Eric Clapton Give Me Strength: The ’74/’75 Studio Recordings (2013)

From top100canadianblog.blogspot.com

Eric Clapton is still God.  At least, when it comes to boxed sets.  The whole idea of the big, four-disc, career-spanning compilation started with E.C. back in 1988 with the release of Crossroads, which sold several million copies, and proved that there was a huge appetite for bonus tracks, booklets, and best-of cuts.  Since then, the Clapton vaults have regularly put forward deluxe editions, several live compilations, and remasters.  Unplugged just got that treatment in the fall, and now is followed by this forensic look at Clapton in ’74-’75.

This was the return of Clapton from three years of mostly sitting on the sidelines.  Derek & the Dominoes had imploded, and he had developed a heroin habit that kept him from recording.  Finally clean, he headed to Florida to record with Tom Dowd, but didn’t have a lot of ideas.  Luckily, he still had a few pals.  A band was assembled featuring a bunch of Tulsa players, and their laid-back groove perfectly fitted where Clapton wanted to be, far away from guitar heroics.  The result was 461 Ocean Boulevard, and the huge hit, I Shot The Sheriff.  It remains a strong album, filled with tracks fueled by the groove, whether the reggae feel of the hit, the chunky update of Willie & the Hand Jive, or the blues funk of Motherless Children and Get Ready.  It also includes one of his loveliest ballads, Let It Grow, showing his increasing interest in vocals and song craft over jamming.

It was so big, the cast reunited months later for the follow-up, There’s One In Every Crowd, but unfortunately there were even less ideas going in, and precious little came out of the sessions.  Instead, the group tried to do much of the same again, with reggae, gospel and blues, even trying to reclaim a track originally scheduled for a second Dominoes album.  Clapton even felt the need to write a sequel to Marley’s Sheriff, and Don’t Blame Me picks up the story about the deputy.  It’s actually pretty good, but shows that inspiration wasn’t readily available.  The public picked up on it, and the album was a failure, not even making the Top 20.  The comeback was in jeopardy.

Luckily things were better on the road, where the band had been loving doing the 461 numbers, plus Clapton classics and blues jams.  A live album followed in ’75, E.C. Was Here, restoring him to higher honour.  There are so many Clapton live albums (and natch, boxed sets of all-live), that it’s hard to keep track, but this one is a good one, made better with an entire bonus disc of tracks on this collection.  Expanding the set with lots of favourites not on the original, 40 minutes has now blossomed to over 2 hours, and where the LP version included mostly lengthy blues numbers, this now has Sheriff, Hand Jive, Badge, Little Wing and lots more.  It’s the highlight of this multi-disc set.

The rest of the bonuses aren’t that interesting.  The sessions for 461 and ..Every Crowd really didn’t include much of note, even though there’s lots of out-takes.  The best addition is Clapton’s one-off single release, a reggae-fied version of Dylan’s Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door.  A final discs features 30-plus minutes of cuts done with bluesman Freddie King at the same time, with Clapton and his band, but again, it’s not noteworthy stuff, more for completion’s sake.  The final tally here:  Six discs, the first 461 and it’s bonuses, the second There’s One… with its extras, three and four offering up tons of concert material, disc five the Freddie King sessions, and the sixth some audiophile mixes, the 5.1 and quad versions of 461, for those who dig the big sound.  The package is cool, an off-sized box, like a thin photo album, the essay passable, the music hit-and-miss.  Possibly worth it to fans for the grand live stuff, and the improved sound for 461.

Eric Clapton One More Car, One More Rider (2001)

From thenightowl.com

Anytime Eric Clapton releases a new album, it’s an event. The last few studio efforts have been less than exciting for longtime fans of the legendary guitarist. Too much synthesizer and drum machine and not enough of EC’s wailing guitar. Well, I hate to break it to you, but Clapton has reached the point in his career where he doesn’t need to wail anymore. He’s past the whole screaming guitar solo thing. He’s played country, blues, ballads, you name it. Not to mention what he did with the ‘unplugged’ genre. On his latest effort, Clapton gives one of the strongest live performances he’s released to date.

As was the case throughout the tour, the acoustic set gets things started. After a solo version of “Key to the Highway,” the band joins Clapton onstage for a gorgeous version of the instrumental title track from his last album, “Reptile.” Eric doesn’t say a whole lot to the audience during the show, aside from the requisite “thank you.” He does, however, introduce “Got You on My Mind,” which features a quote from “Blue Monk” during Andy Fairweather-Low’s guitar solo. Other than that, Clapton sticks to the music.

The first real highlight is the sublime “Bell Bottom Blues.” Eric’s voice sounds great, and the solos are outstanding. The first real surprise is the stunning “Change the World.” The studio version of the song never did much for me, but it really comes alive when performed live. The first of four tracks from Pilgrim (and the first of two brief lulls in the show) is up next, “My Father’s Eyes.” Although Pilgrim was dissed by fans because of all the synthesizers and/or drum machines, the songs–stripped of their electronic accompaniment–are considerably better here. “River of Tears” is a perfect example, thanks to Clapton’s stunning guitar work and Billy Preston’s heartfelt keyboard solo.

Disc two contains most of the older hits–“Badge” (with a keyboard solo where the guitar solo should be), a slightly different version of “Cocaine,” “Layla” (the electric version), a particularly inspired version of “Sunshine of Your Love” (thanks to Steve Gadd’s drumming) and unfortunately “Wonderful Tonight.” It never ceases to amaze me how many people think this is a love song. For the blues fans, you also get great versions of “Hoochie Coochie Man” and “Have You Ever Loved a Woman.”

One More Car is available in three different configurations: double CD, DVD, and a CD/DVD combo package. The DVD is a complete show from Los Angeles (and includes Billy Preston’s “Will it Go Round in Circles”, which does not appear on the CDs), where the CDs are a combination of shows from Los Angeles and Tokyo. The CDs each feature a live video in the enhanced portion of the disc–“River of Tears” on disc one, and “Badge” on disc two. The picture quality in the DVD is outstanding. Sound quality is excellent on both formats. The only place they skimped is on the liner notes. An 8-page booklet just isn’t enough. Other than that, this is one of the best live albums (or DVDs) out there.

If you were lucky enough to see any of the shows on the tour, One More Car makes a great souvenir. If you weren’t able to catch the tour, now you can see and hear what you missed.

Eric Clapton: Slowhand At 70-Live At The Royal Albert Hall (2015)

From allaboutjazz.com

Over the course of the last decade, Eric Clapton hasn’t made much spectacle of crucial turning points in his life and career( reunion with John Mayall or collaborations with Steve Winwood, J.J. Cale and Jeff Beck), he’s just made them happen. In that light, his run of a week at London’s Royal Albert Hall, during which he marked his 200th appearance at the famed venue, would appear to carry no more import than his turning 70 years old.

But the absence of any content, interview or otherwise, referencing this historical significance on Slowhand at 70: Live at Royal Albert Hall, becomes notable with the sole bonus inclusion of Robert Johnson’s “Little Queen of Spades,” a vigorous performance of which reaffirms the blues icon’s resounding inspiration for Clapton more than “Crossroads,” now so closely identified with the seminal power trio Cream.

