ec is not god
A quote from a friend, summarizing a recent Time Magazine review of the new Eric Clapton record:
For example, they say “the only genuine emotion Clapton musters is reverence,” and when EC sings the line ‘There’s a hellhound on my trail’ “you wonder if the hound’s name is Patches.”
I hate Eric Clapton. And this isn’t like me hating the Grateful Dead or Dave Matthews (even though you can’t really compare my aversion to the latter to my disassociation of the former; I never got the Dead, but respected them as people and as musicians and as an entity, while I still consider DM to be the anti-christ incarnate).
But whoever wrote that Time review nailed it for me. I mean, yeah, sure, groundbreaking and all that. But this is still the guy who said that if he was stranded on a desert island, he’d rather have one of his Armani suits rather than a guitar. Now, first of all, he should be taken to task on the sheer impracticality of that situation alone – what are you going to do with an Armani suit on a desert island? Seems to me the guitar would at least give you something to do.
But what got me was that here is this rock and roll guitar god who seems to care less about the instrument, and by extension, the music. It’s not that I don’t think “Layla” is a magnificent song (even if I could happily live the rest of my life without ever having to hear it again – hey, I’m a casualty of 70s FM radio). It’s that he played with this dispassionate detachment that I could never identify with. For someone whose guitar idols were Keith Richards and Pete Townshend – well, yeah, talk about polar opposites. (And even if Keith is way more laid back than Pete ever was or will ever be, I still felt the fire in his fingertips.)
So, there. I admit it. I hate Clapton. And I’d never date a guy who worshipped him, that’s for damn sure. Because that would tell me more about him than a long weekend at a B&B in Victoria would…
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