Authors: Eric Clapton
The last week was a nightmare. I was getting only about three hours of sleep a night, and in Kansas City, over the course of a three-day visit, I changed hotels four times. The noise was unbelievable. There was either construction outside, roaring elevator shafts inside, or people throwing things around their rooms. I was shattered. The only thing that made it bearable was the music we would make in the evening, which was always brilliant. Even so, I was praying for the tour to finish, and counting the minutes. By the end, however, every gig was memorable. The only thing that could rattle us, or me in particular, was bad acoustics, and it seemed we had left those places behind us. Luckily, the last show, in Columbus, was a great one. It needed to be, as my entire American family was there.
Brief good-byes were said, but we knew that, apart from Steve Jordan, we would all be together again in Chicago in July at the next Crossroads Guitar Festival. As for Jordan, I was going to see him in a couple of weeks at a tribute evening in memory of Ahmet Ertegun, which was to take place in New York, and of which he would be the musical director. It was still snowing in Columbus, which gave me the opportunity to sit and practice the songs I wanted to play for Ahmet. He had always loved the song “Please Send Me Someone to Love” by Percy Mayfield, and in the bad old days, when we would get smashed together, he would sing the opening lines to me with a twinkle in his eye: “Heaven, please send, to all mankind, understanding and peace of mind. But if it’s not asking too much, please send me someone to love.” I think for him it summed up the simple irony that the blues so often embodies. He never pressured me to record it. He just loved to sing it to me in that cracked old voice of his, and that’s my fondest memory of him. The other song I played, “Drinkin’ Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee,” was apparently the first record officially released on the Atlantic label.
Time passed slowly in Ohio, and when I wasn’t practicing Ahmet’s songs, I was watching cricket on TV. Amazingly enough, my brother-in-law, Steve, had managed to get the World Cup cricket tournament on cable, and it became my drug for the next two weeks. It also helped with my cravings for England and home, giving me something I could identify with until we finally made the trip. I loved our house in Columbus, and the family is a superb gang, but I was yearning for England, and with still one more gig to do, I felt like I was in limbo. I was also finding it hard to believe that the tour was finally over, and I went into a bit of a decline. It always happens, but my experience over the years has helped me prepare for this, and I know how to deal with it, although I’m sure my family and friends must find it very confusing. I had been looking forward to the last stretch for as long as I could remember, and now that it was a reality, I was depressed. It seems completely illogical, and can be misinterpreted very easily, but it is, in my experience, almost unavoidable. It’s part of the process, and always passes, but it takes a lot of patience and understanding from everyone around me.
Ahmet’s tribute evening was to be held at Jazz at Lincoln Center in New York. I had played there in 2003 with Wynton Marsalis, who had helped establish it, and thought it was the perfect venue. As we were also moving home as a family unit, the plan was to stop in NYC for the tribute, allowing time for rehearsals and sightseeing, and then travel on the following day. There are no direct flights from Columbus to London, and with the strong possibility of losing luggage and just general wear and tear, it has become our routine to break the journey in half by staying a night in Manhattan. It also gives me the chance to visit friends and shop, and, of course, the kids love to play in Central Park. Unfortunately, the weather turned nasty, and torrential rain kept us pent up in our room, just as the snow had in Ohio. By now, after all the hotel rooms and general bad weather, I was craving fresh air and outdoor life, but we would have to wait a few more days.
The celebration for Ahmet was a great success, well staged and very well attended. The evening was mostly given over to speakers such as Henry Kissinger, Oscar de la Renta, David Geffen, and Mick Jagger, all of whom spoke with love and eloquence, while a few others, including Ben E. King, Phil Collins, Stevie Nicks, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, Bette Midler, and myself, provided the music. Melia was with me, and I thought it was great for her to see just how much this man had meant to all of us. Mick was incredibly funny, telling great stories and referring to Ahmet as his “wicked uncle.” But as entertaining and emotionally stirring as it was, I still felt that had Ahmet been there in the flesh, he would have said something like, “Let’s get out of here and find the real shit.”
After the show, Melia and I went to the after-party for a few minutes, where we bumped into Robbie Robertson. He’s always great fun to be with, and earlier in the day we had been listening to some music we had started writing back in the nineties, with a notion to finish it. I had always wanted to collaborate with Robbie. He has a great ear and brilliant writing skills, and I was hoping that maybe, finally, this meeting would lead us to work together more. It wasn’t to be, but that’s another story. All in all, our reason for getting together, to pay tribute to an amazing man, had resulted in a great event, and it was extraordinary to see all the different people he had touched in his life, all together in one place, for one moment in time. A perfect send-off for a remarkable man.
The following day we got on the plane and flew home; everyone was really excited, and I personally couldn’t wait to crash on the big couch in our front room and have a nap. I had been watching the weather on my computer, and while everywhere else in the world seemed to be having snow and rain and stormy weather, England was enjoying a warm and sunny spring. Needless to say, I had already planned to go fishing the first Saturday after we got home, along with doing absolutely nothing, or at least trying to. It was what I had been dreaming of all year. The trip was painless and uneventful, the kids slept throughout the flight, no luggage was lost, and Cedric and Cecil were there to meet us and drive us home.