Yet the performance with his current band, spanning the breadth of his career solo, as captured on DVD and CD in this package, reveals much about how Slowhand’s career has evolved and does so in such purposeful fashion it becomes a virtual biography in song. In favor of significant choices such as “Hoochie Coochie Man” of Muddy Waters (with whom Clapton toured in the Eighties), the (overly) polished rock and its middle-of-the-road undercurrents such as “Wonderful Tonight” and “Pretending” become deemphasized within a set list that otherwise features a healthy selection of pure blues numbers, some of which, including the opener of J. J. Cale’s “Somebody’s Knockin’ On My Door,” are not as closely identified with Clapton as “Key to the Highway” or “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.”

The acoustic set may hearkens back to the famous Unplugged(Warner Bros., 1992), but in the form of “Driftin’ Blues” as much as “Tears in Heaven,” resonates with an understated personal stamp belying the careerism of the title and the period from which it’s taken. Steady work with EC has informed the playing of veteran session-men and road warriors bassist Nathan East and drummer Steve Gadd with real swagger even as they remain as reliable as a rhythm foundation as the dual vocal presence of Michelle John and Sharon White, doesn’t just bolster Clapton’s limited albeit hearty vocal range, but adds delicacy and soul to songs such as “Tell the Truth.”

The positioning of a quiet take of “Layla,” in this song sequence indicates the crowd-pleasing home stretch of a show that concludes with “High Time We Went,” (where appears EC accompanist guitarist and opening act Andy-Fairweather-Lowe), one of two selections from Joe Cocker’s discography, along with “You Are So Beautiful,” sung by organist (and former member of Ace and Squeeze) Paul Carrack who, along with pianist Chris Stainton, once the linchpin of the late British soulman’s Grease Band, heightens the earthy quality of this music.

Clapton’s grown markedly as a singer over the years, learning how to turn his lack of range into a strength yet his vocals can’t match the elegance, simplicity and passion with which he solos. Yet in keeping with these economical arrangements-as well as his general avoidance of extensive improvisation, except, notably, teasing his way into Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff” before he subsequently shreds with a vengeance-Clapton often humbly defers to Stainton and Carrack, in that order, before adding his own emotive touch to a performance: on this rendition of Blind Faith’s “Can’t Find My Way Home,” introduced and sung by East, the original guitar hero gently applies filigreed decoration to enhance its intrinsically haunting nature.

The sumptuous, eye-pleasing graphic design of this three-disc digi-pak finds its corollary in the audio and video quality of the film, the impeccable nature of which compelled the debut of Slowhand at 70 in movie theaters the summer of 2015. The subdued lighting includes equally understated video projection and enhances the symmetry of the musicians’ placement on the stage, itself reflective of how comfortable in his own skin has become their leader. Meanwhile, cameras panning from stage rear to high in the balcony, highlights this venue’s regal nature and, in turn, mirrors the profundity of the occasion Live at Royal Albert Hall represents.

Casting aside a commercial standing that’s otherwise beyond reproach, this title signifies the extent to which Eric Clapton’s five-decades plus pursuit of his calling has paid off and ever-so-handsomely at that..

Eric Clapton: Classic Interview – “I was in it to save the world. I wanted to tell the world about blues and to get it right” (1994)

From musicradar.com

In this Guitarist interview from 1994, Slowhand looks back on the early days with John Mayall, The Yardbirds and Cream, and explains why blues was the only education he needed

This classic Guitarist interview from 1994 captured the guitar god in reflective mood for cover of the magazine’s landmark 10th Anniversary Issue. From The Cradle, his follow-up to the Unplugged, was recorded and awaiting release, and that collection of blues covers set the tone for the conversation.

Here we find Clapton explain how the blues was more than a sound to him. It was a historical endeavour as much as anything, a process of peeling back the influences of those who went before him – to the players who were his heroes’ heroes, and taking it right back to the source. This, he explains, is an essential process for any player looking to master a style and make it their own. 

But he also talks about the tumultuous times as he made his name on record, with John Mayall, The Yardbirds and Cream, his journey on the electric guitar, and a lot more besides. Enjoy! 

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Your career has spanned more than three decades now, covering a variety of different genres and involving some of the most prominent contemporary musicians of the late 20th Century. Can you remember what it was that turned you on to music in the beginning? What was it that made you want to be a musician and who were the people who most inspired you?

“Well, the first thing that rang in my head was black music; all black records that were R&B or blues oriented. I remember hearing Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Big Bill Broonzy, Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley and not really knowing anything about the geography or the culture of the music. But for some reason it did something to me – it resonated.

“Then I found out later that they were black and they were from the Deep South, and that started my education. In fact the only education I ever really had was finding out about blues. I took a kind of elementary fundamental education in art, but it didn’t rivet my attention in the same way blues did.

“I was in it to save the world. I wanted to tell the world about blues and to get it right.”

“I wanted to know everything. I spent all of my mid to late teens and early twenties studying this music; studying the geography of it, the chronology of it, the roots, the different regional influences, how everybody inter-related, how long people lived, how quickly they learnt things, how many songs they had of their own and what songs were shared around…

“I mean I was just into it, you know? I was learning to play it as well and trying to figure out how to apply it to my life. I don’t think I took it that seriously, because when we’re young we don’t; it was only when other people showed an interest that I realised that I could make a living out of it.“

What about the guitar, though? When did you first hear the instrument and think to yourself: “That’s what I want to play?”

“I think on the early Elvis records and Buddy Holly – when it was clear to me that it was an electric guitar, then I wanted to get near it. I was interested in the white rock ‘n’ rollers until I heard Freddie King – and then I was over the moon. I knew that was where I belonged – finally. That was serious, proper guitar playing and I haven’t changed my mind ever since.I still listen to it and I get the same boost now that I did then.“

What was it like for you when you started playing in clubs for the first time and what was the general standard of guitar playing like then?

“Well, anybody that had any idea of how to play any instrument could just about hold their own because there was no competition; there was no one around. There were only a handful of bands, and anyone that could play Sam & Dave, Stax and Motown was a master.

I grew up playing in clubs – that’s my spiritual stomping ground

“I came from the blues, so to my way of thinking I had a grasp of that kind of thing. To my reckoning R&B came from the blues so I felt I was in some kind of inner sanctum, mentally or spiritually. If you could play anything in a halfway convincing fashion you were the boss and there were so few of us.

“And if you were pretty good, you could work all the time and get fairly well paid; you were successful.“

Do you harbour any romance for that period at all? Was it Mark Knopfler who said that in some ways he misses the old days where you could turn up at a club with an amp and a guitar and just do a gig?

“Yeah, that’s true, although I don’t picture myself doing that these days. It’s funny for me now to think of walking into a club and seeing another band play. I do it every now and then and it all comes back to me and I feel like this is where I belong. I mean, I grew up playing in clubs – that’s my spiritual stomping ground.“

Let’s talk about the whole ‘Clapton is God‘ thing that happened during the late 1960s. Were you uncomfortable with that?

“I thought it was quite justified to be honest with you. [Laughs] I suppose I felt I deserved it for the amount of seriousness that I’d put into it. I was so deadly serious about what I was doing – I thought everyone else was either in it just to be on Top of the Pops or Ready Steady Go, or to score girls or for some dodgy reason.

