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Eric Clapton: The Autobiography par [Clapton, Eric]
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Eric Clapton: The Autobiography Format Kindle

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Longueur : 400 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
Page Flip: Activé Langue : Anglais

Description du produit

Extrait

Growing Up


Early in my childhood, when I was about six or seven, I began to get the feeling that there was something different about me. Maybe it was the way people talked about me as if I weren’t in the room. My family lived at 1, the Green, a tiny house in Ripley, Surrey, which opened directly onto the village Green. It was part of what had once been almshouses and was divided into four rooms; two poky bedrooms upstairs, and a small front room and kitchen downstairs. The toilet was outside, in a corrugated iron shed at the bottom of the garden, and we had no bathtub, just a big zinc basin that hung on the back door. I don’t remember ever using it.

Twice a week my mum used to fill a smaller tin tub with water and sponge me down, and on Sunday afternoons I used to go and have a bath at my Auntie Audrey’s, my dad’s sister, who lived in the new flats on the main road. I lived with Mum and Dad, who slept in the main bedroom overlooking the Green, and my brother, Adrian, who had a room at the back. I slept on a camp bed, sometimes with my parents, sometimes downstairs, depending on who was staying at the time. The house had no electricity, and the gas lamps made a constant hissing sound. It amazes me now to think that whole families lived in these little houses.

My mum had six sisters: Nell, Elsie, Renie, Flossie, Cath, and Phyllis, and two brothers, Joe and Jack. On a Sunday it wasn’t unusual for two or three of these families to show up, and they would pass the gossip and get up–to–date with what was happening with us and with them. In the smallness of this house, conversations were always being carried on in front of me as if I didn’t exist, with whispers exchanged between the sisters. It was a house full of secrets. But bit by bit, by carefully listening to these exchanges, I slowly began to put together a picture of what was going on and to understand that the secrets were usually to do with me. One day I heard one of my aunties ask, “Have you heard from his mum?” and the truth dawned on me, that when Uncle Adrian jokingly called me a little bastard, he was telling the truth.

The full impact of this realization upon me was traumatic, because at the time I was born, in March 1945—in spite of the fact that it had become so common because of the large number of overseas soldiers and airmen passing through England—an enormous stigma was still attached to illegitimacy. Though this was true across the class divide, it was particularly so among working–class families such as ours, who, living in a small village community, knew little of the luxury of privacy. Because of this, I became intensely confused about my position, and alongside my deep feelings of love for my family there existed a suspicion that in a tiny place like Ripley, I might be an embarrassment to them that they always had to explain.

The truth I eventually discovered was that Mum and Dad, Rose and Jack Clapp, were in fact my grandparents, Adrian was my uncle, and Rose’s daughter, Patricia, from an earlier marriage, was my real mother and had given me the name Clapton. In the mid–1920s, Rose Mitchell, as she was then, had met and fallen in love with Reginald Cecil Clapton, known as Rex, the dashing and handsome, Oxford–educated son of an Indian army officer. They had married in February 1927, much against the wishes of his parents, who considered that Rex was marrying beneath him. The wedding took place a few weeks after Rose had given birth to their first child, my uncle Adrian. They set up home in Woking, but sadly, it was a short–lived marriage, as Rex died of consumption in 1932, three years after the birth of their second child, Patricia.

Rose was heartbroken. She returned to Ripley, and it was ten years before she was married again, after a long courtship on his part, to Jack Clapp, a master plasterer. They were married in 1942, and Jack, who as a child had badly injured his leg and therefore been exempt from call–up, found himself stepfather to Adrian and Patricia. In 1944, like many other towns in the south of England, Ripley found itself inundated with troops from the United States and Canada, and at some point Pat, age fifteen, enjoyed a brief affair with Edward Fryer, a Canadian airman stationed nearby. They had met at a dance where he was playing the piano in the band. He turned out to be married, so when she found out she was pregnant, she had to cope on her own. Rose and Jack protected her, and I was born secretly in the upstairs back bedroom of their house on March 30, 1945. As soon as it was practical, when I was in my second year, Pat left Ripley, and my grandparents brought me up as their own child. I was named Eric, but Ric was what they all called me.