Something about the drive to our house in Surrey never fails to move me. I’m sure everyone feels that way about going home after a long trip, but this is really special. The last mile is spectacular, going through the beautiful Surrey hills, finally resolving in a short drive through high rhododendron bushes, before the house itself appears. There’s no doubt that the building itself is imposing, but not in a frightening way. It just seems to have a personality of its own, so that it welcomes you, even when it is empty. That’s exactly how it was on that day. We walked through the door, and a great weight seemed to be lifted off of us, as if to say,
The time for rest has begun.
In a short while, our English nanny, Annie, was cooking lunch, Melia and the kids were in the playroom, rediscovering their toys, and I was upstairs, hurriedly unpacking, desperately trying to put the road and its various duties behind me.
I’m so glad that my family loves it here as much as I do. It provides the foundation for our life together in the physical sense. I know we can find a way to be happy wherever we are, but this place seems to have special meaning for all of us, and I hope it will always be this way. I have no intention of going anywhere for a little while, and can’t wait for my home life to reestablish its normal routines, like going for walks up in the hills, feeding Gordon the pig, and just generally lolling around.
I have been trying to retire all my life, constantly vowing to give up the road and just stay at home, and maybe one day I will be forced to do that for one reason or another. For now, I will leave the door open, and maybe that will make it easier for me to stay inside—a kind of reverse psychology, but who knows? All I am certain of right now is that I don’t want to go anywhere, and that’s not bad for someone who always used to run.
EPILOGUE
The last ten years have been the best of my life. They have been filled with love and a deep sense of satisfaction, not because of what I feel I have achieved, but more because of what has been bestowed on me. I have a loving family at my side, a past I am no longer ashamed of, and a future that promises to be full of love and laughter. I feel really fortunate to be able to say this, for I’m fully aware that, for a lot of people, approaching old age represents the end of all things pleasurable, the gradual onset of infirmity and senility, and regret for a life unfulfilled. Maybe I will eventually feel the grip of fear as I view my final years, but right now I am very happy, and I feel that way a lot of the time. The only time I get really disgruntled is when I’m working and I don’t feel I have the capacity to deliver the goods, usually because I’m ill or overtired. That’s the perfectionist in me and it’s always been like that. If I have any real qualms about the future, it is for my children. It grieves me to think that they may lose their father while they are still young.
As I write this, I am sixty-two years old, twenty years sober, and busier than I have ever been. I have completed a big world tour, and even if all the travel is sometimes grueling, I like the pace. I am virtually deaf, but refuse to wear a hearing aid because I like the way things sound naturally, even if I can hardly hear them. I am lazy, refusing to do any exercise, and as a result am completely unfit. I am a complete curmudgeon and proud of it. I know who I am these days, and I know that if there is nothing much going on at any given time, I will start something, not out of boredom but because I need movement. I have a rhythmic nature. That’s not to say that I don’t know how to relax. I like nothing better than doing nothing, but after a while I need to be on the move again.
It is 2007, and this summer I will help stage another Crossroads Guitar Festival, which I’m really looking forward to. Some great musicians are coming out to play, and I value the chance to hear them more and more as time goes by. Thank God so many of them are still around. I have, for instance, been playing on this tour with Doyle Bramhall and Derek Trucks, two fine guitar players who prove that the real thing is still alive and kicking. Playing with them keeps me young and pushes me far beyond my normal limitations.
My family continues to bring me joy and happiness on a daily basis, and if I were anything but an alcoholic, I would gladly say that they are the number one priority in my life. But this cannot be, because I know I would lose it all if I did not put my sobriety at the top of that list. I continue to attend twelve-step meetings and stay in touch with as many recovering people as I can. Staying sober and helping others to achieve sobriety will always be the single most important proposition of my life.
But let’s stay real here, too. I have been out on the road all my life, and at the end of every tour, I swear it will be my last. Nothing has changed in that regard. “It’s a goddamned impossible life,” as my friend Robbie Robertson once said, and this recent tour, as great as it has been musically, has also been very taxing. I can’t sleep well away from home anymore, hotels are not what they used to be, and I miss my family so much. I also suffer from physical complaints a lot more than I used to in my youth, such as bad back pain and digestion disorders. It all adds up, and going onstage under par is my worst-case scenario. So, as much as I love to play, touring on the grand scale has, I think, seen the last of me. I will work as long as I live, but I will have to find another approach that isn’t quite so arduous.
Looking back, my journey has brought me into proximity with some of the great masters of my profession, and all of them took the time to show me something of their craft, even if they weren’t aware of it. Perhaps the most rewarding relationship I have had with any of these great players has been with Buddy Guy. In all the years I have known him, he has never really changed, and we have always remained great friends. In the musical sense, it was he who showed me the way forward, by example. The combination of wildness and finesse that his playing encompasses is totally unique and has allowed players from the rock genre to approach the blues from an unfettered perspective. In other words, he plays free, from the heart, acknowledging no boundaries.
