busker

Pale Cale

I have got over missing the Clapton concert and equilibrium has been restored.

However, I had noted a lingering smidgeon of childishness in my reluctance to actually listen to any of my Clapton albums since that fateful eve.

With Anna visiting me for the weekend and a successful shopping expedition behind us - Silverdale-bound in air-conditioned bliss of her sister's car, Amanda Perez and Murphy Brown pumping thru the Bose stereo - I decided to give the old survivor a go.

Well, what do you know, and how come I hadn't twigged before? Most of old 'Slowhand's' "best" songs - Cocaine, After Midnight, etc - are little but poncified rip offs of the inestimable JJ Cale - slicker guitar licks, bevy of singalong sistahs, pretty fairy lights.

I'm not saying I wouldn't still have liked to have been there Tuesday to wave my Zippo and dribble into my designer stubble - I hear he delivered a killer 20-min rendering of 'I shot the Sheriff'