“I was in it to save the world. I wanted to tell the world about blues and to get it right. Even then I thought that I was on some kind of mission, so in a way I thought, ‘Yes, I am God; quite right‘. My head was huge. I was unbearably arrogant and not a fun person to be around most of the time because I was so superior and very judgmental. I didn’t have time for anything that didn’t fit into my scheme of things.“

People assume you were with The Yardbirds or The Bluesbreakers for a long time, but it was a matter of months in both cases…

“I went through all those things very quickly. I mean, Cream was like a year and a half, and even with John Mayall, I was only half there. I was so unreliable, so irresponsible. I would sometimes just not show up at gigs and that’s how Peter Green was asked to play with John – because I wasn’t there.

“I went to see John last year [1993] to actually make amends; I looked back and realised how badly I’d behaved.“

Cream was meant to be a blues trio, yeah. I just didn’t have the assertiveness to take control. Jack and Ginger were the powerful, dominant personalities in the band

How does Cream fit in to your perspective? It must have been a very intense 18 months?

“It was very intense and it actually seems like we were together for three or four years. My overall feeling about it now is that it was a glorious mistake. I had a completely different idea of what it would be before I started it and it ended up being a wonderful thing, but nothing like it was meant to be.“

It was meant to be your band, wasn’t it?

“It was meant to be a blues trio, yeah. I just didn’t have the assertiveness to take control. Jack and Ginger were the powerful, dominant personalities in the band; they sort of ran the show and I just played. I just went with the flow in the end and I enjoyed it greatly, but it wasn’t anything like I expected it to be at all.“

In the Cream period you virtually ran the whole gamut of Gibsons: your Firebird, 335, Les Pauls, SGs – the very famous psychedelic SG. Were there any particular favourites?

“I’ve still got that 335 and I love it – I still get it out every now and then. The 335 was a big favourite and that particular Firebird, I had some great times on that; the single pickup produced a fantastic sound.

“I think that SG went through the Cream thing just about the longest, it was really a very, very powerful and comfortable instrument because of its lightness and the width and the flatness of the neck. It had a lot going for it – it had the humbuckers, it had everything I wanted at that point.“

Looking back now, are you able to put all of your early stuff into context objectively? Can you look back at the player you were then and think, “Yeah, that was okay“, or, “That was a bit dodgy?“

“Yes, fairly. I think all of it was okay until drugs and drink got involved. I don’t think my facility as a player has really got much better or worse. I mean, I’ve just finished doing a blues tune, a Freddie King song, and it doesn’t sound that much stiffer or that much faster than when I was doing John Mayall or Cream – a bit more fluent, a bit more confident maybe.

“But what’s clear to me is that then I was much more in touch with the actual making of music – as I am now – and there was this long bit in between where I was more inclined to just get out of it. It was at some point towards the end of the sixties and all the way through the seventies – I was out, you know? I was kind of on holiday, and being a musician was my way of making the money to be on holiday.“

You toured a hell of a lot in the seventies…

“Toured and recorded and got out of it. I had a great time, but it was all fairly directionless. I mean, I don’t regret any of it. To be honest, I think there was no other way for me to go, in a way. I’m just very grateful that I survived it and didn’t die because I was often in some very seriously dangerous situations with booze and drugs.

By learning too much from the later players, you don’t have that much opportunity to make something original.

“I used to do crazy things that people would bail me out of and I’m just grateful that I survived. But the music got very lost; I didn’t know where I was going and I didn’t really care. I was more into just having a good time and I think it showed. I think I got fairly irresponsible and there were some people who liked it and others who got very pissed off.“

That period ended dramatically around 1984/85. Suddenly there were projects like Edge Of Darkness and the Roger Waters album The Pros And Cons Of Hitch Hiking, but it was probably Live Aid that was responsible for re-establishing you in many people’s minds. Did the reaction surprise you?

“Yeah. I’m not sure even I was able to take it all in. I’ve always been a very, very self-effacing or low self-worth sort of person. When they told me where I was on the billing I didn’t get it – I thought, ‘What? Really?‘ That did a lot for me.

“And that reception – it was mindblowing. From that point I started to give myself a bit more of a pat on the back and be kind to myself.“

Do you have any advice for today’s players?

“Yeah – listen to the past. I’ve run into a lot of players in the last 10 or 15 years who didn’t really know where it was coming from. They thought it came from Jimmy Page or they thought it came from Jeff Beck or they thought it came from Buddy Guy or that it came from BB King.

“Well, it comes from further back and if you go back and listen to Robert Johnson, Blind Blake, Blind Boy Fuller, Blind Willie Johnson and Blind Willie McTell, there are thousands of them who all have something which led to where it is now.

“The beauty of it is that you can take one of those things and make it yours. But by learning too much from the later players, you don’t have that much opportunity to make something original.

“I listened to King Oliver and I listened to Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, John Coltrane, Archie Shepp… I listened to everything I could that came from that place that they call the blues but, in formality, isn’t necessarily the blues.“

Eric Clapton Backless (1978)

From culturesonar.com

From the photo, I couldn’t tell if the guy was sitting on my grandmother’s living room sofa or the one in my basement. Didn’t really matter. The man oozed 70s cool: perfect hair, beard, collared shirt, blue jeans, side zip boots. With legs crossed, guitar resting across his lap, his relaxed repose seemed a nod to the effortless nature in the way he handled his instrument. As I stood in Sound Warehouse carefully studying the cover of Eric Clapton’s 1978 Backless album, I concluded that the man in the photo, hands down, was simply the coolest guy I’d ever seen.

Clapton’s success in the sixties was largely lost on me, a tad bit before my time. But his 1977 release, Slow Hand, put Eric Clapton on my radar. Music fans wanting to relive album releases of 1978 certainly have plenty to sort through. Van Halen released their debut album, an absolute game-changer. Bob Seger recorded Stranger in Town. Springsteen, Costello, The Rolling Stones, and The Cars all released classics. Blondie, Devo, The Clash, Talking Heads, and The Police got in on the action as well. If you’re looking to fill out a “best of” album list for 1978, Clapton’s Backless album would certainly not make the cut. Heck, most Eric Clapton fans wouldn’t put Backless on a list of the best Clapton albums. But as I stood in my favorite record store that day in 1978, flipping through albums in the bargain bin section, I couldn’t resist buying a “cut-corner” copy of Backless for the deeply discounted price of two whole dollars.

Back home in my room, safely surrounded by my blacklight posters and MAD magazine collection, I peeled the plastic off my new record and did what I always did: examine every square inch of the album. Pictures, liner notes, acknowledgments, record sleeve, label…all of it. “Special thanks to Chris Youle for use of the sofa.” How cool is that? Clapton thanked his sofa guy! Without a doubt, the coolest part of the packaging had to be the faux leather that ran up and down each edge of the gatefold. How much extra does it cost to make an album cover look, and feel, like a book from the Time-Life encyclopedia series, The Old West? Remember those? The encyclopedias covered in fake cowhide that came boldly embossed with gold lettering.

