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ERIC CLAPTON Me And Mr. Johnson Reprise 48423 The writing on the walls once literally read ”Clapton is God.”
But the guitar deity, in turn, has always professed being a disciple of
Robert Johnson, whose scratchy 78’s profoundly zapped Eric’s soul
with a lifetime of divine inspiration. Draw a straight line between the
two heroes, and you can pull influenced guitarists from Johnny Shines
and Robert Lockwood to Eddie Van Halen and Joe Satriani off of that
tangent. So, finally, Me And Mr. Johnson answers that nagging age-old
question of “What would Clapton do if left to completely and freely
indulge in the Robert Johnson canon?” It’s not the same sounding
set of answers if asked in the Yardbird-era or when Cream ruled the
world. This is latter-day Clapton: more the mature blues traveler, than
the brave Ulysees. Playing by ensemble rules, a small circle of players
paint blue renderings of songs that Slowhand knows just as well as
anything he’s ever written himself. Billy Preston’s there propping
up “32-20 Blues” with a piano backbone, and squeezing organ grease
over “Little Queen Of Spades.” Steve Gadd’s drumming won’t dare
let the swing in “They’re Red Hot” falter one tick. And Jerry
Portnoy’s harp is on continuous purr, as when circling in a holding
pattern above “Traveling Riverside Blues.” Yet it’s the guitars
-- slippery, wooly, gnashing -- that inflict the damage. Granted:
they’re kept on short leash. Nonetheless, Clapton, Andy Fairweather
Low, and Doyle Bramhall II yank and tug like enraged rottweilers to get
a piece of “Milkcow’s Calf Blues,” “Love In Vain,” and, of
course, the apocalyptic crescendo of “Hell Hound On My Trail.” Mr.
Clapton’s a kid in Mr. Johnson’s candy store. |
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