ERIC CLAPTON: A GOD, OF SORTS

Our story begins in 1964 in London, where the Yardbirds were forming. Among their members was guitarist Eric Clapton. Technically speaking, this was Clapton’s third group, having played for the Roosters and Casey Jones and the Engineers— about two week with each band. The Yardbirds, then, was Clapton’s first band of any stature. He would stay with them for about a year-and-a-half, long enough for one album and the start of Yardbird/guitarists legend, although he would not remember his tenure with particular fondness. “1 was fooled into joining the group,” he would recall within five years. After leaving the group he intended to quit the music business as well.

Within three or four years, ‘‘CLAPTON IS GOD" would be a commonly-seen scrawl in London. Obviously, quite a bit happened to Eric Clapton during those years.

According to Clapton—barely 19 years old when the Yardbirds formed —what happened is that he began to take music seriously. “I was playing what they wanted me to play,” he said about the Yardbirds, and —as he was later to show—what he wanted to play was probably somewhat more interesting.

In 1965 , 31-year-old singer and harmonica player John Mayall—later to be called “the grandfather of British rock’’— offered Clapton a job with his group, the Bluesbreakers. Mayall, whom Clapton admired for his integrity, was a conspicuous oldster in the British music scene. What’s more, he was far more inclined to experiment with music than his younger colleagues. A former art student (the eternal cliche; however, Mayall actually earned a degree), he’d become interested in the skiffle craze during the 50’s before graduating to jazz and, eventually, blues. His group was in a virtual constant state of flux, possibly a reflection of its eclectic frontman. In many ways, this confused state was a bonus; if nothing else, it would make the Bluesbreakers a veritable finishing school for many of England’s best musicians.

With Mayall, Clapton began to show a considerable promise that wasn’t evident on the several Yardbirds’ cuts he contributed to on their first American album (For Your Loue.) He candidly admitted: “At first I played exactly like Chuck Berry for six or seven months. You couldn’t have told the difference when 1 was with the Yardbirds.” In the Bluesbreakers, playing material written by many of Clapton’s early idols—old American bluesmen, particularly the bleak, uncompromising Robert Johnson—he began to show the form that would propel him to the forefront of the so-called “White Blues Revival.”

Within three or four years, "CLAPTON IS GOD" would be a commonly-seen scrawl in London.

Ever restless, Clapton would last only a year-and-a-half with Mayall, however more agreeable the circumstances were than with the Yardbirds. “They were stuck to their thing, which was playing Chicago blues,” he later recalled. As enamored with the old sound as Clapton was, he felt attracted to rock, which he regarded as “folk music contemporary.” Still, Clapton’s work with Mayall (on the Bluesbreakers LP) gave the blues a modern, electronic twist that would become enshrined in later years.

His next band catapulted Clapton to superstardom and began a shift in the texture of pop music at the same time. A three-piece, it featured Jack Bruce (who’d also touched down in the Bluesbreakers) on bass guitar and Ginger Baker, who’d played with Bruce in Graham Bond Organization, on drums. They called themselves—somewhat smugly, but not totally without credentials—Cream.

Cream was enormously successful and influential from their inception. With Bruce and Baker being regarded as virtuosos ala Clapton, they were the first of the “super groups” that would loom large during the late 60’s. (In fact, after Cream’s eventual break-up, its members seemed to gravitate from one super-group to another.)

Cream can probably best be described as a loud, somewhat blues-based group more dependent upon individual skill than a well-developed ethos. Solos lasted longer than other bands’ entire songs, and although the solos were generally technically excellent (or at least interesting) there was an aura of excess about Cream that, sadly, has never faded from popular music.

He has never managed to write with such force since, but Clapton’s personal blues on “Layla” match those of his early black American idols.

With Clapton finally loose from the Yardbirds and Mayall, he laid down some of his most spectacular licks with Cream. “Crossroads” is a good example of the fired-up flash that is associated with the band: Clapton’s guitar work is intimidating and almost brutally dominant throughout the song. However, there was another side to Cream, particularly in the studio. Away from the spectacular live shows, they proved to be fairly adept writers (and singers), and produced a number of more popt-flavored songs than they’re generally remembered for. Clapton’s “Anyone For Tennis?” was a fairly straightforward, melodic tune one could associate with the Beatles or the Rolling Stones as easily as Cream. Their second album, Disraeli Gears, was their work most slanted in this direction, and—perhaps not coincidentally —is their album that holds up the best.

The singer/songwriter in Clapton came to the fore while he was with Cream, too. Although he’d done the vocals on “Ramblin’ On My Mind” (Bluesbreakers), it wasn’t until Cream that he was—one is tempted to say forced—to venture further. Surprisingly, perhaps, he was far from a washout. He handled material like "Tales Of Brave Ulysses” (Disraeli Gears) with remarkable confidence,,and was positively brilliant on “Badge," a song that ranks with “Layla” as among his best compositions.

