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Eric Clapton
Eric Clapton
Eric Clapton may have earned his reputation with his guitar, but he owes his solo career to his voice. It's his singing that has carried his best work, from the frantic gospel groove of "After Midnight" to the pinned melancholy of "Tears in Heaven." In fact, his least interesting recordings tend to be those that emphasize his solos- an irony, perhaps, but also a testament to the fact that at the end of the day Clapton is more than just a guitar god. Eric Clapton, the album that launched his solo career, was recorded with musicians he'd met while a part of Delaney & Bonnie & Friends (he was a featured player on the the duo's 1970 release On Tour) and boasts similar blues-and-gospel overtones. Although his lithe, understated vocals make the most of "Blues Power" and a cover of J.J. Cale's "After Midnight," Clapton seems somewhat overwhelmed by the size of the band here; perhaps that's why he grabbed the rhythm section and ran off to form Derek & the Dominos. But the band fell apart in 1971, and Clapton, beset by depression and a heroin problem, wasn't heard from until 1973, when Pete Townshend organized the star-stutted (but generally forgotten) Eric Clapton's Rainbow Concert. Joining forces with producer Tom Dowd, Clapton went to Florida to record 461 Ocean Boulevard, the album that first showed his pop-star potential. Although the material isn't obviously commercial, being given mainly to blues (Robert Johnson's "Steady Rollin' Man"), oldies (Johnny Otis' "Willie and the Hand Jive") and reggae ("I Shot the Sheriff" by the then unknown Bob Marley), Clapton's affectless delivery is almost irresistible, cutting to the heart of the blues while avoiding the sort of guttural mannerisms most pop listeners found off-putting. The album was a massive success, but its standard wasn't easily maintained. There's One in Every Crowd, for instance, virtually duplicates its predecessor's approach, but with considerably less success, commercial, or artistry. Mostly, the difference was the writing, as no amount of reggae groove was going to make Clapton's "Don't Blame Me" as memorable a song as "I Shot the Sheriff." After a passable live album, E.C. Was Here, Clapton returned to the studio in search of a new direction. No Reason to Cry wasn't quite it; despite a duet with Bob Dylan ("Sign Language") and a backing band that included Ron Wood, Robbie Robertson, and Georgie Fame, the only track that really works is the amiable, calypso-tinged "Hello Old Friend." So Clapton ditched the all-star kick, and took a low-key approach to Slowhand. Bingo- the best album of his career. Working with his own band and once again relying more on the songs than the groove, Clapton seems utterly at home here, from the wistful ballad of "Wonderful Tonight" to the stoned shuffle of "Cocaine" (yet another Cale composition) to the jauntily lustful "Lay Down Sally." And though there's plenty of blowing room- check the slide work on his version of Arthur Crudup's "Mean Old Frisco"- it's the strength of the material that gives the solos a worthwhile starting point. Backless tried hard to recreate that balance but falls short in spite of a few lovely songs ("Tell Me That You Love Me" in particular) and some inspired rhythm work (especially on the Marcy Levy feature, "Roll It"). As had by then become customary, it was time for another live album, but Just One Night improves on the usual, thanks to a crack new band that keeps Clapton on his toes through the extended versions of "Double Trouble" and "Cocaine." Unfortunately, the dynamic didn't quite translate to the studio, and apart from the quietly dramatic title tune, Another Ticket is a disappointment. Clapton changed labels soon after, a switch that prompted a predictable round of best-ofs. Apart from the non-LP version of "Knockin' On Heaven's Door," Timepieces: The Best of Eric Clapton boasts few surprises (though some fans may object to its preference for the live version of "Cocaine"), but Timepieces, Vol. II: Live in the Seventies is easily ignored. The Cream of Clapton justifies a third dip into his repertoire by padding his solo hits with singles by Cream, Blind Faith, and Derek & the Dominos, yet, inexplicably manages to overlook "Lay Down Sally." Meanwhile, Clapton's new deal was already producing impressive changes. Although Money and Cigarettes stumbled commercially, it's hardly a disappointment musically, thanks to a comfortable collection of songs and a backing band that included slide virtuoso Ry Cooder and Stax session man Duck Dunn. Charming and unassuming, it's classic Clapton. Behind the Sun, on the other hand, is perhaps the guitarist's most daring effort, a (mostly) Phil Collins-produced project that finds him gamely trying everything from guitar synthesizer (on "Never Make You Cry") to what can be best described as 12-bar art rock (on "Same Old Blues"). Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated such risk-taking, and Warner Bros. Records head-honchos Ted Templeman and Lenny Waronker later added three tracks- including the tepid but radio-friendly "Forever Man"- to increase the album's commercial appeal. Perhaps that's why August, also produced by Collins, backs off a bit from its predecessor's innovations and does nothing more radical than adding a layer of synths to its version of Robert Cray's "Bad Influence." (It does, however, include "Tearing Us Apart," a raucous, sexually charged duet with Tina Turner that ranks among Clapton's finest vocal performances.) Any such failings, however, were completely forgotten with Crossroads, a career-spanning, 73-song retrospective that included all of Clapton's most memorable recordings, from his days with Yardbirds to the August sessions. It's an absolute stunning collection, and goes a long way toward demonstrating that Clapton is, indeed, the greatest of all rock-guitar heroes. Unfortunately, Crossroads 2: Live in the Seventies is a shabby followup that isn't even entirely live (four selections are unreleased studio leftovers). Although most of the previously unreleased recordings have their moments, as in a Santana-ish run though "Eyesight to the Blind/Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad," the set's relative lack of scope and consistency makes it of interest only to completest. Journeyman, the studio album following Crossroads, seems by the very nature of its title to shrug off any intimation of greatness, and as such turns out to be a remarkably relaxed and satisfying album. Clapton soon found himself working with composer/arranger Michael Kamen (who would go on to work with Metallica on the S&M album). Clapton soon found himself working on music soundtracks: Homeboy, Lethal Weapon II, and his next soundtrack Rush. But the dramatic instrumentals weren't what people noticed, it was a dolorous ditty dubbed "Tears in Heaven" that drew all the notice. Reportedly inspired by the death of his infant song, Connor, the song was already a minor hit when Clapton recut it- along with an assortment of blues and classic rock chestnuts- for an episode of MTV's Unplugged. Released as an album, the Grammy-winning Unplugged reinvented Clapton yet again, and proved one of the biggest hits, commercially or artistically, of his later career. Typically, Clapton responded to this burst of popularity by retreating into the blues. From the Cradle finds him diligently rerooting himself in the material that was his earliest inspiration, underplaying the solos and stressing the vocal element in the songs. As such, the best moments- whether in his swinging remake of Freddie King's "I'm Tore Down" or his impassioned run through the upbeat "Motherless Child"- stress the songs above all. Clapton laid low for a few years after that, offering only a lame attempt at techno under the pseudonym T.D.F. (which may have meant "to die for" but should have meant "to infidelity forget"). Embarrassing as it was, the album marked the beginning of a long collaboration with former Climie Fisher keyboardists Simon Climie. Pilgrim, which Climie coproduced with Clapton, made some interesting inroads into smooth soul such as on "My Father's Eyes," an album whose hope was to capitalize off the success of the Babyface-produced "Change the World," which appeared on the soundtrack to the flick Phenomenon. But apart from the beautiful sad "Circus" and boogie-fueled "She's Gone," Pilgrim is a turkey. Failure though it was, it sold well enough for Clapton and Climie to repeat the formula, with minor variations, on Reptile, a pleasant but inconsequential effort typified by the light soul of "I Ain't Gonna Stand for It" and the smooth jazz aspirations of the title tune. The polished but no especially passionate One More Car, One More Rider offers a life run through much of this material; it's also available on (a somewhat more entertaining) DVD. On the whole though, Clapton's fans were more interesting in seeing him as a grizzly- if genteel- bluesman, hence the unexpected success of Riding With the King, a collaboration with B.B. King that involved more coasting than actual riding. The cover of Sam & Dave's "Hold On, I'm Coming" is particularly embarrassing. Still, that hasn't deterred Clapton, whose next venture into the blues was Me and Mr. Johnson, a tribute to Robert Johnson that somehow completely sidesteps the unearthly dread that once made these blues so compelling to Brit rockers. Instead, the arrangements emphasize the songs' boogie bounce, to such an extent that even "Hell Hound on My Trail" seems oddly upbeat. If that seems a betrayal to Clapton's youthful blues purism- a perspective neatly framed by the early recordings, with collaborations ranging from John Mayall to Duanne Allman, and compiled on Martin Scorsese Presents the Blues- it's worth remembering that the blues have been very, very good to Eric Clapton Who can blame him for feeling good about that?
It's...