Looking back, it’s sometimes hard to figure out how a few albums from our youth end up sticking with us. Backless sneaked into my life by being a record that nobody else wanted. How could that even be? Let’s be clear, Backless is a marvelous collection of songs. Clapton opens side one with a melodic rendition of Bob Dylan and Helena Springs’, “Walk Out in the Rain.” It’s a song Clapton still pulls out from time to time when he performs live.

Clapton sounds so vulnerable on “Tell Me That You Love Me” that you might mistake him for a kid in his 20s. “Promises,” the album’s highest-charting single, as well as its B-side, “Watch Out for Lucy,” channel Slow Hand’s successful sound as if by design. It’s hard to figure out why those two tracks alone didn’t push the release to greater success. And then there’s Clapton’s cover of “Tulsa Time,” released around the same time as the Don Williams’ version went soaring to #1 on the Country Charts. In 1980, Clapton’s live performance of “Tulsa Time” would break into the Billboard Hot 100.

As underappreciated as Backless may be, it’s hard not to acknowledge what it delivered. Clapton’s fascination (turned obsession) with the Oklahoma musicians that became part of his sound as a solo artist, drove the musicianship of his recordings. JJ Cale, Bob Dylan, Danny Flowers, Marcy Levy, as well Clapton’s own work prop Backless with a Who’s Who of songwriting talent. Glyn Johns, who also produced Slow Hand, did a masterful job of sorting through the talent at his disposal and, in the end, made a delightful and supremely enjoyable record.

If Slow Hand upped the ante for Clapton, then perhaps Backless, as a follow-up release, didn’t deliver. It didn’t sell as anticipated (so many cut-corners) and the critical reviews were mediocre at best. Dave Marsh wrote in Rolling Stone, “Me, I made my peace with great expectations a while back. I like the new LP, but it wouldn’t make any difference if I didn’t.”

I suppose when I bought my copy of Backless, my expectations and Dave’s were quite different. Marsh seemed to expect too much. My expectations were stacked on the back of a cool photo, rich Corinthian leather (not), and a two-dollar price tag. In the end, none of that mattered. As a high school kid in the late 70s, I was more interested in the sound of Styx, Boston, Foreigner, and Tom Petty than I was Eric Clapton. Yet, we all have our exceptions.

Simply put, I will always enjoy listening to Backless. My “cut-corner” copy wore out. So did my 8-track. Both replaced, treasured, and pulled out on lazy Sunday afternoons. Sometimes, I think I’m the only one still listening.

John Mayall – Blues Breakers with Eric Clapton (1966) – Classic Music Review

From altrockchick.com

Before I shower Eric Clapton with encomia, allow me to point out that there were a few other guys who had something to do with making Blues Breakers with Eric Clapton (BBEC from now on) one of the most enjoyable blues records around. The rhythm section of Hughie Flint and John McVie is rock-solid, handling the in-flight rhythm changes featured in several tracks with relative ease. Many of the rhythmic changes appeared in the original version of the cover songs, but here they help enhance a pattern of sonic diversity that characterizes the album, where each track serves as one tile in a multi-faceted mosaic of varying dynamics, tempos, instrumentation and recording approaches. Blues Breakers has far more diversity than the typical blues album, and if you ever get into an argument with someone who claims the blues is a highly limited form of music, this is the album you want to use to counter that argument. In the right hands, blues is a happy marriage of the familiar and the unexpected, and Blues Breakers reminds you of the innate flexibility and extensive possibilities of the genre.

Though Clapton has garnered well-deserved attention for his contributions, much of the credit for the album’s timeless listenability goes to the master of ceremonies, Mr. John Mayall. Doing his best imitation of Peter Sellers, Mayall played multiple roles—songwriter, arranger, organist, pianist, lead singer, harmonica player, second guitar, facilitator—and he was also the guy who thought it was a good idea to bring in a horn section on a few tracks to strengthen the links to Chicago blues. His unflagging enthusiasm for the music infuses the album with energy while setting a high bar for excellence in execution.

And speaking of excellence . . . BBEC was more than Eric Clapton’s coming out party. When you listen to the track that convinced Mayall, McVie and Flint that Clapton would be a good fit for the band (The Yardbirds’ “Got to Hurry”), you hear a highly competent, comparatively nimble lead guitarist who has obviously spent some time studying the work of the great blues guitarists—a solid performance but hardly game-changing. On BBEC, the power and clarity of his sound is shocking, especially when considered in the context of his times; the only comparison I can offer is the early solo work of Louis Armstrong with the Hot Fives, where the cornet sounds like full-on sunshine breaking up a dark, cloudy day. Just as jazz would never be the same after Armstrong, Clapton’s work here redefined and expanded the role of lead guitarist, leading to multiple generations of guitar heroes (and a whole lot of wannabes). The sound from that Les Paul plugged into a prototype Marshall on overdrive was stunning in itself, but even more importantly from a musical perspective was the quantum leap in Clapton’s phrasing skills—like the great lead singers, he frees himself from the tempo and plays to the feel of the song instead of always trying to be a good student and hit the right notes at the right time.

One note about the source recordings: the album was recorded during the time of transition from stereo to mono. The original album came out in mono; there was a stereo release in selected countries a few years later. I personally don’t think you get all that much from the stereo version, as Mike Vernon did a fabulous job producing the album, but they’re your ears, so go with what sounds best to you.

The Otis Rush piece “All Your Love” serves as a good warm-up number, delivered in a slower tempo than the Rush original and without the horn support that makes Otis’ version an incredibly sexy dance number. Without the horns and the more assertive drums of Rush rendition, it falls upon Clapton to shoulder the load, and he starts out with straight-up supporting fills in response to Mayall’s vocal. His moment in the sun is counter-intuitive—he gives his nimble left hand a rest and gives us a deliciously slow, lingering arpeggio in the luscious, thick tone made possible by the Les Paul-Marshall combination. The sound is so fascinating that Clapton actually slows down, falling behind the beat, savoring each and every note like he’s sampling a vintage Château Margaux, letting each sustain fully run its course until the full chord slide that heralds the ending of this magical moment. The band then shifts to double-time, where Clapton snaps out of his sonic reverie and lets it rip.

“All Your Love” is just the foreplay that leads to the orgasmic experience of “Hideaway,” the Freddie King number that inspired young Eric to take up the guitar. Both the original and the tribute are instrumental masterpieces designed to brighten your mood and get you to shake your fanny, legs and whatever else you’ve got. The essential difference between the two is in the attack—Freddie takes a more laid-back approach, leaving more room for the rhythm section to drive the song, whereas Clapton sees it as his opportunity to leave it all on the field. After years of intense practice and deep study of guitar and scales, and following the ultimately dissatisfying experience with The Yardbirds, Clapton finally found someone in John Mayall who was more than willing to give him the chance to release his incredible potential. On “Hideaway,” Mayall made sure that the rhythm section (Mayall on organ, McVie on bass, Flint on drums) provided a solid foundation while doing nothing to draw attention to themselves, rather like the foundation of the house that does its work with invisible efficiency. This is Clapton’s moment in the spotlight, and he fucking nails it.

