Clapton: The Autobiography
Apparently, it’s not easy being God. For the first time, Eric Clapton, who was one of the first guitar heroes in the rock era, tells the story of how he went from being a shy English boy to, well, a mellow English gentleman who only wanted to be a sideman in a blues jam band, instead of having graffiti all over his home country proclaiming him a deity. But that story is filled with more sex, drugs, and alcohol that your standard rock bio, and even makes the two years when he didn’t leave his house strangely compelling.
For a younger generation, they only remember Eric Clapton for singing “Tears in Heaven,” the ballad he composed for his son Conor, who tragically fell out a New York apartment window in the early 1990s. Or they might know “Layla,” as a soft-rock ballad from his appearance on MTV Unplugged, as opposed to the searing guitar-solo-laden rock classic when he fronted the quickie supergroup Derek and the Dominoes. If these casual fans pick up “Clapton,” they will get a fuller picture of a man whose life was taken over by drinking, heroin, and his worst addiction of all, the love he had for his wife Patti (the inspiration for Layla), the woman he stole from best friend George Harrison.
It is the parts about Patti that truly make this book great. The more he loved her from afar, the more he dulled the pain by alcohol. And when he finally won the girl of his dreams, he committed himself to drying out in a rehab center - twice. The book also went into amazing detail about the effect of quitting heroin and brandy, so much so that you can practically feel his skin crawling. He eventually lost Patti, mostly because he started to buy into the “Rock Legend” line he is fed by everyone around him. He did clean up for a final time, which resulted in his a metamorphosis into a family man who just wants to play the blues. This is where the book loses a little steam.
What makes the first part of the book is Clapton’s constant struggle to keep his ego in check while being enabled not just by the fans, but by his fellow musicians. His managers wanted him to go out and rock stadiums, but he rejected them by becoming a sideman for his opening act. Then when he got tired of taking direction, he went out on his own, then repeats the cycle again by becoming Roger Waters’ 2nd guitarist. This constant internal battle made for a great read, especially when he tries to fix the problem with various libations and medications. But, after he got sober, he got too comfortable being a “rock star,” spending the last chapters of the book talking about his beautiful wife and the rich parties they go to.
The book is very well written. The chapter about his son Conor is so well done, you’ll be scanning the book for his co-author. But some of the details of the early chapters are too overdone. We don’t need to read about every friend he had when he was a child, especially when you know that a great sex-and-drugs book is looming Clapton joins The Yardbirds. I was impressed that that Clapton spent as much time on the songs that made him a legend as the ones he wrote himself.
While the beginning and the end of the book could make you mind wander, what is sandwiched in between is a great read. And when you hear that acoustic “Layla,” for the millionth time, pick up this book instead, and remember that Eric Clapton was once a guy who covered a dressing room in eggs and flour, and all will be redeemed.