Rose was petite with dark hair and sharp, delicate features, with a characteristic pointed nose, “the Mitchell nose,” as it was known in the family and which was inherited from her father, Jack Mitchell. Photographs of her as a young woman show her to have been very pretty, quite the beauty among her sisters. But at some point at the outset of the war, when she had just turned thirty, she underwent surgery for a serious problem with her palate. During the operation there was a power cut that resulted in the surgery having to be abandoned, leaving her with a massive scar underneath her left cheekbone that gave the impression that a piece of her cheek had been hollowed out. This left her with a certain amount of self-consciousness. In his song “Not Dark Yet,” Dylan wrote, “Behind every beautiful face there’s been some kind of pain.” Her suffering made her a very warm person with a deep compassion for other people's dilemmas. She was the focus of my life for much of my upbringing.

Jack, her second husband and the love of her life, was four years younger than Rose. A shy, handsome man, over six feet tall with strong features and very well built, he had a look of Lee Marvin about him and used to smoke his own roll–ups, made from a strong, dark tobacco called Black Beauty. He was authoritarian, as fathers were in those days, but he was kind, and very affectionate to me in his way, especially in my infant years. We didn’t have a very tactile relationship, as all the men in our family found it hard to express feelings of affection or warmth. Perhaps it was considered a sign of weakness. Jack made his living as a master plasterer, working for a local building contractor. He was a master carpenter and a master bricklayer, too, so he could actually build an entire house on his own.

An extremely conscientious man with a very strong work ethic, he brought in a very steady wage, which didn’t ever fluctuate for the whole time I was growing up, so although we could have been considered poor, we rarely had a shortage of money. When things occasionally did get tight, Rose would go out and clean other people’s houses, or work part–time at Stansfield’s, a bottling company with a factory on the outskirts of the village that produced fizzy drinks such as lemonade, orangeade, and cream soda. When I was older I used to do holiday jobs there, sticking on labels and helping with deliveries, to earn pocket money. The factory was like something out of Dickens, reminiscent of a workhouse, with rats running around and a fierce bull terrier that they kept locked up so it wouldn’t attack visitors.

Ripley, which is more like a suburb today, was deep in the country when I was born. It was a typical small rural community, with most of the residents being agricultural workers, and if you weren’t careful about what you said, then everybody knew your business. So it was important to be polite. Guildford was the main shopping town, which you could get to by bus, but Ripley had its own shops, too. There were two butchers, Conisbee’s and Russ’s, and two bakeries, Weller’s and Collins’s, a grocer’s, Jack Richardson’s, Green’s the paper shop, Noakes the ironmonger, a fish–and–chip shop, and five pubs. King and Olliers was the haberdashers where I got my first pair of long trousers, and it doubled as a post office, and we had a blacksmith where all the local farm horses came in for shoes.

Every village had a sweet shop; ours was run by two old-fashioned sisters, the Miss Farrs. We would go in there and the bell would go ding–a–ling–a–ling, and one of them would take so long to come out from the back of the shop that we could fill our pockets up before a movement of the curtain told us she was about to appear. I would buy two Sherbert Dabs or a few Flying Saucers, using the family ration book, and walk out with a pocketful of Horlicks or Ovaltine tablets, which had become my first addiction.

In spite of the fact that Ripley was, all in all, a happy place to grow up in, life was soured by what I had found out about my origins. The result was that I began to withdraw into myself. There seemed to have been some definite choices made within my family regarding how to deal with my circumstances, and I was not made privy to any of them. I observed the code of secrecy that existed in the house—“We don’t talk about what went on”—and there was also a strong disciplinarian authority in the household, which made me nervous about asking any questions. On reflection, it occurs to me that the family had no real idea of how to explain my own existence to me, and that the guilt attached to that made them very aware of their own shortcomings, which would go a long way in explaining the anger and awkwardness that my presence aroused in almost everybody. As a result I attached myself to the family dog, a black Labrador called Prince, and created a character for myself, whose name was “Johnny Malingo.” Johnny was a suave, devil–may–care man/boy of the world who rode roughshod over anyone who got in his way. I would escape into Johnny when things got too much...