I never really knew Stevie Ray Vaughan well. We played together only a couple of times, but it was enough to be able to link him with Jimi Hendrix in terms of commitment. They both played out of their skin, every time they picked up their instruments, as if there was no tomorrow, and the level of devotion they both showed to their art was identical. Listening to Stevie on the night of his last performance here on earth was almost more than I could stand and made me feel like there was nothing left to say. He had said it all. His brother Jimmie is one of my closest friends and is, in my opinion, in the same league as Buddy, totally unique in style and free as a bird. We have been pals and collaborators since the sixties, and as much as anything musical, I owe him a debt of gratitude for turning me on to the hot rod culture. I have three cars, all custom built by Roy Brizio, with two more on the way. Robert Cray is another friend who has my total admiration, too. His singing has always reminded me of Bobby Bland, but his guitar style is all his own, although if you know your blues history, you can hear just about everyone in his playing. There are so many players I have admired and imitated, from John Lee Hooker to Hubert Sumlin, but the real king is B. B. He is without a doubt the most important artist the blues has ever produced, and the most humble and genuine man you would ever wish to meet. In terms of scale or stature, I believe that if Robert Johnson was reincarnated, he is probably B. B. King. Maybe it would be worth investigating the appropriate dates to see if this is even a remote possibility.
While I am talking about heroes and musicians that have moved me, I would have to put Little Walter near the top of my list. He played harmonica with Muddy Waters in the early days, before going solo, and he was the master of his instrument. He was also one of the most soulful singers I have ever heard.
I also regret that I never had the good fortune to play with Ray Charles. He was, in my opinion, the greatest singer of all time, and he was also a blues singer. The blues is a style of music that was born from the union between African and European folk cultures, conceived in slavery, and fostered in the Mississippi delta. It has its own scale, its own laws and traditions, and its own language. In my view it’s a celebration of triumph over adversity, full of humor, double entendre, and irony, and it’s very rarely, if ever, depressing to listen to. It can be, and usually is, the most uplifting music you will ever hear. Ray Charles took that essence and injected it into every style of music he played, from gospel to jazz to rhythm and blues to country and western. Whatever the occasion, whatever the format, he always sang the blues. I had the privilege of being on an album of his in the eighties, but my playing was overdubbed and he wasn’t actually there. I would have loved to have been able to sit in a room accompanying him, while he sang and played, just to have had the experience.
The one man I have left out so far is Muddy Waters, the reason being that, for me, he represented something much more fundamental. He was the first of the truly great bluesmen that I met and played with, and the first to show me real encouragement and kindness. Long before we ever met, he was the most powerful of all the modern blues players I had heard on record, and the sheer strength of his musical character had a profound effect on me as a green young scholar listening my way forward. Later on, right up until the day he died, he was very much a part of my life, touring with me, counseling me, and generally acting as the father figure I never really had. I was even present, along with Roger, at his wedding ceremony, when he married his last wife, Marva.
Toward the end of our last times together, Muddy began speaking to me in earnest about carrying on the legacy of the blues, calling me his adopted son, and I assured him that I would do my best to honor this responsibility. It was almost an overwhelming trust to fully take in, but I took him at his word, and as much as this kind of thing is humorously disregarded these days, I am absolutely certain that he meant it. One of the few regrets I have in my life is that my drinking was at its peak during the years we spent together, thereby preventing me from having a truly intimate relationship with him. Alcohol would have always come first in those days. It was also highly illuminating, many years after Muddy’s death, to read an interview he did when he was very young, where he named Leroy Carr as his first real influence. I had always felt the same way about Leroy Carr, but had never met anyone who shared that. To me the connection felt logical and gave me affirmation that I did really belong in this precious group, which I suppose you could call the blues family, and, apart from being at home with my kids, there’s no other place I’d rather be.
The musicians I have had the honor and pleasure of performing with, both onstage and in the studio over the years, are far too innumerable to mention, but all have been unforgettable for one reason or another. Most of them have also been philosophers, in an unspoken way. There seems to be a silent acknowledgment among most players that we have a certain responsibility as teachers or healers, and although we all have different ways of honoring this commitment, it is certainly something we are all aware of. For myself, I have tried to steer clear of social or political comment in my approach to writing and playing, except in the vaguest possible way, simply for the reason that I don’t want to gather any moss, so to speak, or be associated with any movement that would detract from my mission as regards blues music, or music as a whole. I have always believed that music in itself is a powerful enough agent to cause change, and that sometimes words, or agendas, can get in the way.
The music scene as I look at it today is little different from when I was growing up. The percentages are roughly the same—95 percent rubbish, 5 percent pure. However, the systems of marketing and distribution are in the middle of a huge shift, and by the end of this decade I think it’s unlikely that any of the existing record companies will still be in business. With the greatest respect to all involved, that would be no great loss. Music will always find its way to us, with or without business, politics, religion, or any other bullshit attached. Music survives everything, and like God, it is always present. It needs no help, and suffers no hindrance. It has always found me, and with God’s blessing and permission, it always will.