Forget the Message; Just Play

The British rock trio called Cream has poured into the U.S. for its American debut, and the faithful are flipping out. The underground circuit in the pop world of San Francisco, Los Angeles, Manhattan and Detroit is still vibrating from what may be the biggest musical jolt out of England since the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.

Loud enough for a band three times their size, decked out in such a motley blur of polka-dot pants, fringed suede shirts, neck chains, lizard boots and other psychedelic cowboy garb that they sometimes look like three times as many people, Cream go beyond oddness into originality. In a genre that is virtually defined by vocal effects alone, their slashing, blues-steeped sound is mainly instrumental; they even use their voices like instruments. Their motto: "Forget the message, forget the lyrics; just play."

They do just that -- and with an exultant technical mastery that surpasses anything yet heard in rock.

"Woman Tone." Formed a year ago because each member was the others' favorite performer (as their rather haughty name implies), Cream comprise three prickly egos, each with solid claims of his own to individual distinction:

>Eric Clapton, 22, the rangy, intense spokesman for the group, is a superbly soulful and compelling guitarist. His voicelike "woman tone" moans, shouts or sends out sudden, stabbing cries, the vibrato quivering like a spear that has found its mark. Such top U.S. rock guitarists as Mike Bloomfield and Jerry Garcia rank him the best in the world.

> Jack Bruce, 24, a quiet Scotsman who plays bass guitar and is the group's chief songwriter, sings with the same tremulous passion that Clapton brings to guitar playing. When he huffs into a harmonica and wails the blues in his slightly burred accent, Chicago's South Side takes on a Glasgow glow.

> Ginger Baker, 28, is a dazzling drummer, perhaps the only one in the rock field who can sustain long, inventive solos. His crackling stickwork and splintered rhythms give Cream a complex yet driving beat that few rock groups can equal. An antic cockney, he drums on other things besides drums: on tours, he leaves behind a trail of hotel bills for damage to furniture and other property.

Too Long for Radio. Together, Cream are "neo-contrapuntal," according to Bruce. "We're all playing melody against each other." Each melody is largely improvised, and the object, says Clapton, "is to get so far away from the original line that you're playing something that's never been heard before." This approach usually creates pulsating waves of excitement in live performances, but it often also produces recordings that are too long for disk jockeys to sandwich between commercials. Consequently, Cream have so far been idols only of the hip insiders; their one U.S. album. Fresh Cream (on the Atco label), has been little played on radio and as a result has missed the mass market (sales: 100,000 copies). But now that this country has been Creamed, all that may be changed.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.