Eric Clapton
Eric Clapton
Eric Clapton
Eric Clapton may have earned his reputation with his guitar, but he owes his solo career to his voice. It's his singing that has carried his best work, from the frantic gospel groove of "After Midnight" to the pinned melancholy of "Tears in Heaven." In fact, his least interesting recordings tend to be those that emphasize his solos- an irony, perhaps, but also a testament to the fact that at the end of the day Clapton is more than just a guitar god. Eric Clapton, the album that launched his solo career, was recorded with musicians he'd met while a part of Delaney & Bonnie & Friends (he was a featured player on the the duo's 1970 release On Tour) and boasts similar blues-and-gospel overtones. Although his lithe, understated vocals make the most of "Blues Power" and a cover of J.J. Cale's "After Midnight," Clapton seems somewhat overwhelmed by the size of the band here; perhaps that's why he grabbed the rhythm section and ran off to form Derek & the Dominos. But the band fell apart in 1971, and Clapton, beset by depression and a heroin problem, wasn't heard from until 1973, when Pete Townshend organized the star-stutted (but generally forgotten) Eric Clapton's Rainbow Concert. Joining forces with producer Tom Dowd, Clapton went to Florida to record 461 Ocean Boulevard, the album that first showed his pop-star potential. Although the material isn't obviously commercial, being given mainly to blues (Robert Johnson's "Steady Rollin' Man"), oldies (Johnny Otis' "Willie and the Hand Jive") and reggae ("I Shot the Sheriff" by the then unknown Bob Marley), Clapton's affectless delivery is almost irresistible, cutting to the heart of the blues while avoiding the sort of guttural mannerisms most pop listeners found off-putting. The album was a massive success, but its standard wasn't easily maintained. There's One in Every Crowd, for instance, virtually duplicates its predecessor's approach, but with considerably less success, commercial, or artistry. Mostly, the difference was the writing, as no amount of reggae groove was going to make Clapton's "Don't Blame Me" as memorable a song as "I Shot the Sheriff." After a passable live album, E.C. Was Here, Clapton returned to the studio in search of a new direction. No Reason to Cry wasn't quite it; despite a duet with Bob Dylan ("Sign Language") and a backing band that included Ron Wood, Robbie Robertson, and Georgie Fame, the only track that really works is the amiable, calypso-tinged "Hello Old Friend." So Clapton ditched the all-star kick, and took a low-key approach to Slowhand. Bingo- the best album of his career. Working with his own band and once again relying more on the songs than the groove, Clapton seems utterly at home here, from the wistful ballad of "Wonderful Tonight" to the stoned shuffle of "Cocaine" (yet another Cale composition) to the jauntily lustful "Lay Down Sally." And though there's plenty of blowing room- check the slide work on his version of Arthur Crudup's "Mean Old Frisco"- it's the strength of the material that gives the solos a worthwhile starting point. Backless tried hard to recreate that balance but falls short in spite of a few lovely songs ("Tell Me That You Love Me" in particular) and some inspired rhythm work (especially on the Marcy Levy feature, "Roll It"). As had by then become customary, it was time for another live album, but Just One Night improves on the usual, thanks to a crack new band that keeps Clapton on his toes through the extended versions of "Double Trouble" and "Cocaine." Unfortunately, the dynamic didn't quite translate to the studio, and apart from the quietly dramatic title tune, Another Ticket is a disappointment. Clapton changed labels soon after, a switch that prompted a predictable round of best-ofs. Apart from the non-LP version of "Knockin' On Heaven's Door," Timepieces: The Best of Eric Clapton boasts few surprises (though some fans may object to its preference for the live version of "Cocaine"), but Timepieces, Vol. II: Live in the Seventies is easily ignored. The Cream of Clapton justifies a third dip into his repertoire by padding his solo hits with singles by Cream, Blind Faith, and Derek & the Dominos, yet, inexplicably manages to overlook "Lay Down Sally." Meanwhile, Clapton's new deal was already producing impressive changes. Although Money and Cigarettes stumbled commercially, it's hardly a disappointment musically, thanks to a comfortable collection of songs and a backing band that included slide virtuoso Ry Cooder and Stax session man Duck Dunn. Charming and unassuming, it's classic Clapton. Behind the Sun, on the other hand, is perhaps the guitarist's most daring effort, a (mostly) Phil Collins-produced project that finds him gamely trying everything from guitar synthesizer (on "Never Make You Cry") to what can be best described as 12-bar art rock (on "Same Old Blues"). Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated such risk-taking, and Warner Bros. Records head-honchos Ted Templeman and Lenny Waronker later added three tracks- including the tepid but radio-friendly "Forever Man"- to increase the album's commercial appeal. Perhaps that's why August, also produced by Collins, backs off a bit from its predecessor's innovations and does nothing more radical than adding a layer of synths to its version of Robert Cray's "Bad Influence." (It does, however, include "Tearing Us Apart," a raucous, sexually charged duet with Tina Turner that ranks among Clapton's finest vocal performances.) Any such failings, however, were completely forgotten with Crossroads, a career-spanning, 73-song retrospective that included all of Clapton's most memorable recordings, from his days with Yardbirds to the August sessions. It's an absolute stunning collection, and goes a long way toward demonstrating that Clapton is, indeed, the greatest of all rock-guitar heroes. Unfortunately, Crossroads 2: Live in the Seventies is a shabby followup that isn't even entirely live (four selections are unreleased studio leftovers). Although most of the previously unreleased recordings have their moments, as in a Santana-ish run though "Eyesight to the Blind/Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad," the set's relative lack of scope and consistency makes it of interest only to completest. Journeyman, the studio album following Crossroads, seems by the very nature of its title to shrug off any intimation of greatness, and as such turns out to be a remarkably relaxed and satisfying album. Clapton soon found himself working with composer/arranger Michael Kamen (who would go on to work with Metallica on the S&M album). Clapton soon found himself working on music soundtracks: Homeboy, Lethal Weapon II, and his next soundtrack Rush. But the dramatic instrumentals weren't what people noticed, it was a dolorous ditty dubbed "Tears in Heaven" that drew all the notice. Reportedly inspired by the death of his infant song, Connor, the song was already a minor hit when Clapton recut it- along with an assortment of blues and classic rock chestnuts- for an episode of MTV's Unplugged. Released as an album, the Grammy-winning Unplugged reinvented Clapton yet again, and proved one of the biggest hits, commercially or artistically, of his later career. Typically, Clapton responded to this burst of popularity by retreating into the blues. From the Cradle finds him diligently rerooting himself in the material that was his earliest inspiration, underplaying the solos and stressing the vocal element in the songs. As such, the best moments- whether in his swinging remake of Freddie King's "I'm Tore Down" or his impassioned run through the upbeat "Motherless Child"- stress the songs above all. Clapton laid low for a few years after that, offering only a lame attempt at techno under the pseudonym T.D.F. (which may have meant "to die for" but should have meant "to infidelity forget"). Embarrassing as it was, the album marked the beginning of a long collaboration with former Climie Fisher keyboardists Simon Climie. Pilgrim, which Climie coproduced with Clapton, made some interesting inroads into smooth soul such as on "My Father's Eyes," an album whose hope was to capitalize off the success of the Babyface-produced "Change the World," which appeared on the soundtrack to the flick Phenomenon. But apart from the beautiful sad "Circus" and boogie-fueled "She's Gone," Pilgrim is a turkey. Failure though it was, it sold well enough for Clapton and Climie to repeat the formula, with minor variations, on Reptile, a pleasant but inconsequential effort typified by the light soul of "I Ain't Gonna Stand for It" and the smooth jazz aspirations of the title tune. The polished but no especially passionate One More Car, One More Rider offers a life run through much of this material; it's also available on (a somewhat more entertaining) DVD. On the whole though, Clapton's fans were more interesting in seeing him as a grizzly- if genteel- bluesman, hence the unexpected success of Riding With the King, a collaboration with B.B. King that involved more coasting than actual riding. The cover of Sam & Dave's "Hold On, I'm Coming" is particularly embarrassing. Still, that hasn't deterred Clapton, whose next venture into the blues was Me and Mr. Johnson, a tribute to Robert Johnson that somehow completely sidesteps the unearthly dread that once made these blues so compelling to Brit rockers. Instead, the arrangements emphasize the songs' boogie bounce, to such an extent that even "Hell Hound on My Trail" seems oddly upbeat. If that seems a betrayal to Clapton's youthful blues purism- a perspective neatly framed by the early recordings, with collaborations ranging from John Mayall to Duanne Allman, and compiled on Martin Scorsese Presents the Blues- it's worth remembering that the blues have been very, very good to Eric Clapton Who can blame him for feeling good about that?
It's...
Eric Clapton
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