The Perfect Bassist

 

The Chameleon

We had finally scraped together enough money to buy a band van. But it was so tiny that fully loaded it couldn’t fit half the band or our dreams of rock stardom.

Our other guitarist, Jimmy, found Justin.

By far the band’s most vibrant personality, he always wore Adidas sneakers, bellbottomed corduroy jeans and a buttoned shirt with a jean jacket.

Stories of working with a famous British band’s producer and being on a first-name basis with the Libertines’ lead singers had us eating out of his hand. The kicker: he could land us a London support slot.

It sounded too good to be true. Struggling musicians rarely resist the promise of industry connections.

Not only was Justin a decent bass player, but he also played the Hammond organ and regularly brought lyrics to rehearsals. He had a bass, but no amp. When girlfriend-less, he was near homeless.

He once asked to stay for a night or two at the digs I shared with four other South African blokes. Soon he occupied the communal TV room’s couch.

At first, they entertained this strange Englishman who didn’t have a suitcase full of clothes and apparently never ate. But the novelty soon wore off. A week later, they put us on notice to leave. It was either him or me.

A few months later he met his life partner, who became his haven. Despite his chaotic life, a deep vulnerability and sensitivity to criticism lay beneath his cocky bravado.

One day Jimmy got a call from a van-less Justin. According to Justin, the vehicle was impounded. His explanation was vague — something about driving without a licence and not being able to afford the fine.

We had to cough up nearly the van’s full replacement value to secure the police release order—a hefty sum.

Months later, following a show we played in central London, the van finally broke down. As I steered the stricken vehicle back to safety, being towed by Jimmy’s old man, it dawned on me. It was over. I wasn’t ready for this emotional rollercoaster.

There were also good times. One evening at the Astoria, he confidently strode up to the doorman and told him we were A&R. Suspicious, the doorman let us through, and we proceeded to watch the then-unknown Kings of Leon, even meeting them backstage. We made a dash for it when the real A&R people showed up.

Today, 23 years later, he’s based in Northamptonshire with his partner, seemingly dividing his time between regular fishing trips and his ongoing work in the music industry.

Bless him.

 

The Capybara

An accomplished musician, Quinn also played the double bass.

We met while studying together at a music college in Johannesburg. Soon thereafter we played together for a solo artist, and got to know each other better.

It was during this time that I started forming my band and urgently needed a bassist. Quinn answered the call.

The nicest man you’ll ever meet. Always friendly, always helpful. Always supportive.

But it was prog rock versus Britrock. A lot of notes versus a sound and emotion. I’ve never understood Rush, and I still don’t.

And soon after, that was it.

 

The Honeybadger

I don’t know how this eccentric man came over my path, but my life’s the better for it.

Bohemian, free-spirited, dancer, musician, Illuminati conspiracy theorist. Not necessarily in that order. And obviously, a corporate professional.

We first crossed paths back in 2007 in Norwood, Johannesburg. I instantly liked his company.

My earliest memory is of us speeding down the N1 highway in his mom’s hand-me-down Mini Cooper. “I absolutely love this car, but won’t be able to afford the payments,” he shouted sensibly over the blaring music, all the while moving to the beat. Here’s a musician who understands frugality, I thought to myself.

When James was supposed to play A, he’d ride it out for a bit, slow-cook it into an AB medley, and then just go rogue with B. He couldn’t help himself. And make no mistake, B was amazing. But the songs we played were already written, some already playing on the radio. He re-invented completed bass parts.

The amount of comical nonsense he could talk about was beyond belief.

After a weeklong tour in the Cape, we started the long, arduous road back home to Joburg. It was a total nightmare: four adults, instruments, and luggage packed into a tiny Citi Golf and Venter trailer for a 20-hour drive.

James and Warrick, the drummer, surely used a therapeutic dose to escape their confinement. What ensued was non-stop verbal diarrhea.

Not far down the road, James christened Warrick The Honeybadger. It was an apt description. A honeybadger is a difficult creature to contain. It’s also a tough cookie. Near impossible to kill. Warrick was not the outspoken type, but you knew not to mess with him.

Our driver and manager, Sam, on the other hand, must have thought it was the end of the world as she knew it. Her cigarettes were being lit at shorter intervals, and she sank deeper in the seat with each passing hour.

James came and went and came again. I loved his playing and total commitment to the groove, but managers weren’t too fond of him and his ways.

He would and could not be controlled. The irony.

 

The Great Dane

While on my endless search for the perfect bassist, I met Lionel through my drummer at the time, Wesley.

A son of hardworking Indian bankers, Lionel loved nothing more than playing the bass. An incredibly talented jazz musician, he also played the double bass.

A big man with a warm laugh and a soft heart, but also a smooth talker.

An unfortunate event exposed my racial naivety. I organized a gig in my rural hometown. It was set in a beautiful 200-seat auditorium, but Lionel was nervous. He didn’t like the energy.

I assured him it would be OK. After soundcheck, a group of young boys walked past and hissed a racial slur at him. He was shaken and said he didn’t want to do the show. I was shocked by the incident but selfishly pressed him to play, and he delivered with a flawless performance.

Afterwards we agreed to stay clear of conservative towns.

Lionel wanted more creative input. Our styles and influences clashed and he was overqualified for the job.

 

The Questing Beast

There is no such thing as the perfect bassist. There are only musicians who are right for a particular group of people, at a particular point in their lives.

I wasn’t looking for a bassist.

I was looking for a person who somehow fitted an impossible specification.