Clapton: in the lap of the gods
‘Clapton is God,’ says the graffiti. Not sure it is something he would agree with given his long years of addiction recovery, humility, continual surrender and service to his fellow addicts. Each New Year’s Eve in the quiet commuter town of Woking, England, he puts on a free concert in gratitude for his own long release from heroin and alcohol, lived one day at a time.
In a small book, The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, in an unassuming corner of text, the author nails the alcoholic’s problem by saying unequivocally that addicts are the product of defective relationships with other human beings.
It is right there in black and white and most readers miss it: you just don’t hear a lot of talk about trauma and the often disastrous effects of childhood that is at the root of any reaching outside of the Self to feel good. You have to go to other recovery groups to hear that.
What interested me about the gig in London’s Royal Albert Hall, despite the early cheers and rush to the front when he pulled on his Stratocaster for I Shot The Sheriff, was the eruption when he began riffing Layla, recognisable, timeless and as fresh as when it was written.
Perhaps less recognisable is the story of the Sufi lovers Majnun and Layla and Clapton’s own rapid descent after he fell for his best friend George Harrison’s wife Patti Boyd, iconic 60s’ model, a relationship that obsessed and tormented him.
In almost all cultures lurks the mythology of the twin soul, the other half. Plato told a compelling tale of the original androgynous human being split in two for becoming too great a threat to the gods, and would forever and forlornly wander the world in search of completion.
When Majnun spies Layla’s naked ankle in a bedouin tent, goes one version of the story, he faints.
I am paraphrasing here as I don’t know what God actually said, but it was something like, ‘If that’s what your beloved’s ankle does to you, don’t even think about looking at me!’
It’s a real Moses and the burning bush moment.
The Sufis describe twin souls as two interlocking rings, which may stretch far apart from each other but can never be separated and will, ultimately and inevitably, have to return and become one again.
You could say it is a romantic’s dream.
You could say it’s a co-dependent’s nightmare.
Whatever your take, Clapton, who had been raised by his grandparents thinking they were his parents and that his mother was his sister, was set up to become a raging addict, perhaps for love more than even heroin or alcohol.
After such a confused start in life, it is small wonder he found himself in a hellish love triangle, doomed from the off. It is no coincidence — and he remarks upon this himself — that he only found a safe and nourishing love after his mother died.
Something had to be completed, an ending necessary, a new beginning then possible and a final release from his deepest despair.
My ticket, which I had paid a lot of money for, was delivered by UPS a few days before the gig. I did not think to open it ahead of time and even when I opened it on the day, I didn’t look at it.
But I did make sure I had it as I drove the two and a half hours to London, parked, then got a Tube ride to the Royal Albert Hall. I was early and sat down and finally looked at the ticket.
It said it was a £70 ticket for reserved standing. But I had paid more than double that for a seat.
It slowly dawned on me that I had been ripped off and although I enquired at the box office, they said as I had acquired it through a third party (had I?) there was nothing they could do. I did not want to stand all night in the gods. I was driving home afterwards.
Part of me wanted to go home right then but I had been told if I went back after the first band and asked if anyone had not shown, there was a slim possibility I might get some help.
As my ticket was for The Gallery — which essentially meant leaning against a rail all night to watch some microscopic musicians — I had to go back outside for a wrist band and so had to queue all over again.
I was not enjoying myself, but when I finally got up into the rafters, I told myself there was no point getting shitty and started talking to a couple, my age, about bands we had seen, and life growing up in the 70s.
I lightened up but didn’t think much of the blues band backing Clapton and thought I would chance my arm back at the box office. I had slipped into the initial conversation that I have high blood pressure and REALLY didn’t think it was a good idea I stood all night.
The manager had had a slightly worried look. But I was surprised to see her on her own at the desk, the queue gone. ‘You won’t remember me but..’
She did remember me, took my ticket and exchanged it for a letter to give to my bank’s fraud team and, more importantly, a ticket for somewhere in the Grand Tier. Where?
My intuition was that in deciding to accept whatever happened, being pleasant rather than difficult — which I can be around injustice — something had shifted. My health warning which was really subtext for ‘If you have to carry me out on a stretcher you may regret it’, clearly helped.
So suddenly I have an upgrade to a box just above the stage. And what a box! If it had a label it would have been ‘Malcontents and Disabled’. There were two couples at the front, who neither seemed to be grumbling nor in need of help, a woman hopping around on crutches trying not to knock me over and a French paraplegic in a wheelchair who insisted on me taking his photographs and kept whooping like a demented caw caw. Or rather that was the sound he made, caw caw!
In the box on my right there was a party going on — or rather behind the box, behind a curtain. These people insisted on talking and seemed more interested in swilling champagne than listening to the music.
One of them looked familiar. Tall, lean, middle-aged. Braying. Young blonde women, probably Henrietta and Lucinda from the home counties, either side of him.
Top Gear’s Jeremy Clarkson.
And so here he is, up and down to his private champagne bar, everyone talking, loudly. The paraplegic caw caws at them; the female half of one of the couples gets up and goes over to tell them off.
It was only when Layla started that they shut up — for a moment at least letting go of what was clearly a huge sense of entitlement — stood up and danced.
The place was in uproar.
I had seen God, got a better seat than I paid for, and got out at 10.40pm so wouldn’t be home too late.
But it seems you can’t have everything.
They had closed the road back to The West Country.
Oh well, I got here eventually…I am taking a leaf out of Eric’s book.
Surrender Simon, surrender.
