Who? Yeah, I know. Bruce was a journeyman, a jobbing musician, a guitar player. He wasn’t Clapton. He wasn’t Jeff, or Jimmy. He was one of thousands. But, by God, he meant something to me.

Bruce Roberts was a member of the Jess Roden Band, in the mid-seventies. They were a hairy, rag-bag of brilliant, funny, enthusiastic musicians who came together, supporting one of the great voices that these islands have ever produced, with one aim in mind. To give the paying punter a fucking good time. Sweaty gigs, shite money, crappy venues, they were by no means unique – it is the age old story of the traveling minstrel. But the JRB were an exceptional bunch. I was in my 20’s when it as announced they had disbanded. I was at work. I cried.

So sleep well, dear Bruce. You may not have achieved success in the eyes of the wider world. But you achieved something so few of us ever get to do. On wet Wednesday nights, in the arse end of nowhere, you made a few hardy souls feel fucking amazing.