Ever the impressive guitar player, Eric Clapton should’ve realised sooner that instrumental effectiveness is not enough. In group settings, like with Cream or Derek and the Dominos, Clapton thrives because he’s pulled in one direction or another, conceding this or adding that to a beating mass of other talented musicians. On his own, he rarely comes through with great works. Moments? Sure, but after 461 Ocean Boulevard, there’s a real lack of depth to Clapton’s work. He still has a knack for the guitar and a skilful voice, but it never feels as though they’re put to any great use. You can hear that on his self-titled debut, too, and on Slowhand. Little had changed in those seven years, even after the success of Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs with Derek and the Dominos. Studio clientele is the difference maker for all of this. If you ever needed a more obvious example of how Clapton sings of his relatively indifferent hobbies, just take a listen to Cocaine.
His cover of the J.J. Cale track is a plodding one, though it should have an energy to it which fits the blues-rock tone Clapton is so strong with. It’s not that it’s absent, just underwhelming. Sluggish blues stuff that sounds vaguely like the riff of Sunshine of Your Love but with a few stylish thrills thrown in for good measure. Enough to capture your attention, not strong enough to hold it. It could’ve been the case of cover work sounding a tad underwhelming, but no, Clapton reassures us with some light originals, too. Lay Down Sally sounds as though it’s going somewhere but it never ends up reaching the destination. Preceding track Wonderful Tonight is the soppy, sloppy sort of work you expect from a band finding their footing, not a man whose talents had been enlisted by The Beatles and Bob Dylan. But that’s the thing, they wanted his astonishing instrumental tone, they got it. Clapton can’t even give that to himself on Slowhand.
You get a feeling Clapton is riffing a little too much on his peers. Next Time You See Her is awfully close in intention and style to If You See Her, Say Hello from Dylan, and a raspy voice and instrumental groove isn’t going to change that. Slowhand seems to be a literal title then, Clapton’s grasp of strong instrumental work and interesting songwriting slips from view rather fast here. His slowed songs are touching, sure, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. We’re All the Way sways itself into a snooze while the four-part B-side tries to shake us out of this slumber. It doesn’t quite work because of what Clapton is working with. Stomping, solid rock and roll which lacks his charm or spirit, something he featured on even his most middling albums before this.
Album closer Peaches and Diesel is nice enough, more for the dissonance made in its title than anything else it does. The preceding songs are unremarkable at best. It’s sloppy work if you don’t know Clapton’s music, it’s dangerously underwhelming for those who do. Give Slowhand a listen and then wait a day. Not one moment of it comes to mind. It’s not that it’s an awful assessment of Clapton’s work, just a very underwhelming experience. He doesn’t need a hit track or anything like that, he proved he could work just fine without those on No Reason to Cry a year before Slowhand. What goes wrong for Clapton here is he gets stuck in an echo chamber of praise. Worthy of it he may be, that does not underscore an artist whose output turned sour rather fast.
