Positive Liberty

Clapton’s new album Back Home has a more even feeling than Reptile, which had two good songs and a lot of crap.

The new one doesn’t have a lot of crap. It is a bit saccharine in places, though, particularly the first song, “So Tired,” which includes the sound of a baby crying, and lyrics referring to diaper changing. I’m sorry, but neither blues nor rock and roll can make any reference to diaper changing. Hell, not even opera lyrics can refer to diaper changing. This song is for the trashcan—or the Astrovan.

But there are also few real high points. “Lost And Found” has some nice guitar work, but it very strangely cuts off at the end. I thought there was something wrong with my CD player at first. It just comes to an abrupt stop in what seems to be the middle. Odd. The cover of Stevie Wonder’s “I’m Going Left” is good summertime driving music. “Love Don’t Love Nobody” is okay until Clapton starts literally singing “la, la, la,” with the same passion he invested in “My Father’s Eyes.” This concerns me, as it suggests that he is not being entirely candid, emotionally speaking, and that he could do, say, SBC commercials with equal passion. I’m not sure what I would do if I thought popular musicians were insincere.

Seriously, though, it’s pop. Not unpleasant, and a few good songs. But absolutely forgettable. Of course, aging baby boomers who are experiencing good times have a very difficult go of it to make compelling albums. John Fogerty’s Deja Vu All Over Again, for example, had some excellent cheery songs interspersed with weird, loser songs. Clapton has managed to avoid truly insipid music (unlike Reptile, with the awful “Superman Inside”) which is itself an achievement. But he’s also not as good at cheerful family music as Fogerty, whose fondness for bluegrass served him well.

Update: You know, the more I think of it, the more bothered I am by Clapton lately. The guy is still capable of producing gut-wrenchingly good blues. That Hollywood Bowl concert I went to last year was absolutely breathtaking—definitely worthy of release as an album in itself. Yet he produces an album like Me And Mr. Johnson that has none of his signature guitar work on it, and has to issue a second version of the album, Sessions for Robert J., to appease the audience. All this in between two forgettable albums and a not very good concert release. I respect Eric Clapton immensely and love his music. But he seems to have decided to just go “close enough.”

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