What causes a man to start fires? More importantly, what causes a man to burn down his greatest song, transforming it from genius to schlock as if possessed by the spirit of evil spirit of Lionel Richie? This is a question only Eric “Slowhand” Clapton, whose original recording of “Layla” with Duane Allman is one of rock’s most transcendently lovely songs, can answer.
Me, I suspect the answer lies in another of his hits, the unbearably sappy “Tears in Heaven” (or the earlier “Wonderful Tonight”). Once a musician has succumbed to recording treacle there’s no turning back; it gradually becomes easier and easier to produce treacle (after all, it sells!) until one becomes a habitual and hopeless treaclemonger, and before you can say “Change the World” or “My Father’s Eyes” it’s second nature, and the jig is up.
Suffice it to say by the time Clapton’s 1992 MTV Unplugged appearance came around, reducing the great “Layla” to saccharine and ashes must have come as naturally to the English guitarist as spouting racist National Front bile. And you’ve got to hand it to the “Clap”; he hit upon the perfect way of turning a diamond into a 4-day-old piece of sushi. I’m not certain Jesus could have pulled it off, but Slowhand made it look easy. It was genius, really, the simplicity of it. Take all the yearning and desperation out of the vocals, reduce the song’s marvelous momentum to a slowed-down slacker shuffle with a vaguely Spanish flavor, and as for the coda—that brilliant and magical piece of musicianship that still moves me all these years (and thousands of listenings) later—eliminate it altogether.
Two points: First, that Clapton liked the resulting work speaks volumes both about his sad slide into schlock, and his own inexplicable inability to judge the merits of his own work. I know what makes the original “Layla” such a landmark, but evidently poor Eric hasn’t a clue. Second, that the public ate up the slowed-down 1992 acoustic version, and that it went on to (how? why? gak!) win a Grammy for Best Rock Song—beating out Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in the process—just adds fuel to the fire of my belief that the American public (and its ruling classes) have been spoon fed pap for so long they’ve become addicted to the stuff.
Clapton may well be unique in that the very same song should mark both the high-water and low-water marks of his career. That’s no easy feat, and Clapton deserves credit—along with a gold watch and forced retirement—for pulling it off. After Derek and the Dominos released Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs in 1970, I would have gladly concurred with those messages on London walls proclaiming, “Clapton is God.” But the times they are always a changin’, and rarely for the better, and nowadays I’d be more inclined to agree with the proclamation, “Clapton is God Awful.”
Slowhand my keister; Slowbland is more like it.
