In his current Armani-suited, Goodbye Mr Chips-spectacled incarnation, it’s hard to recall that, back in the 20th Century, “Clapton Is God” graffiti was not uncommon. To be fair, Clapton himself never revelled in his role as Britain’s first “guitar hero”. Throughout his career, and this book, he has hovered around the limelight, appearing baffled by the interest shown in him.
On the heels of Bob Dylan’s dazzling Chronicles, and with Mick Jagger still evincing no interest in looking back, you’d have high hopes for this memoir. As a genuine living legend of the 60s, Clapton clearly has at least 57 varieties of beans to spill. He was, after all, like Zelig, always there: as a Yardbird; as superstar guitarist with John Mayall; forming Cream, the first supergroup, who were followed hot on their heels by Blind Faith; and then fading gracefully into the shadows with Derek & The Dominoes.
As well as a handful of albums which air-guitaring teenagers still revere, Eric can lay claim to being an honorary Beatle; he was at the Stones’ Rock & Roll Circus; an honoured guest at the Concert For Bangladesh, The Last Waltz and Live Aid; he played with Dylan… All of which should make these near-400 pages totally compelling. But somehow, Clapton’s autobiography is inexplicably and unforgivably dull.
This suffers badly from a surfeit of what publishers think readers want from a rock star memoir: lots of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll. To concentrate on this, they cut out the music. So what we learn here is that as a young, good-looking rock star during the 60s – blimey! – Eric Clapton had loads of casual sex. And he took drugs. A lot of drugs. Then he drank a lot. Oh yeah, and by the way, he also made some records. But surely the real fans want the inside track on the music; music which, after all, has been a soundtrack to our lives for 40 years. You can learn more from the late Ray Coleman’s thorough, if outdated, biography; hell, even Pete Frame’s Family Tree will tell you more about Eric Patrick Clapton than this.
There is little we didn’t already know about the musicians he has worked with over the years, but what is revealing is the innate sadness of the man. Obviously the tragic death of his son Conor makes for powerful and emotional reading, but rarely has a celebrity memoir been so full of self-loathing. The break-up of Cream; Clapton’s infatuation with The Band; his drunken onstage rambling about Enoch Powell, which led to the formation of Rock Against Racism… all these are skimmed over, so that we can get back to Clapton’s endless battles with booze and drugs.
Of course, we wish him well. It’s wonderful that he’s managed to conquer those demons, and a happy marriage and parenthood appear to have brought him domestic contentment at long last. The problem is that hearing in detail about anyone’s addictions is actually very boring, whether it’s Eric Clapton or someone in the pub explaining why he’s drinking Appletizer and not Young’s Special.
The problem is not with Clapton, but with the publishers who saddled an iconic English talent with an inappropriate ghost writer. Strip the meat off the carcass and you’re left with a star memoir more suitable for a weekly celebrity magazine than a hardback autobiography.
Most frustratingly, the excerpts from Clapton’s diaries suggest that a far better book could have emerged. It’s only on these rare occasions that you sense Clapton’s authentic voice shining through, and then the book really comes alive: “Pete Townshend asked me if I would like to make a cameo… in the movie version of Tommy… He wanted me to play an old Sonny Boy Williamson song, Eyesight To The Blind… as a preacher in a church that worshipped Marilyn Monroe… I thought the whole idea sounded like a load of bollocks.”
