He was good. He was very very good—quite possibly the best in the opinion of more than a few people who were well placed to know.   Despite an eclectic five-decade-plus career in music, most people’s awareness of John Symon Asher Bruce extends from his two-year tenure as the bassist/lead singer of Cream. You had to be good to be in Cream—the best, in fact. That’s why the group was called Cream (and, thankfully, not Sweet n’ Sour Rock n’ Roll—a wisely rejected alternative moniker). You had to be able to hold your own with Eric Clapton and Ginger Baker—not an assignment for the faint of heart nor tenuous of talent. Baker, who would, on occasion, assault and threaten to kill Bruce, said of him “He’s a fucking brilliant player—there’s no doubt about that.”

On February 21, 1978, a concert was held at McAlister Auditorium on the campus of Tulane University in New Orleans. The crowd was a mix of rockers, proto-punks, hippies, hipsters and the plain curious. The opening act was the Runaways—all still genuine teenagers at the time—and the headliners were the Ramones. I was one of several hundred in attendance—not a punk (proto or otherwise), definitely not a hippie, somewhat of a rocker, and probably more hipster/curious than anything.

This man was my hero. He was, in fact, my first hero. When I was a very young kid a colleague of my mother’s had the album ‘The Weavers at Carnegie Hall’ at her house. I used to listen to the record every time I visited and eventually the album was given to me. I still have it.

I was never a huge Smiths fan—my first Smiths CD was not acquired until over 20 years after the band had broken up. I found Morrissey interesting, however. His resolutely obtuse public persona and the band’s visual presentation were intriguing to me. I went to see Morrissey in concert in 2011 and he was in excellent voice and put on a great show. Enjoyable though it was, it was not sufficient to inspire me to dive into the extensive Smiths/Morrissey back catalog, remorseful over remembrance of fandom lost.

What can I say that might be adequate to the task of expressing the depth of my feeling and respect for Clark Vreeland? I don’t have the words. But I’ll try anyway.