To spark memories. Here is Eric Clapton on Jimi Hendrix in 1968 in Rolling Stone.
And of course this classic diatribe from the stage in 1976:
On his routine rape and battery of the photographer and model Pattie Boyd:
And now he’s smashing the place up by discouraging vaccination, though he’s vaccinated himself.
His 10-day side-effects from the second shot of the vax were evidently tied to his serious neuropathy, itself a side effect of his alcoholism. Which he blamed for his rape habit.
And if you’ve ever argued about whether Clapton or Hendrix is better—“on the merits”—remember that a Clapton promoter had London graffiti’d with “Clapton is God” in the mid-60s. So any reference to his being a deity is a callback to that PR campaign.
And THEN Clapton seeded the racist bullshit that Hendrix was a phony who was nothing but a sexual fetish object.
One way he could meaningfully honor to the bluesmen he copied is to pay royalties to the estates.
Bo Carter wrote and copyrighted “Corrine, Corrina” in 1929. He died without a headstone. Clapton never credited him—much less paid royalties.
I seriously wish Stanley Ann Dunham had written a mothering guide.
But then she wouldn’t have been Stanley Ann Dunham.
Also, her intellectual pursuits, global travel, study, trust in her kids’ independence & love-em-and-leave-em adventures wouldn’t have left her the time.
I get the sense today that most Americans believe that all other Americans hate them.
Ever since the widespread disapproval of sex “out of wedlock,” I’ve never gone wrong assuming that most people think their crowd’s creeds and practices are right and mine and my crowd’s are misguided or even evil.
And vice-versa. Who cares? Why do so many people care if other people believe they’re racist or immoral or or ungodly or simply wrong?