Unfortunately, Cream was never able to fuse the best elements of Clapton’s (and Bruce’s) songwriting, and the group faded in the clumsy, if good-humored, Goodbye album. It is difficult to assess Cream’s ultimate contribution to pop music. Clapton later said that "Cream was really a jazz group, a jazz-rock group—and the jazz part of it was what I didn’t like.” In fact, Cream had precious little to do with jazz; the listener must be as confused as Clapton on that point. In the end, it’s hard to disagree with Dave Marsh’s observation that “It is only as an influence that most of Cream’s music, so widely hailed at the time, will last. It was a good show, but it wasn’t great music.”

The blurry hype that finished Cream re-emerged in Clapton’s next group, Blind Faith. Along with Baker, Steve Winwood (from Traffic) and Rick Grech (from Family), Blind Faith was scarcely more than a place for Clapton to hang his hat. The group produced one dismal (but commercially successful) album and an equally uninspired tour before disbanding from apparent mutual disinterest. “The heart and core of what Blind Faith could have done was all wrapped up in the time before we were actually exposed,” Clapton said. The super-group stranglehold had indeed grasped Clapton; it is to his credit that he eventually managed to break its insidious grip.

It was on Blind Faith’s American tour that Clapton hooked up with Delaney and Bonnie, a gospel-ish act, and part of the seeming Family of Rock Stars that had emerged by the end of the 60’s. He joined them on tour as a sideman (or one of the “Friends” as they were known in Bramlett circles) along with, most notably, Dave Mason. After touring with the Bramletts (in what can only be imagined as a playing vacation for a guitarist of Clapton’s stature), Clapton put out his first solo album, a disappointing effort best remembered for “After Midnight” (written by J.J. Cale, not Clapton). He was still working closely with Delaney at the time; it’s interesting to recall Delaney’s judgement of Clapton’s guitar-playing: “To me, Eric plays guitar like a black man. He’s the only person I know that does that.”

After this hiatus-of-sorts, Clapton settled back into a full-fledged group, one that would rank just below Cream in his personal history. The group was Derek and the Dominoes and—although practically as short-lived as Blind Faith—they produced a remarkable album, Lay/a, that remains Clapton’s most definitive work.

Literally fronting a band for the first time in his career, Clapton’s personal life was in a state of disarray by the time Lay/a was recorded. His involvement with Patti Harrison, the wife of his friend and fellow musician George Harrison, had evidently taken a serious toll on him and he began using heroin. From the album—and particularly the title track—it’s clear that Clapton was writing, singing and playing with a passion unknown to his previous records. “Layla" itself is a wrenching, mature work that bares Clapton’s soul with chilling clarity. He has never managed to write with such force since—few, in fact, ever have or ever will—but Clapton’s t personal blues on “Layla” match those of 'his early black American idols. Although the song overshadowed the album as a whole, other cuts—notably “Bell Bottom Blues” and Jimi Hendrix’s “Little Wing”— were far better than anything he’d done in years. And — sad to note—would do in years.

With only Lay/a and an inevitable live album to their credit, Derek and the Dominoes vanished with the haste of any Clapton venture. Clapton, said to be addicted to heroin, dropped out of sight for several years, and seemed destined to be a fond memory rather than a viable force in rock. And 1973’s The Rainbow Concert, a dreary live set, didn’t help in the least.

In mid-1974, however, he re-emerged with 461 Ocean Boulevard, a more laid-back, introspective album that signalled the beginning of a new stream of workmanlike, yet essentially unsatisfying records from Clapton. His cover of “Willie And The Hand Jive” showed the beginning of his interest in reggae, an interest that would culminate in a pat-cover hit of “1 Shot The Sheriff.” Yet—it would seem — Lay/a had virtually drained him of musical passion and stunning originality.

Albums like There's One In Every Crowd, E.C. Was Here, and Slow hand (a faintly ridiculous reference to his Yardbird nickname) were typical of his mid-to-late 70’s work. In general, none of these albums showed any of Clapton’s inspired blues-riffing, but rather were crammed with soft covers and plodding originals. As a “name,” Clapton is remembered and revered; as an artist he is—like the groups he passed through so quickly—of small consequence.

There is something puzzling about Clapton’s career. He was undeniably as influential and probably as talented as Jimmy Page, but he will never be remembered as Page. Perhaps his inability to remain with one working group—Cream being the obvious choice—has been his major problem. Guitarists have been notoriously poor rock solo acts; only Jimi Hendrix comes to mind as having the overwhelming ability and showmanship to carry a group single-handedly. (Oddly enough, the reverse seems to be true for songwriters and, particularly, singers. From Elvis Presley and Little Richard to Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, Jim Morrison, and even John Lydon, vocalists have always seemed far more capable than guitarists in this sense.) In the final analysis, Clapton must be regarded as a failure—of sorts. His spurts of brilliance were never followed through in the way Beatles followed up Rubber Soul with Revolver. His failures were merely dreary, unlike the daring failures of less talented musicians, e.g., Satanic Majesties.

Still, in the case of Eric Clapton, one is tempted to say that his reputation superceded his ability to deliver. Never as awesome as Hendrix, as shrewd as Page, or as innately gifted as Beck, he carved a niche of some importance in rock history. “Eric Clapton Is God,” the graffiti used to read, but the words still sound better than the evidence.