Revue de presse

“Like the bluesmen who inspired him, Clapton has his share of scars . . . his compelling memoir is . . . a soulful performance.”
People

 “An absorbing tale of artistry, decadence, and redemption.”
Los Angeles Times


“One of the very best rock autobiographies ever.”
Houston Chronicle

“A glorious rock history.”
New York Post

“This book does what many rock historians couldn’t: It debunks the legend . . . puts a lie to the glamour of what it means to be a rock star.”
Greg Kot, Chicago Tribune

“Strong stuff. Clapton reveals its author’s journey to self-acceptance and manhood. Anyone who cares about the man and his music will want to take the trip with him.”
Anthony DeCurtis, Rolling Stone

“Clapton is honest . . . even searing and often witty, with a hard-won survivor’s humor . . . an honorable badge of a book.”
Stephen King, New York Times Book Review

“Riveting”
Boston Herald

“An even, unblinking sensibility defines the author’s voice.”
New York Times

“An unsparing self-portrait.”
USA Today


From the Trade Paperback edition.

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 5987 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 400 pages
  • Editeur : Cornerstone Digital (19 janvier 2010)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B00351YEV2
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5 1 commentaire client
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°80.885 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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Format: Broché Achat vérifié
Enfin une étude fouillée sur le travail de ce génie de la guitare. A lire impérativement par tout musicien. Très très bien.
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta) (Peut contenir des commentaires issus du programme Early Reviewer Rewards)

Amazon.com: 4.1 étoiles sur 5 1.006 commentaires
12 internautes sur 12 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Better read than I thought it would be 24 octobre 2014
Par Kadee - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
I was torn on whether or not to even read this book after reading some of these reviews. I love a lot of Eric Clapton's music but didn't know much about his personal life. I knew some, I've read Pattie Boyd's biography and some others peoples from the same era but I didn't really have a clear picture of who Eric Clapton was. I have to agree with a lot of the other reviewers here, he doesn't always come across as the most likeable guy. Quite the opposite actually. He wasn't really a good friend to a lot of people. He definitely didn't treat women in a healthy way. He talks about them as objects of lust and things he desires to own much the same way someone else might refer to classic cars. He doesn't really talk about love- it's about looks and obsession and wanting them just to prove to himself that he could. Once that was accomplished the thrill was gone, the game was over and it was time to move on. He spent a lot of time with women he admitted he never even loved. Pretty harsh if you happen to be that woman. However, this is also where I have to give him some credit. His book is honest. It reads that way to me anyway. Telling the truth about your life and the people in it is not always easy and he's pretty blunt about things. I still prefer that over someone who tends to " sugarcoat" their story however. At times he almost shares too much information...I get that he was so drunk that he slept in a field all night but I didn't really need to hear how he defecated all over himself...that type of thing. Maybe it's just me but that was a little TMI. Regardless...in the end I realized that I don't dislike the man. He was a jerk in his younger years. Some of that may be related to his childhood ( he thought his Grandmother was his mother for a long time, etc.) I'm not one of those people who give people a pass when it comes to blaming their mistakes on childhood...and his wasn't abusive or anything but I do think that maybe that affected him to some degree. What I have no doubt affected him is his admitted addictions...especially to alcohol. Once he got sober he seemed to become a decent man. Also worth mentioning is that throughout the book, even during his younger years he does give praise to fellow musicians he respected and certain people that were in his life so even then he wasn't all bad.. He was always a great musician and he seems to have found stability and peace in his life. I wish him well and hope to hear more great music from him in the future.
8 internautes sur 8 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 An Optimist's Blues 21 février 2015
Par CBGB - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
Eric does a great job of recalling every major phase of his life, even the 'lost years' of near obligatory heroin addiction. The work is almost inspirational, as Clapton exudes positive vibes towards the full range of rock legends and near legends. The blues take center stage and Clapton cites nearly every major bluesman as an influence. Although Clapton references his god-like stature among guitar leads, one never gets the sense of a swollen ego. If anything, he seems to downplay his virtuoso status. Unlike Richards in 'Life', Clapton does not spend much time on the technical aspects of playing or on musical innovations he pioneered. My favorite song, Badge, barely gets a mention, and even Sunshine of Your Love is a passing paragraph. And don't expect Clapton to dish much dirt; he doesn't have a harsh word to say about anyone, even those he parted with under bitter circumstances. Clapton seems to realize he didn't really grow up until he was in his late 40's, and many women suffered from his self-serving childishness. I found the constant positivity to be a bit forced, likely the result of 20 years as a successfully recovering addict. I feel I know Clapton better, but there is a certain lack of dimension to this self portrait.
4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Blues guitarist 22 juillet 2016
Par Dot117 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
This book is a gift to music history in telling an honest story of life lived in absurdity. Words rang true for me. To prefer to be in the shadows and yet able to practice the enumerable hours for proficiency through all the hailstorms of drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, cynical joking, dangerous chance taking, sex and unrelenting touring and recording schedules.......... This makes sense to me. Sat on 3 rd row of Factory in Phila. In 1968 and he would face away from audience and sometimes connect in a nod to Jack or Ginger. Thank you for sharing your gift even when it hurt you to do so. Sorry it hurt so much and thank God you are living life now.
14 internautes sur 15 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Worth reading, definitely 20 janvier 2015
Par LF - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Broché Achat vérifié
This was a surprising book to me. I like autobiographies. I've written my own. I bought this book just to see what was going on between Eric Clapton, George Harrison, and Patty Boyd, you know, Layla.