The solo integrates the prominent patterns of the original, all presented with more oomph thanks to the Les Paul-Marshall sound. The first verse is pretty close to Freddie’s version, but Clapton’s greater dexterity is clearly audible in the additional notes contained within the runs and the quick full chord downslide that doesn’t appear in the original. At this point, I’ve already concluded that the teenage guitar players of my dad’s era who wanted to emulate Clapton after hearing “Hideaway” were the most hopelessly naïve human beings our species has ever produced: they simply didn’t have a fucking chance. In the second verse, Clapton follows Freddie’s lead and clips his notes; the difference is that Clapton not only varies his attack but produces a greater number of notes to clip. When we arrive at the “catchiest” phase of the song, Clapton plays the slower boogie-woogie variant riff with absolute precision, letting the fat sound carry the load. When we return to the verse structure, the two versions take different paths, with Freddie staying down low and Clapton letting it rip. On the next verse, Clapton plays tribute to the original by duplicating the partial chord attack but while Freddie disappears into the rhythmic support role, Clapton uses those bars to add a set of very tasty riffs. Mayall’s band executes the boogie-woogie stutter on the next segment with greater precision than Freddie’s combo, with Clapton backing off to reproduce the main theme. At this point, Freddie repeats the first verse pattern whereas Clapton launches an all out assault that leads to some of the sweetest high note bends on record, finishing up with yet another extraordinary rush high on the fretboard. I invariably want to scream when this piece ends because it’s so damned short (a little over three minutes) and like a great orgasm, I wish the experience would go on forever.

In the Mayall original “Little Girl” we hear some of the best band work on the album, spiced with a couple of in-transit duets that knock my socks off. The first is the opening duet featuring Mayall on organ and Clapton on lead where they match each other note for note before heading in separate supporting directions. The second comes at the start of Clapton’s solo, when John McVie steps out of the shadows and supports Clapton’s pizzicato attack with some of his own before both guys start flying all over their respective keyboards. McVie remains prominent for the rest of the song, and lo and behold, Hughie Flint slipped in some shimmering cymbal work while Mike Vernon wasn’t looking (Vernon had allegedly instructed Hughie to stick to the high hat). All things considered, “Little Girl” is probably the best ensemble number on the album.

Unfortunately, it’s also one of John Mayall’s most regrettable compositions. This is one of two rescue songs on the album, both written by Mayall, and both display to varying degrees the obtuseness of the unenlightened men of the era who never really got their heads around the immense socio-cultural impact of The Pill. “Little Girl” is the worst offender, and how you measure its offensiveness depends entirely on whether or not you insert or omit a comma between the words “love” and “child.”

I’m gonna give you a love, child, you won’t feel bad again
OR
I’m gonna give you a love child, you won’t feel bad again

Since the magical effect of one fuck is unlikely to last a lifetime, the more plausible interpretation dispenses with the comma, because when you have a kid, well, it’s a lifetime kind of thing. Here are the full lyrics, sans comma:

You’re gonna be mine, little girl, you’ve been through 18 years of pain (2)
I’m gonna give you a love child, you won’t feel bad again

You’ve been mistreated, little girl, but I swear, I swear it’ll be outgrown (2)
I’m gonna give you a love child, something you’ve never known

You’re gonna be mine, little girl, even if I can’t have you by my side
You’re gonna remember the love child, that made you satisfied (2)

Wait . . . what? Let me try to get my head around this. You’re going to cure my PTSD—no doubt the result of a lifetime of male-initiated abuse—by knocking me up and then hitting the road? So, going through the physical trauma of childbirth and becoming a single mother with non-existent self-esteem and no source of income is supposed to make me feel better? Really? You really think that? Well, sonny, you better hit that fucking road right now because I’m about to kick your nuts so hard you’ll never make an appearance inside any woman’s pussy as long as your sorry ass inhabits this earth . . . which I hope won’t be for very long.

Even if you insert the comma, it really doesn’t change the interpretation much. Any man who thinks he’s such a stud that he can transform a woman’s future with a one good fuck is a narcissistic asshole who deserves a good whack in the balls as much as the love child guy. We have too many of those assholes in the gene pool already.

Mayall does much better when he changes the subject to the cherished Southern tradition of sending black men to jail on little more than a racist whim. “Another Man” is extreme Delta style—harmonica, vocal and hand clapping, no guitar. The song conjures up the image of a man crouching in the cotton fields sharing the latest news with his friend once the overseer is out of sight—“another man done gone . . . he’s on the county farm . . . I didn’t know his name” are all the words we need to put the story together, a tale of intimidation and oppression where your best chance of survival means knowing nothing and saying less. We’ll hear a second exploration of this theme on Side 2 with “Parchman’s Farm,” but this is a brilliant little piece by Mayall that earns him partial forgiveness for whatever the hell he was thinking when he wrote the words to “Little Girl.”

“Double Crossing Time” was allegedly written in response to Jack Bruce’s sudden flight to Manfred Mann. Rock star gossip aside, Mayall does an excellent job tinkling the ivories, with just the right amount of touch and sensitivity to the rhythmic flow. Clapton opts for a contrasting aggressive approach, bursting out of the background with a screaming solo featuring exceptionally long sustains. Mayall’s vocal mirrors Clapton’s anger, resulting in a solid and intense performance that probably helped them get over the Bruce fiasco pretty quickly.

Producer Mike Vernon really didn’t want Mayall to do “What’d I Say,” feeling that going up against Ray Charles was a losing proposition—and he really resisted the idea of a drum solo for Hughie Flint. Hughie wasn’t keen on the idea either, but Mayall argued that the song always elicited a positive response from a live audience. If that’s the case, they should have done a live recording, because this piece goes nowhere in the studio. Mayall is competent on the organ, and Hughie’s solo isn’t that bad, but it lacks the exciting spontaneity of the Ray Charles original.

Side 2 opens with a bright horn combo, the intro to our second rescue song, Mayall’s “Key to Love.” Unlike “Little Girl,” the guy isn’t itching to saddle a broad with a kid, but seems more like the hanger-on who thinks the babe will eventually change her mind and spread. My main quibble here is that the horns bury a brief Clapton solo, which contradicts the notion of Clapton as featured artist. Next up is a version of Mose Allison’s adaptation of Bukka White’s “Parchman’s Farm,” a euphemism for the Mississippi State Penitentiary. It’s actually John Mayall’s adaptation of Mose Allison’s adaptation, as Mayall chooses to drop the key closing line in Allison’s version where the convict admits he killed his wife and replace it with a repetition of the closing line of the first verse: “ain’t other done no man no harm.” I suppose that could imply “but I have done women harm,” but Mayall’s translation clearly calls out the injustice of the too-frequent occurrence of the innocent black man winding up in jail. Mayall’s musical interpretation is actually light-hearted, a speedy run through the spare tale featuring high-speed harmonica—and I love hearing John Mayall defy the physiological limits of human breathing as he attacks a harp.

