Please note: Clapton diehards may not want to read any further. The opinions expressed in this review do not reflect those within the enormous body of music consumers that readily throw down at least a couple sawbucks for any greatest hits compilation to have in their library songs they’ve already heard a million times before, disregarding whether or not they’re actually any good.
Revered by musicians and fans alike, knighted by the Queen of England and even worshiped by some as God, Sir Eric Clapton has certainly made a decent career for himself epitomizing the white boy plays the blues caricature. Why he has developed such a cult following through the years has always mystified me. Granted, he can lay down some awfully nice guitar work when the mood strikes, embellishing otherwise bland pop tunes with dense solos that elevate them above your standard listening fare. Evaluating his career in its entirety, however, there is a dramatic drop-off from one disc (or period) to the next. Do you really want to force yourself through the sythn drenched, completely overproduced “Pretending” off of 89’s Journeyman after you’ve been rocked by his topnotch guitar gravitas on Blind Faith’s “Presence of the Lord?” It’s this fiercely uneven quality that makes it hard for me to give this thing a higher rating. There’s nothing here that’s much of surprise other than some of the truly sappy and uncomfortable cuts that have summarized Clapton’s last few decades of recording.
Clapton started out strong. His early work with John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers as well as The Yardbirds, which is unfortunately overlooked on this release, demonstrated how he could confidently wield a serious axe in a pop/blues format, sharing the spotlight with equally talented musicians, a role he excelled in with his next group, Cream. Of the five Cream songs featured, only the opening “I Feel Free,” feels like much of an ear-opener. Yes, “Sunshine of Your Love,” “White Room,” “Crossroads” and “Badge” are signature tunes, but we’ve heard them so much already, they’ve lost a bit of their potency. Turn on any Classic Rock station while sitting in freeway traffic and you’re sure to get one within an hour’s time. If not, “Layla” will definitely be there to remind you why everyone thinks Clapton is so special, despite the fact that Duane Allman’s contributions sound better than Clapton’s, Tom Dowd’s excellent production saved the whole thing, and the song is completely defined by the piano coda, written by drummer Jim Gordan, who later, due to paranoid schizophrenia exacerbated by heavy cocaine use, bludgeoned his mother with a hammer and stabbed her to death with a kitchen knife. Didn’t see that one coming, did you?
The old standbys “After Midnight,” Dylan’s “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door,” “Cocaine,” “Wonderful Tonight” are all represented. These songs sound a lot fresher when heard in the context of their original albums, made at a time when a complete record was the overall goal of time spent in a studio. Clapton’s oft heard cover of Bob Marley’s “I Shot The Sheriff” will never come close to the original in feeling or overall delivery, but more people have probably smoked up to it thinking this lad from England was a Rasta at heart, and the Jamaican revolutionary was at least a decent song writer. Anyone for a spot of disco-reggae with a side of awkward British phrasing?
Clapton claims “I’ve Got A Rock ‘N’ Roll Heart,” on the opening track of disc two, but what happened to his balls? This song, along with “Change The World,” belong on AM radio with the likes of Gordon Lightfoot and James Taylor ditties. This is not to suggest their brand of soft pop is bad, it just ain’t rock ‘n’ roll. His big single “Tears In Heaven” off the Rush soundtrack, and further popularized by its delivery on the hit MTV Unplugged album, as we all know, was written, along with Will Jennings, about his young son’s death, and is truly sad and easily appreciated in quiet, vulnerable moments. It’s just too bad that this song again suffers from overplay, another example of Clapton churning out material that he knows will sell no matter how personal its content. Hell, my eighty year-old grandparents even own his Unplugged album. In terms of its status as generic emotive pop, “Tears In Heaven” is completely interchangeable with Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings” or, on the opposite side of feeling’s coin, “I’ve Had the Time of My Life,” from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. Is it just coincidence that these types of songs always emerge from the movies?
Just about any Clapton disciple should have a hard time with his 80’s material; every bit of it nearly theatrical in how it handles the guitar giant. There’s more audio ornamentation here (“She’s Waiting,” “Forever Man,” “It’s In The Way That You Use It,” etc.), featuring everything from backing vocals by Chaka Khan to (gasp) drum programming, than could ever be deemed necessary. Sure, it’s music of the time, but it seems to be the more gimcrack you cram in a given album, the less spectacular its result. Paging Rick Rubin…
If you hadn’t heard “Layla” enough, its slowed down Unplugged reprise proceeds “Running On Faith,” a sweet ballad that gets the intimate treatment it deserves. It’s followed by the Grammy winning song, “My Father’s Eyes,” that might as well be a Disney theme song. Yes, it’s about Clapton never meeting his father. Is this reason enough to like it? Rounding things off with the title track from “Riding With The King,” Clapton’s pairing with the greatest blues goodwill ambassador to ever play a minor chord, B.B. King, the two heavies sound like a couple guys that have paid their dues and are doing just what the title implies: riding out their fame for all it’s worth. They’re having a good, clean time, playing in an ultra modern studio that requires none of the fortitude or daring that made much of their earlier music great. These guys should have recorded together decades ago, like when Clapton, along with Steve Winwood, Charlie Watts, Ringo Starr and Bill Wyman, did with Howlin’ Wolf on The London Howlin’ Wolf Sessions released way back in ’71. That stuff captured the essence of what white English dudes could do backing a true American blues behemoth.
The remaining cuts find Clapton going back to his “roots,” a cyclical attempt by a superstar to reconnect with why he started playing music to begin with. He covers two Robert Johnson tunes “Sweet Home Chicago” and the more obscure “If I Had Possession Over Judgement Day,” both propped by the excellent ivory tickling of one Billy Preston. Again, it’s all very clean, without a touch of grit to soil the proceedings. It’s hard listening to this stuff to remember, once upon a time, the blues was considered the devil’s music, full of overt sexuality and smoking temptation. Finishing things off with “Ride The River,” Clapton brings aboard his old pal and collaborator J.J. Cale for some mellow, slick guitar work, perfect pasturage for his aging demographic.
If you want to recount a lifework in compact disc form, half of which contains material even Clapton should want to forget, here’s your ticket. My advice: Spend that same money on Blind Faith, the only album the English blues supergroup recorded, exhibiting the raw power and talent Clapton had at time when he was both accomplished and still felt challenged enough to rock for rock’s sake. I give Clapton credit for simply surviving through all his coked-out, booze swilling nonsense, but a sympathy vote will only get him so far, which is a hell of a lot farther than most musicians could ever dream of.
|