The new Eric Clapton record, titled simply I Still Do, begs a smartass question: did he ever?
Now that Clapton’s semi-retired and in his early 70s, he’s quietly transitioned into something of an elder statesman of rock music. He’s in his fifth decade of making music, but largely he’s stayed in the same lane: blues-based licks, restrained guitar workouts, and large dashes of influence from the American south. His accolades are impeccable: a key part of three legendary bands, several iconic songs, and enough awards to fill anybody’s bookcase.
At the same time, Clapton’s something of an unlikable guy.
A racist tirade of his on-stage inspired the formation of Rock Against Racism. He abused drugs and booze, losing large parts of his creative peak in excess and hedonism. Hell, he even broke up George Harrison’s marriage – although, somehow, Harrison wasn’t just okay with that, he was in Clapton’s wedding party. The very rich are very different, as they say.
Of course, the biggest knock – and the elephant in the room people don’t like to mention – is Clapton’s apparent reluctance at truly embracing his talent and going all-in. This is the guy whose solo records constantly turn towards the middle-of-the-road and stabs at appealing to everyone, someone whose most iconic songs are usually covers and chafes at the spotlight, seeming happiest when he’s just part of the band.
All of which goes back to the smartass remark: did he ever? And if he did, what was it exactly that he did? To get there, it’s necessary to go back and figure out how we ended up at this point.
About 50 years ago, Cream released their debut record, Fresh Cream. So named because they were considered the cream of blues rockers in 60s England, they were one heck of a power trio. They were also super young: Ginger Baker was the group’s oldest musician at 26; Clapton was just 21. But even by then, he’d built up quite a reputation: he’d been a standout in both The Yardbirds and with John Mayall’s band previously.
Which makes his time in Cream kind of odd: they were a blues band, sure, but they were a hard-rocking, psych-rock group also. Their studio records were very 60s: Clapton’s slashing guitar and a pummeling rhythm section powered the music, but songs like “White Room,” “Tales of Brave Ulysses,” and “I Feel Free” dripped with psychedelic lyricism and playing.
Live, Cream was a different kind of monster. Playing instruments covered in trippy paint schemes, they re-invented their songbook on a nightly basis. Their cover of Howlin’ Wolf’s “Spoonful” was regularly stretched out to ten-plus minutes and originals like “Toad” were powerful full-band workouts. After a few years of heavy touring, Cream broke up in 1968, everyone citing creative exhaustion. It wouldn’t be the first time Clapton split: he also left the earlier mentioned bands as they achieved popularity.
This would’ve been the ideal time for him to record a solo record, but Clapton wouldn’t do that for a few years. Between the demise of Cream and 1970’s Eric Clapton, he tried to be just a band member, first in Blind Faith (who lasted all of one record), as part of The Plastic Ono Band and then with Delaney and Bonnie. And shortly after releasing his debut, Clapton pulled another fast one, sliding into the lineup of Derek and the Dominoes, where he insisted he was just another member of the band. He’d fade into a haze of drug abuse and “retirement” shortly after.
It’s a pattern showing Clapton’s reluctance to be in the spotlight, even as his talent and ability all but pushed him there.
He was arguably the most talented member of all of those bands, but he tried to keep a low profile, eventually seeking escape in drugs and booze. He’d eventually become a solo star in the mid-70s, but by then he was getting sloshed before shows and was often sloppy and reckless. At the same time, when everything clicked and he was in his element, he made the best music of his career between 1966 and 1974. It’s an interesting juxtaposition.
More to the point here, though, is the kind of songs Clapton played during this creative peak. Of all his most famous performances, it’s notable how few were original songs. Both “Cocaine” and “After Midnight” are JJ Cale songs, “I Shot the Sheriff” is a Bob Marley song and, obviously, “Little Wing” is by Jimi Hendrix. Indeed, the majority of his first record was co-written by Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett, while his “comeback” record 461 Ocean Boulevard is mostly covers, too.
There’s a passion apparent on just about everything from this period, from the frenzied solo on the live take of “I’m So Glad” from Goodbye, where he rips up and down the fretboard to the quick, tasteful licks on “After Midnight.”
Personally, I think a circulating instrumental outtake of “I Shot the Sheriff” shows best how his playing had evolved into slower, more nuanced lines. Instead of playing as many notes as possible, he’d gone into playing as few as possible and varying his approaches. For over six minutes, he comes at the song from several angles, cautiously backing away for the chorus. The tape cuts out abruptly and one wonders how long this jam could’ve gone on for; other circulating outtakes from this period go on for up to 20 minutes.
