Some of you who have been following me since I started this blog know that I have been unsuccessfully trying to get through Eric Clapton’s autobiography, “Clapton.” All I wanted to do was continue forth on my reading list at normal stride, but this book was determined to never let me read another book again.
Today, however, I was sidelined with some pretty heavy sickness, and I took the opportunity to power through the book since I had nothing better to do anyway. So here it is, the long-awaited, brief review of “Clapton.”
The first 100 pages were not only dry, but they held so many names that my confusion maxed out early on. There were opportunities to explore Clapton’s early bands (Yardbirds, etc.) that he just kind of blew over. I understand that he had more interesting tales to get to (THANKFULLY), but he could have lingered even just a moment longer on these HUGE events in his early life. Around the Cream era, however, Clapton started writing from the heart and really opened up. Maybe it makes me a terrible person for liking the more heartbreaking and challenging “section” of Clapton’s life, but it made him real and flawed, and this injected his writing with soul. I cried reading about Conor, was moved by his dedication to Crossroads, and am happy he has found some bliss in his later life. The epilogue, though a bit cheesy, was a truly sweet tribute to some of those who have influenced his career. The last paragraph of the book, which I refuse to ruin for anyone, might be the truest words ever written about music.
And just like that, I’m free from the chains of “Clapton” and onto a new book and accompanying review.