CREAM au revoir pt 2
So here I am, Spring of ’64, sitting in the ol’ Purple Onion (in Northern England), a coffeehouse; I’ve got two cigarettes and it’s a nine mile walk home. The door opens and conversation drifts quieter as everyone turns to see if it’s a “regular” who might have money.
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CREAM au revoir pt 2
So here I am, Spring of ’64, sitting in the ol’ Purple Onion (in Northern England), a coffeehouse; I’ve got two cigarettes and it’s a nine mile walk home.
The door opens and conversation drifts quieter as everyone turns to see if it’s a “regular” who might have money. No-it’s some dumbo in a buckskin jacket, thinner’n’hell, with red velvet pants. He carries a guitar case,, which means nothing ?cos most people in the “Purp” have guitars. He gets a coffee, and sits over by the staircase where the heater is-taking care to put the “box” where the heat won’t bend the strings out of tune. He doesn’t say anything to - anyone-no one says anything to him. Alan, after a while, turps around andssays “Can I try your box?”.. “Yes-alright”, replies the stranger in an accent that .says he’s from Southern England, of fairly .secure financial status, and very polite.
Alan can play ’about nine chords and two or three much practiced Steve Cropper leads which he plays, and then looks to the stranger for compliments. The whole ropiri is watching this scene because there’s^nothing else to watch when you sitin the “Purp” every day like we all did.
The skinny kid.wijth Jean asks A1 if heYever going to learn something else; and we laugh. The stranger takes his box back from Al’s fingers and .,hags §f pick frprm under the swings above the neck! He sticks his (Marette^eud onto the sharp end: of ^the ctvt-Pff bpttoni string and leans •: fbacl#into the sh^ov*$ beneath the ■■ |P^tairfco‘y all you ^e isThe tobacco ■ glow, and the thifi red trouser legs) 'pokin’ out. We listen, while, one of. the world’s greatest blues guitarists plays, just softly , to himself in the shadows. It isn’t beautiful?, if anything, the whole scene is very savage, as the sound screams but to kill the conversation. The radio is blaring, but nobody hears it Over the whimper of the shining strings. For twenty minutes, it happens. Every dejected note that anyone ever played comes zipping from the satin steel strings, and after it hits the air, it just hangs there, shivering. Then the whole thing splits, ’cos Mrs. Mac, who owns the place tells us, again, that if we have nothing better^ to do we can evacuate the' place. So the dumbo in the buckskin jacket puts dowm his box^ throws a smile at everyone and splits.
The next time I saw Eric" Clapton, he was wearing the same jacket, playing blues on the same guitar and had gotten mueh thinner. He also had two other weirdos with him. This time I knew who he was. I had followed his career up through the Yardbirds; and May all, and now he was at last with Jack and Ginger and they were ■ big enough to destroy the world and they: knew it. At first, the idea , of forming such a perfect group had been too much for the public, and it had shown through. This was a disappointing setback fqt Cream (‘‘You thought the leaden winter/WoiSd bring you down for ever” Dratleaf !Mu$ic) but instead of stooping to fhd level of the public, they had continued to play their own blues, hard and tight, and agonizingjy tortuous. ; i | So, there I was-there they, were. It’s five years^later now. ^ S M ^
I; am still arouncb-where are they?
