Guitar god has the faithful in raptures
Eric Clapton
The Sunday night slot at British Summer Time festival in Hyde Park is reserved for legends: two years ago, Carole King performed Tapestry in its entirety for the first time; last summer, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers played what would be their final UK show. It’s where, next week, Paul Simon will continue his farewell tour. In November last year, after familiar graffiti stating ‘CLAPTON IS GOD’ began popping up across the capital, it was confirmed that Eric Clapton would take to the stage this year.
Clapton is perhaps the world’s greatest living guitarist and the only person to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame three times, both as a soloist and for his work in the bands Cream and The Yardbirds. Now 73, he has threatened retirement before – nerve damage has hindered his music – and reviewers in recent years have accused him of being subdued and too comfortable, but there was nothing complacent about this performance.
After a greatest-hits set by Steve Winwood, his former Blind Faith bandmate, and a spirited fiesta of a show from his friend and collaborator Carlos Santana, Clapton – ever-unassuming in jeans, a navy shirt and a pinstriped waistcoat, despite 30-degree heat – walked on stage. “It’s coming home,” he said to roaring thousands, still in the woozy wake of England’s football victory yesterday. Then he picked up his guitar.
Clapton’s been a rock star, but it’s as a bluesman that he will be remembered. JJ Cale’s Somebody’s
Knockin’ was an affirmative, creepily atmospheric opener, as huge cameras zoomed in on the man’s fingers, intricate and nimble in one of many long solos that mesmerised throughout the night. His voice still holds raspy swagger, cool and relaxed on Willie Dixon’s I’m Your Hoochie
Coochie Man. For Got to Get Better in a Little While, from his time in the Seventies with Derek and the Dominos, he leaned back with eyes closed and mouth wide open for long stretches of time, his body in calm bliss while his fingers moved so rapidly, it was as if each was powered by its own electrical current. The rate at which this happened throughout the night was quite astonishing.
Layla, as is now customary, was given the acoustic treatment. That song’s perfect opening notes – surely one of the greatest and most iconic introductions in popular music – still sound spectral and gorgeous, but slowed down like this the song loses some of its magnitude and ferocity. One will always feel hard done by not to hear it at full, urgent thrust – though by the feverish reception around me, perhaps I was the only one who felt that way.
Tears in Heaven was a classic made over, too: tonight it was a reggae singalong, faster and cheerier enough to betray some of its lump-inthe-throat tragedy – it was written about the death of Clapton’s young son in 1991. It was, nevertheless, most lovely. Wonderful Tonight was tender and gentle and included Clapton’s most delicate, and Spanish-sounding solo of the night.
The night had its rock and roll moments too. For Lay Down Sally, Clapton was joined by Marcella Levy, with whom he wrote the song. Smiling, she announced they hadn’t sung together since 1985, and the duet was a delight. Clapton is the star, but his bandmates are tremendous. Cross Road Blues, by Robert Johnson, was soaring: organs, keyboard, two breathtaking guitarists, propulsive percussion and two soulful backup singers.
On Little Queen of Spades, everyone had a solo; each one marvellous, before Cocaine made for a defiant finish. For an encore of High Time We Went with Carlos Santana, Clapton beamed and laughed as he admired his friend beside him. Clapton may not be God, as the old graffiti once claimed, but his gift is still something magical to behold.
‘His fingers moved so rapidly, it was as if each was powered by its own electrical current’