory look at their history shows they came together the way you and your three or four closest friends came together, forming intimate little ad-hoc communities based on a shared world view and a tendency to be alternately silly and serious in sync.
The most painful lesson about band chemistry was taught by Kurt Cobain when he committed suicide last year.
Some people may have had the impression that Nirvana was a band in name only, just Cobain with a couple of backup guys.
Nirvana’s recordings shows this is far from the case. In fact, band chemistry has seldom given rise to such an unmistakable musical personality: ferocious, vehement, disillusioned, sometimes bitterly amused, always with a melody raging in its heart.