The horns that open “Have You Heard” are absolutely first-rate, featuring a marvelous high-end tenor sax solo from Alan Skidmore that stretches the scale and threatens to go free-form from time to time. The horns shift to unison in Stax mode during the second verse, and unlike “Key to Love,” they balance out Clapton’s fills without drowning him out. When Clapton steps up for his solo, he is in full command of the instrument’s voicing, expressing all the pain and anguish of lost love with a combination of soul-ripping attack and high-end bends. This would compete with “Little Girl” for best ensemble piece on the album had the horns actually played with the rest of the band, but I will compliment Mayall and Vernon for some damned solid post-production work.

Eric Clapton’s debutante moment also featured his first lead vocal. Unfortunately for those who like their triumphs to arrive free of flaws and disappointments, Clapton chose to do Robert Johnson’s “Ramblin’ on My Mind,” a song requiring far more vocal talent than Clapton would ever develop. I appreciate his deep admiration of the King of the Delta Blues, but I wish he’d chosen a different way to express that admiration. Nobody does Robert Johnson like Robert Johnson.

Fortunately for the listener, Clapton steps away from the mike, grabs his Les Paul and leads the band through Memphis Slim’s “Steppin’ Out.” Here there can be no comparison to the original since Memphis Slim was a piano player, so Clapton has only the musical structure to guide him on his journey. He takes a spirited approach in contrast to the late-night naughty tone of the original, with a dazzling variety of bends, off-rhythm phrasing, licks within licks and complete command of the blues scale. Of the two songs on the album mentioned by my dad as practice pieces for budding guitarists, I think “Steppin’ Out” is the more useful lesson because of its relative faithfulness to the blues scale. Master the opening riffs and you’ve learned half of two blues scales (C and G) in one sitting! And guess what? If you keep moving your fingers up or down a fret and play the same notes, you have the essence of all the major blues scales! Amazing! It would be a really good idea if you took the time to master all the scales in their entirety and ponder how the structure of the scale gives a song a certain feel, but if you just learn the two scales on the intro, I guarantee that you won’t embarrass yourself the next time you jam with the gang and someone shouts “Blues in C!” And with lots and lots of practice, you may be able to duplicate Eric Clapton’s agility and broad understanding of music just about the time old-age arthritis sets in. Good luck!

I don’t know if it’s true that no blues album would be complete without a least one Little Walter number, but I’d be fine with that criterion. “It Ain’t Right” was a high-speed rocking blues Little Walter put together when his Chess mate Bo Diddley was making a name for himself in rock ‘n’ roll circles, and the Mayall version is pretty faithful to the original. The guitar on both versions is a frantic, barreling boogie riff that requires tremendous discipline, fast fingers and intuitive knowledge of the fretboard—a difficult proposition indeed. Clapton, of course, nails it with ease, committing himself fully to the supporting role. Mayall has a great time trying to emulate one of his harp heroes, and manages to get pretty damned close to a very high bar.

Wow! This was fun! BBEC is certainly an uplifting experience, an album of good vibes, great energy and best-in-class musicianship. John Mayall is all about the music, and I always approach a Mayall album with a positive orientation because I know he’s going to give it all he’s got and bring in musicians willing to do the same. And though I abhor the whole Clapton-is-God thing as much as he does, his performance on BBEC changed musical history, so the adulation is somewhat understandable . . . but I think the story is much more meaningful if we attribute the result to the hard work and absolute dedication of a living, breathing human being.

Eric Clapton Lady in the Balcony: Lockdown Sessions (2021)

From rockandbluesmuse.com

Rock and blues guitar legend Eric Clapton gives his fans a heartfelt career and character retrospective on his new album The Lady In The Balcony: Lockdown Sessions. Set to drop November 12th, 2021 via Mercury Studios, the mostly acoustic set was an in-studio concert performed by Clapton and his band of Nathan East (bass and vocals), Steve Gadd (drums) and Chris Stainton (keyboards). They played unplugged versions of an assortment of Clapton standards along with a selection of other blues, country, and seldom-heard original tunes.

Eric’s longtime Grammy-winning producer Russ Titelman (James Taylor, George Harrison, Brian Wilson, Randy Newman, Rickie Lee Jones) ran the session, which was captured live at Cowdray House in West Sussex, England. The results of this effort will be available in all conceivable formats, including DVD+CD, Blu-ray+CD, 4K UHD+Blu-ray, 2 LPs pressed on yellow vinyl, and a Deluxe Edition containing the DVD, Blu-ray and CD packaged in a 40-page 12” x 12” hardback photo book, digital video and digital audio. Also, a CD-only version will be available exclusively at Target.

The record was an outgrowth of Clapton’s concerts scheduled for May 2021 at the Royal Albert Hall being forcibly cancelled due to the ongoing Covid pandemic. Clapton felt that his best alternative to playing for live crowds was playing for microphones and cameras, which led to this intimate set coming into existence. EC’s views on all things Covid have generated much discussion in recent months and have been covered extensively. No matter which side of the virus issue you’re on, a new Clapton release is also worthy of discussion because of his impact and influence on the guitar community and rock music in general. As we aren’t a political blog, we feel we can acknowledge his new music here and still debate his views elsewhere.

Clapton opens with a gently-shuffling version of Bessie Smith’s 1929 standard “Nobody Knows You When You’re Down And Out” that highlights the vocal melody and story of this hard-luck hymn. This kind of early blues sound doesn’t get nearly enough attention and it’s cool to hear someone of Clapton’s stature put it up front. EC also works his acoustic magic on the Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac jam “Black Magic Woman.” He does it with a feel that references the ever-popular Santana version but converts the groove to a rough-and-tumble shuffle on the back end. Smooth and soulful, it’s everything people dig about our man Slowhand.

“After Midnight” appears in a pulsating new form that adds some muscle to this Clapton staple. Nathan East’s upright bass work is especially strong here and carries much of the vibe. Clapton’s vocals and guitar work are both tight and he grooves within the band like a master. “Bell Bottom Blues” is heartfelt and sweet, delivering some of Clapton’s most melodic playing on the record. The entire band sparkles in this mellow context and plays for the song like the pros they are.

“Rock Me” gets a lowdown, late-night articulation that lets Clapton shine while still leaving plenty of space between his notes. His unhurried lines hit a lot of happening spots in the form and his feel is timeless. “Layla” gets a gentle, almost jazzy treatment that gives it new legs and features some fine keyboard work from Chris Stainton. “Tears In Heaven” is as emotive as it’s ever been and Clapton seems to have a deeper relationship with this song in the years since the loss of his son. His always-understated style hits the mark right on and he gives the track a beautiful performance.

By the time he closes with the electrified “Got My Mojo Working,” Clapton has given us a glimpse of everything he does and is. Equal parts hardcore blues lover, expressive songwriter, bereaved father, and rock legend, Clapton is as complexly human as the rest of us and makes no bones about it. The Lady In The Balcony: Lockdown Sessions is a fun, career-spanning set that Slowhand’s faithful will be spinning all winter. Take it for a ride and see.

Eric Clapton No Reason To Cry (1976)

From rollingstone.com

With No Reason to Cry, Eric Clapton has left the Miami studio where he recently fashioned, from blues, gospel and reggae, one of the most personal and convincingly haunting sounds around. The new album was made in Los Angeles with predictable results: the carefully sculpted, spiritual style of Clapton and his band has been replaced by a series of musical formulas.