Now, a good 40 years after his artistic peak, Clapton has sort of lapsed into retirement.
He once said he’d quit touring when he turned 70; he’s 71 now and just finished a run of shows in Tokyo. And as noted above, he just released a new record, I Still Do.
Considering Clapton is over 70, the record is unsurprisingly restrained. There aren’t any guitar workouts or hard-driving rock tunes. Generally, the album has a late-night, jam session vibe. There’s a lot of acoustic guitar, the arrangements are laid back, and the material is covers-heavy: there are songs by JJ Cale, Skip James, and Leroy Carr, among others.
The music is nice, although unremarkable: finally, Clapton has settled into just being another guy in the band. His playing is a nice element, but with two exceptions, the music never feels distinctly his, at least in the same way albums like 461 Ocean Boulevard or Eric Clapton felt. It’s not a bad record, but it’s not a late-career masterpiece or even a reinvention; it’s a nice, if unremarkable record by a performer who’s enjoying a retirement by making the kind of music he wants, on his own terms. Mostly.
There are two moments where something comes up out of the music and takes control. The first is “I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine,” originally by Bob Dylan. This performance features a slow, hazy arrangement with a prominent accordion part (played by Dirk Powell). Clapton’s singing is slow and drawn out, his voice occasionally falling into a rasp, and his lead guitar is restrained, working around the arrangement. It’s a prime example of how his playing has completely gone into another direction, almost into minimalism. It’s reminiscent of the older bluesmen he spent a career idolizing; finally, after decades of him trying to sound like a grizzled old musician, he’s woken up to find he is one.
The other time it happens is on his cover of Robert Johnson’s haunting blues, “Stones In My Passway.” Over the years, Clapton’s cited Johnson as a major influence on his music. And indeed, he’s an artist he’s never shied away from covering; “Crossroads” has long been a part of Clapton’s live set and a few years back, he did a tribute album of Johnson’s music.
Eric Clapton’s approach approach to Robert Johnson’s music is really something of his career in a nutshell.
Earlier in his career, he arranged Johnson’s sparse, dusty blues into loud, bombastic rockers. Later, he stripped away the excesses and played them straight: there’s a version of this song where it’s just Clapton and an acoustic guitar, a nice performance in it’s own right, but also one seeming too respectful. Now, he’s settled into something halfway between the poles, a performance with one foot in either camp.
Here, he presents the song as a stomping electric blues. He shouts and moans Johnson’s lyrics against a beat punctuated with stomps and handclaps. His guitar is mixed as loud as it gets on I Still Do, and almost battles against the music, sliding and moaning and dueling against another guitar part. For four minutes, Clapton’s music sounds as alive as it ever has: his singing leaps out of the speakers and his guitar sizzles in a way it doesn’t on the rest of the record. Maybe for Johnson’s darkest number, Clapton had to reach inside himself to do the song justice. Or maybe it’s a final tribute to a major influence.
Indeed, Johnson’s ghost lingers over not just this album, but all of Clapton’s back catalogue. We’re living in a time I doubt Johnson could’ve imagined: little pieces of glass in our pockets can conjure up all of his songs, even the ones unreleased in his lifetime, with the flick of a finger. Johnson didn’t have much money in his lifetime; his descendants once received one of the largest royalty cheques ever. And when one puts on a side of his, Johnson’s ghost comes to life, his voice leaps out in howls and shouts and his guitar sounds at once distant and familiar. It’s not just compelling, it’s music I find myself turning up louder and louder, so loud I can almost crawl inside the music and experience him like he might have been in life.
This is all about Eric Clapton, but in a sense, it also isn’t about him either.
Robert Johnson’s influence can be felt just about everywhere, from blues purists who copy his licks to classic rockers to rewrite his songs to the snarling, devil-may-care attitude almost any brash musician has. Without Johnson, there wouldn’t be an Eric Clapton and there might not be a Kanye West, either: Johnson once asked “Baby, don’t you want to go,” when describing Chicago; Kanye once told Chicago she’d always be in his heart.”
There might not be a Bob Dylan either: Dylan once mentioned he saw a copy of Johnson’s first full-length record King of the Delta Blues Singers shortly before it’s release and was awestruck by the cover, a painting looking down on a musician; within a few years, he had a copy of the record on display on the cover of Bringing It All Back Home.
So: did Clapton ever? Perhaps, although he shied away from it. Does he still?
Depends on what you mean: he’s still capable of moments of greatness, but he still has a tendency to slide into the average. Artists are like that sometimes: they breach making something powerful, but slide away and sabotage themselves. So, in a way, yes, Clapton still does – on both counts.