Never has the divide between how the generations treat their heroes been as obvious as the fact that Eric Clapton, in 2018, gets to release a Christmas Album with, wait for it, a “techno” version of Jingle Bells.
We live in an era where one wrongly worded interview-snippet or a dick-move can erase an artist’s entire career and any sense of achievement and ability is struck from the record.
Clapton comes from an era where one right move sets you up for life.
And sure, he had more than one right move. In fact it was quite a long run, as I remember it. For he was almost uniformly excellent right up until August of 1970.
Since the release of his debut solo album it’s been a weird – and mostly pointless – ride. And this “Christmas Album” is downright laughable.
As embarrassing as its cover artwork. Which is an EC original by the way. More original than a lot of his music, though tossed off in much the same way; it’s anyone’s guess which took longer – the ink from the marker pens drying or the thought process behind the recording of this punishingly long album (16 tracks, 56 minutes).
Imagine the Armani blues fans roasting their chestnuts over an open fire, drinking their egg-nogs and tilting an ear to the stereo to hear those same obvious licks.
Utterly fucking appalling.
And, anyway, have I got this wrong, but isn’t this cunt retired? Here he certainly sounds tired.
This has all the slick, soullessness of much of the music that Slowhand slow-roasted over the last 48 years. And yet it’s nowhere near as good. Each new clapped-out Clapton album is a new nadir. Which is saying something after Old Sock!
Also, fuck this guy. I mean, that the aforementioned version of Jingle Bells is dedicated to the Swedish DJ/EDM producer Avicii, a casualty of alcohol who died at the age of 28 earlier this year and yet the version of White Christmas is not dedicated to Enoch Powell is proof of Clapton’s dishonesty.
If you buy this for your dad this year for Christmas, even if you hate him and it’s meant as a cold shot, you’re still a giant jerk. This has the somehow impressive honour of being the world’s worst Christmas album. Which technically means the White Boy Bluesman is, once again, somehow, some kind of innovator.