Southern California cannot be indicted for Clapton’s failure, and there’s no reason to write off all the music that emerges from Los Angeles and environs, as some would. But like many others — Bob Dylan for a while, and the Band perhaps permanently — Clapton has sacrificed much credibility in his move west. In place of a band and true collaboration, he has found only what everyone else has found in the Scene: cronyism. Because of the nature of the Scene’s buddy system it is difficult for a musician to take control of and dominate his own album. The music men make when they come together like this springs from no long term commitment, and it shows.

On both 461 Ocean Boulevard and There’s One in Every Crowd, the two studio albums recorded in Miami, Clapton’s principal achievement was his emergence as a leader. Though he wasn’t writing much, he dominated in other ways: as an arranger, as a singer (the most underestimated of his talents), as the organizer of a first-rate and often exciting band. With Layla, he had made the blues his own music, rather than a translated and transmuted idiom; the other records defined the nature of those blues; from “Willie and the Hand Jive” to “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

No Reason to Cry erodes those gains. Once again, Clapton is playing in someone else’s idiom, and though he’s too skillful to turn in a really bad performance, the result is much more mélange than masterpiece. This would not necessarily be so disastrous if what replaced those gains was more than a dead end. It is not.

Clapton’s old friends have let him down, and his new ones don’t serve him much better. Ron Wood, Robbie Robertson and Georgie Fame are here but in roles so anonymous, or interchangeable, that it’s hard to be certain where. Bob Dylan, Rick Danko and Richard Manuel leave their mark, but it’s gloomy. Dylan’s contribution, “Sign Language,” is goofy — it invokes the name of Link Wray and not much else. If anything, the song, with Dylan’s voice overwhelming Clapton’s and a sound that’s mostly polished and professionalized rolling thunder, is further evidence of Clapton’s backsliding.

Danko ought to be embarrassed: he is either inept or saving his decent songs for his solo album. “Beautiful Thing,” coauthored by Manuel, is the most banal song on an album full of them. The Clapton-Danko collaboration, “All Our Past Times,” is salvaged by their vocal trade-offs and what might be a guitar interchange between Robertson and Clapton. Otherwise, it is maudlinly sexist and pedestrian Eagles fare. Finally, we have found an Englishman even more incapable of singing country rock than the Rolling Stones.

A fine Otis Rush blues, “Double Trouble,” is the only place on the album where the sound is wholly convincing. But it is sandwiched between “Hello Old Friend,” a whimsical and silly slice of attempted innocence, and “Innocent Times,” in which the occasionally brilliant backing singer Marcy Levy tries and fails to beat Linda Ronstadt, Emmylou Harris et al. at their own game. Levy proves her worth a dozen times here, saving Dick Sims’ otherwise mediocre “Hungry” (little more than a parody of George Terry’s masterpiece 461 rocker, “Mainline Florida”), and sparking many of what graceful moments there are. But she does not have a knack for soloing, as her spot in the Clapton live shows affirms: for all the beauty in her voice, she can’t control it beyond the typical white soul shriek, and she owns no style, no sense of interpretation.

The biggest loss is Clapton’s eroticism. Since Layla, he’s made the sexiest white rock this side of Rod Stewart. But here, even the best attempt, “Black Summer Rain,” seems feeble and hollow, without the passion of Layla or the sure-handedness of 461. Although Rob Fraboni equals Tom Dowd as a producer, almost everything else in the equation that made Clapton’s last few records great has gone awry.

The ready-made cheap emotionalism of songs like “Hello Old Friend,” “Beautiful Thing” and “All-Our Past Times”; the phony egalitarianism of including Sims’ song and giving Levy a solo spot she’s not prepared to handle well; the music, which vulgarizes everything except the purest of the blues tracks; the lyrical banality and fake looseness — this is the sludge from which the Eagles and the rest of the Southern California rock factory acts make their lucrative, empty hits.

This is not an Eric Clapton album, because he’s buried under a dozen other egos. Nor is it anyone else’s album — they’re buried too. It’s a formula in the truest sense: it always works — which is to say, it’s always professional in its standard of execution — and it always works the same way. There’s no room for risk, because there’s no chance for error — except the biggest one of all, which is to take things so safely. This riskless music is invariably boring — which pretty much sums up this album. No reason to cry? But only because we’re all so damned grown-up.

Eric Clapton Back Home (2005)

From popmatters.com

Excitement, thy name isn’t Clapton, Eric. Yes, we are past the point of expecting E.C. to generate songs that would take us back to the nostalgic ’60s of Cream or the early ’70s of his Blind Faith period, or even a few years past that during his earlier solo works. We are quite aware that E.C. is, more often than not, happy to be an M.O.R.’er who puts out songs that snuggle tighter to the pop format than the rock format. And yet, we wait and we hope, because once in a blue moon, the former guitar God has dropped an uncharacteristic bombshell that makes us pine for the days of yore (From the Cradle). And with that exception, Clapton hasn’t put out an overall good (I’m not even talking great here) album since 1981’s Another Ticket. (Ironically, the smash hit from that release was “I Can’t Stand It”.)

Clapton is a lot like R.E.M. right now. You put either one in a live setting, and no matter how much a song sucks on a CD, it sounds better because all of the layering and sheen and magic tricks that can be pulled off in the studio have no chance of happening live. R.E.M.’s 2003 hits tour was one of the best of that year, simply because of the energy and lack of overproduced sound in concert. Clapton is the same way. No matter how deep his guitar is buried on a recorded version of a song, it’s at ear-level when he’s performing live. Both of these artists take too much control in the studio and tend to overproduce, giving their songs a sheen that a jackhammer couldn’t break through. And while this may appeal to some of the baby-boomer crowd, the old diehards wish for some more organic sounds. And sadly for Clapton, Back Home falls again into that shiny trap.

Clapton also seems to have reconciled that at least one or two songs on his “pop” albums have to have some of what made him so popular to begin with — his amazing guitar work. When E.C. is in the mood, he can run leads with the best of them, even today. His imagination is limitless, but more often than not, he chooses to rein it in so he can remain appealing to those older fans that are okay with the nostalgia of the Cream days, but are more in tune to the later, safer solo works.

The title Back Home is in reference to Clapton’s happiness that he has a home to return to, where his wife and three young daughters await his presence. Yet with that happiness, he still has time to bitch and moan about having three young kids in the opening track, “So Tired”. Yes, E.C. ultimately says that all this work is okay because of the presence of his kids, but if he was trying to be cute, he failed miserably. What makes the song more maddening is that it actually has a catchy melody line, and all the extra instrumentation doesn’t detract from that fact. So score one for the music, and take away a large one for the lyrics.

Most of the other songs on here are pure Pablum. If they weren’t so damn overproduced to the point of choking off much of the possibility of spontaneity, a few of them might actually be decent (and they’ll probably sound a lot better in a live setting, if that’s the way E.C. chooses to go when he does his next solo tour). Case in point: a decent rendition of friend George Harrison’s “Love Comes to Everyone” would sound so much better with less production. Compared to the rest of the album, “Lost and Found” is the grittiest song here, a blues-based number where Clapton’s playing sounds like it was released from its self-imposed prison. Likewise, the otherwise bland “One Day” jolts with a surprise killer solo in the middle break and again at the end of the song. But alas, on the very next song, “One Track Mind”, it’s back to the same old thing (though guest Robert Randolph’s restrained playing is stellar, as usual).