The impression I have, after not only reading this book but also investigating elsewhere, is that at that stage of their lives both George and Eric were on and off when it came to Patty. They loved her when she wasn't around, and they didn't want to be bothered with her when she was around. That is probably why she left George and went to Eric, and it is also probably why Eric ended up with somebody else.

I can't make any judgments regarding Patty, but both Eric and George leave something to be desired. And that's the most surprising thing about this book. Eric Clapton paints such a negative portrait of himself that you will most likely leave the book thinking that he was a prick. I'm guessing he was a much nicer and much smarter man than he paints himself to be. I think he should sue himself for slander.
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Slowhand, warts and all 19 juillet 2017
Par Karl Janssen - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I’m a lifelong Eric Clapton fan, though I can’t say I like everything he puts out. I am familiar with all stages of his musical career, but prior to reading his 2007 autobiography entitled Clapton I knew very little about his personal life other than disjointed anecdotes here and there. In this book, the guitarist extraordinaire offers a candid look back at his roller coaster life. Overall, it’s a pretty satisfying tour through about a half century of rock and roll history. I may not always have enjoyed the ride that Clapton took me on, but I was always thoroughly engaged by it.

Perhaps the defining moment in Clapton’s life is his much-discussed romance with George Harrison’s wife Patti Boyd, the inspiration for the Layla album and other songs in Clapton’s body of work. That particular episode proves not to be quite as romantic as the music that was composed around it. Here Clapton admits that as soon as he won Boyd’s love he began cheating on her. In fact, Clapton treats a lot of women like dirt in this book, and delves pretty deeply into the psychological hows and whys of it all. To his credit, however, unlike Pete Townshend in his autobiography Who I Am, Clapton doesn’t ask you to forgive him, beg you to like him, or expect you to admire his exploits. He simply relates everything in a matter-of-fact way, as if to say these are some bad things I’ve done, and there’s nothing I can do about them now.

Clapton is equally candid about his substance abuse, and his story of recovery is inspiring. One can’t help but admire the way he eventually turned his life around. Yet the book is frustrating because for most of its length he is still very much an emotional child. He doesn’t really get his act together until his mid-50s, when he marries a woman 30 years his junior. At that point you’re happy for him, but the book also starts to get boring as Clapton becomes your grandpa, talking about “computer culture” (owning a laptop), shopping for shoes in Japan, and the necessity of taking a nap every afternoon.

As revealing and cathartic as all the talk about his drug use and alcoholism may be, the reader is left wishing Clapton had devoted more ink to his music. He covers Blind Faith, Cream, and Derek and the Dominos pretty well, but glosses over much of his solo career. He left the Yardbirds because their music was too poppy and not true to the blues, but he doesn’t feel the need to justify his later forays into easy listening, smooth jazz, and Luther Vandross-style R&B. Some of his greatest albums, like Slowhand, he dismisses as sloppy, drunken playing. His own personal favorite is Pilgrim, an album which critics frequently cite as one of his all-time worst.

A really good rock and roll biography will make me want to go back and dig out that artist’s old albums, thereby reliving some of his or her glory days. This book didn’t do that for me. As much as I love his guitar playing, I’d have to say my respect for the man diminished a bit after reading his life story. Not only were some of his moral choices off-putting, but he just doesn’t come across as intelligent as you might expect a virtuoso musician to be. I’m not here to criticize Clapton’s life, however, but rather to review his book. There’s no denying that Clapton the book is well written and covers a lot of what you’d want to know about the man. It isn’t always fun or exciting, but it’s consistently informative, surprisingly candid, and provides a great deal of insight into the man behind the music.
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