A reluctant guitar god

Clapton: An Autobiography

By Eric Clapton

Broadway Books, 342 pages

Available at Powerbooks

This may be a bit blasphemous, but I’ve never considered British guitarist Eric Clapton to be God. Not even a god. Despite the graffiti that started decorating Tube station walls in London in the mid-‘60s (“Clapton is God”), I’ve always had a take-it-or-leave-it response to Clapton’s work, particularly his solo stuff, finding the other two pillars of the British guitar hero trilogy — Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck — to be more innovative.

Granted, his work with John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers was as pure as British blues would ever get. His channeling of Freddy King, Albert Lee, Buddy Guy and Otis Rush was uncanny. His Yardbirds stay was short, but his stint in Cream led to fresh, new directions in the evolution of the noodling rock solo. For good or bad.

Clapton reached a down-in-the-depths artistic climax with the band Derek and the Dominos, laying down searing songs like Layla, which detailed his longing for another man’s (George Harrison’s) wife.

Yet, what becomes clear in Clapton: The Autobiography is that E.C. was never really all that prepared to become a frontman, a rock star or a guitar hero, and certainly not ready to step into God’s shoes. Clapton was one of those British musicians with a decent voice, fine songwriting skills and exceptional guitar talent — yet who always found it a bit uncomfortable taking the lead in his many rock guises. Always the sideman — in projects with Mayall, Jack Bruce and Steve Winwood, and even adopting the alias of “Derek” — he seemed a shade reluctant to hog the limelight. Possibly he’s the biggest underachiever in rock history.

This is not meant as criticism. What Clapton: The Autobiography makes clear is how the guitarist’s family history (his mom abandoned him as a war baby; he was raised by his grandmother who didn’t let on about her identity) shaped him into a man who should have had therapy as early as age eight. Instead, he grew up like most boys in the British ‘50s and ‘60s, enchanted by rock ‘n’ roll and, more deeply, American blues artists. He had his first guitar at age 13 (a German acoustic Hoyer), and moved on to electric bands by age 16. Shy, uncertain around girls (and later, women), Clapton was able to hide himself away onstage, where the guitar did all the talking.

Yet he was no shrinking violet. I’m not sure if it’s his intention, but Clapton comes off as kind of an a-hole in the first 100 pages of this book. In the style of the times (the ‘60s), he was chauvinistic toward women, surly and distant with his mates, and formed an early attachment to intoxicants: first alcohol, then whatever chemical or weed passed his way during the decades. Clapton describes being stoned through most of the key moments in rock history: during the famous Concert for Bangladesh charity event staged by George Harrison, he says he was on smack. Doesn’t remember a thing. Same with Live Aid.

Constantly, Clapton comes off (or chooses to depict himself) as a deeply damaged man, someone with a lot of “lost” years behind him. Sometimes he just seems like a prick. He remembers thinking of the Beatles as “a bunch of wankers” (long before befriending George), not because they lacked talent, but because, we suspect, they were potential musical rivals. When he finally woos Pattie Boyd, Harrison’s wife, over to his side, he neglects her, sleeps around, and takes to drugs and the road as often as possible. His song Wonderful Tonight (1978) may seem like a timeless love ballad, but it sprang from irritation over having to wait for his wife to dress up for dinner. And his huge hit in 1974, a cover of Bob Marley’s I Shot the Sheriff, he dismisses blithely (“I never really cared much for the song”), leading us to conclude that he recorded it merely to score a hit.

But Clapton also displays a great deal of self-deprecation: deeply insecure at times, he ducks out of situations where he might come off as second-rate. He’s willing to jump in to play on short notice, as he did with John Lennon at the ’69 Peace Festival in Toronto. But again, it seems that Clapton felt most at ease as a hired hand. As the ‘70s went on, he chose projects that downplayed his “guitar god” image: “I was trying so hard to escape the pseudo-virtuoso image I had helped create for myself.”

The closest thing Clapton felt to spirituality in those “lost” years may have been his love of the 12-bar blues. He describes it in almost mystical terms, saying he would sit down with Jimmy Reed records as a kid and learn the riffs note for note, playing the same record over and over: “I worked at it until it felt like it was part of my metabolism.”

There are harrowing moments in the book, as when Clapton first kicks heroin, only to hit the bottle twice as hard. A confirmed alcoholic, he agrees to enter Hazeldon, a rehab clinic. But before arriving by plane he “drank the plane dry,” afraid that he would never taste alcohol again. This is a brave thing to admit, and as Clapton advances, we start to see how an old sot like Clapton can actually become reborn. But it’s not that simple: there are relapses, terrible middle-of-the-road solo albums — even working with Phil Collins! There is the theory that Clapton only recorded worthy material while he was in pain, but this theory is not supported by the slew of faceless albums he produced in the ‘70s and ‘80s, while still messed up and deeply in pain.

One of the most devastating chapters in Clapton’s life involves his illegitimate son Conor, a boy produced from a long-term fling with an Italian woman. The four-year-old died after falling out of a Manhattan apartment building window (Clapton was not present at the time), a deeply tragic event leading to the massive hit song, Tears in Heaven. While such melodies do seem to spring from enormous tragedy, Clapton displays a touch of bitterness when the song becomes a kind of MTV Unplugged staple: “That (Unplugged album) was the cheapest to produce and required the least amount of preparation and work. But if you really want to know what it actually cost, go to Ripley, and visit the grave of my son.”
He goes on: “I think that’s why it was such a popular record; I believe people wanted to show their support for me, and those who couldn’t find any other way bought the album.” Maybe. Or it could just be that it was a strong, affecting song.

By the end of Clapton, we get a picture of a man who’s claimed his life for the first time; he’s finally able to enjoy the pleasures of family (finally marrying a woman half his age in 1999 and having three daughters), tour with people he likes (even reuniting with Cream for a string of shows), honor his musical heroes (tribute albums with B.B. King, J.J. Cale and to Robert Johnson), organize charity events and the Crossroads Guitar Festival, and even fund a rehab clinic (also called Crossroads) to help others recover.

Clapton, now in his 60s, has seen a lot of his contemporaries drop dead to the ravages of a past era; some merely gave out or faded away. He’s still there, still playing, still standing, still getting accolades. An elder statesman from an iconic rock era, E.C. is the first to admit he’s not God. Not even a guitar god, maybe. Just a man, touched by music. And that’s plenty good enough.