Two of Clapton’s old tricks are prevalent: the reggae thing, and the long, drawn-out ballad. What E.C. may not realize is that “I Shot the Sheriff” worked because it was so new and unique to him, but both “Say What You Will” and “Revolution” have no bite. A cover of the Spinners’ “Love Don’t Love Nobody” is so drawn out, hate becomes an option. “Run Home to Me” also fits that category. (A general rule is to listen to the first 15 seconds of any E.C. song that clocks in six minutes or longer. If there’s a slow tempo, avoid.)

The final cut, the title song, is the only one Clapton wrote solo (most of the others were with co-producer/keyboardist/programmer Simon Climie). It seemingly comes straight from the gut, with no middleman involved, which makes the song palatable…and believable. There’s no doubt that he is in a new place under new circumstances; good for him. However, he will forever live under the shadow of his earlier days with Cream and Blind Faith, and his formative years as a solo artist. And that shadow loomed larger when he reformed with Cream to play those four nights in London earlier this year.

What the Cream reunion did was conjure up the cynicism of old-time Clapton fans, who said that even under controlled circumstances, he can still kick major butt on guitar, but that he chooses not to do so. Clapton has taken the path of least resistance for the latter portion of his career, and though he revisits his old muse on occasion, he prefers to keep his focus on the here and now. That’s a good thing for those who prefer the current, blander Eric Clapton. But the rest of the Clapton masses have basically written him off. Back Home does nothing overall to change either opinion. Heartfelt? Yes. But who would have ever thought Eric Clapton’s music could become so disposable? Yes, he can still flash brilliant moments (and he does here), but it’s all just a tease. At one time, Eric Clapton was God. Right now, he’s not even George Burns.

Eric Clapton Sessions for Robert J. (2004)

From enjoythemusic.com

I have never really liked Eric Clapton.

But I have for a very long time liked what Eric Clapton liked, the Delta Blues, and in particular Robert Johnson, the Delta bluesman who would be more myth than fact if it were not for the incomparable legacy of recordings we were lucky enough to be left to posterity. So it was therefore with some trepidation (and the faint hope that I might actually like it) that I came to hear 2004’s Me and Mr. Johnson (Reprise, 2004). Call me prejudiced, but I was right. Immaculately recorded, perfectly played, I hated it.

Was the album a well-intentioned ‘homage?’ Or was it a cynical attempt by an already fairly well to do musician – even though he has on occasion had to sell on some of his very well used guitars and has had a life not without personal tragedy – to cash in on the myth of Johnson? Or was it my own snobbery and preference for the scratchy LP of even scratchier recordings I bought in junior high school? Or was it just that Eric Clapton’s too perfect renditions of Johnson’s less than perfect but startlingly original songs of despair, sexual longing and a deep unhappiness that belied Mr. Johnson’s relatively young age seemed false when played by Clapton? I think it is all these things.

Clapton’s renditions of Mr. Johnson’s songs are inversions. The words and the chords are the same, but the presentation is opposite. And whereas Mr. Johnson may never have had the pleasure of receiving a monthly bill from the electric company, they definitely know Clapton’s number at the local electric company. I doubt Robert J – even I am writing it that way now – even had a single piece of ID in his wallet. And I am not saying that the blues are incompatible with electric amplification – witness John Lee Hooker to name one – or cannot be played by living musicians – too many to witness here – or even that Delta Blues should be preserved in aspic. If a tradition is to continue it must be practiced. And if it is to live, it must evolve.

But you know what? I still thought it was just snobbery that prevented me from appreciating Mr. E.C. and that is why I decided to give Clapton one last chance with Sessions with Mr. J (Reprise, 2004), a CD and DVD set and I am glad I did. The CD is still a love it or hate it affair. If you love what Clapton does today, you’ll pretty much by definition love it. But what piqued my interest was firstly that I have really been enjoying music DVDs lately. Heresy I know, but I am even becoming interested in surround sound for music and not just for movies. (The Ecumenical Audiophile likes to keep an open mind.) Four things therefore attracted me to this DVD:

1.) Mr. Johnson

2.) There would be no question about the quality of the recording of either the CD or DVD. This was Mr. Clapton after all.

3.) I felt I deserved a present, it was that kind of day.

4.) Supposedly, these were out-takes that might not have the polish of the previous effort. OK. That’s four reasons.

How is it? The CD is typical Clapton. Even Clapton’s out-takes are disgustingly perfect. There is no doubt, this much is obvious, and it is a wonder that I even raise the question, that Clapton knows Johnson through Johnson’s songs inside out. I dare say that no Delta Musicologist who may or may not know more facts, such facts as there are, about Mr. Johnson, so clearly has seen into Mr. Johnson’s soul as Clapton has.

But this CD, as ever with Clapton, is a Clapton CD and it still bears all the hallmarks of that sickening perfection that all of Clapton’s later solo work embodies. Even Clapton’s Unplugged bares a gloss that would embarrass a bonnet painter at the old Aston Martin body shop. The Mr. Johnson on this album is Mr. Clapton’s Mr. Johnson. Not mine. Not yours. Not either of the Lomaxes. Not anyone other than Eric’s, which is no bad thing if you like that sort of thing and it is of course Clapton’s album.

Mainly electric, Clapton’s renditions are faithful to Clapton. Brilliant session musicianship, impeccable mastering, and absolutely on the beat. It is as if Steely Dan chose to cover W. C. Handy. Many of the Johnson’s most famous songs are here including “Kind Hearted Woman Blues,” “Traveling Riverside Blues,” “Milkcow Blues,” and “Terraplane Blues.” About as close to Robert J as I will ever come is that on my mother’s side great grandfather’s first car was a Terraplane, quite an exotic bit of machinery for Sault St. Marie I have been given to understand.

But, and this is a big butt (not quite as big as the one in Finding Nemo) the CD leaves me cold. Very cold. Where this CD/DVD combo comes to life is in the DVD. It is here where we begin to understand how Clapton has come to understand Johnson and it is at this point in the review where I become generous.

The accompanying DVD is in fact worth a view, even two. It is not as intrinsically interesting as the wonderful DVD of the Dark Side of the Moon (2003) with its delicious outtakes and interviews, but it is still worth watching. Recorded in stereo PCM, 5.1 Dolby Digital and DTS, Sessions with Robert J should accommodate the most modest to advanced setup. I watched it both in two channel and DTS, finding the DTS version far the more interesting as the mix seemed to place you not so much in the middle of the band as in the middle of the recording studio.

Interspersed between various sessions in various locations from Texas to are one on ones with Clapton exhibiting remarkable verbal insight into the songs of Mr. Johnson. Unfortunately, between the verbal insights are some of the worst and best played Johnson covers I have ever heard. Sonically, this DVD is perfect. Musically, for me anyway, it also left me cold. For anyone interested in the songs of Robert Johnson, I beg of you, beg, borrow or steal a copy of Robert Johnson in the original. Hi-fi it’s not. Music it is.