No big philosophical or intellectual discussion from me tonight.

Just: I had a blast this weekend!

The Clapton Research Team consisted of me, Rachael (who is Awesome), Caroline, my nice friend Bradley, and his exquisite companion, Barb.

We left Casa Ramrod at about 2:30 pm on Saturday. The concert was scheduled to start at 7:30 pm.

Surely that would give us plenty of time to get there….

The gang decided to avoid the traffic snarls on I-35 into San Antonio, and therefore took the scenic route via half a dozen different back roads. Translation: We are not lost, dammit.

Eventually, after a stopover in Wimberley at the Visitor’s Center, to upgrade our map arsenal and get detailed directions to the cutoff, we got close enough to San Antonio to begin the quest for TexMex. We gradually spiralled in to a landing at the Alamo Cafe.

The food was perfectly decent, our waiter was a sweet little hippie boy who was infinitely patient with our demands. The coolest thing about the Alamo, though, is that they have, in the entrance hall, a wide-open Texas sky painted on the bowed ceiling, and it cycles through a day’s light and dark in about five minutes. This is startlingly effective and charming.

We then briefly visited with one of our party’s family at an undisclosed location. When once more on the road, there was discussion of family. There was also discussion of apples falling not far from trees.

We then did not get lost in downtown San Antonio for awhile. (Confession time. I’m a lousy navigator. Barb is a superb one. Okay? Satisfied now?)

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As we homed in on the SBC center, we tried hard to figure out how to use my disability to get better seats and other preferential treatment. Rachael’s theory was that she should approach management and talk about how her poor Dad’s final wish was to see Eric Clapton up close. I could lie back in the corner, with my broken blue-casted leg stuck out at an awkward angle, slack-faced, obviously the victim of terminal brain damage.

Time ran short and our sense of shame prevailed, unfortunately.

Our seats were in section 223, Row 15, Seats 1-5. Which translates to extreme stage right, way up, up, up high in the sky. Fortunately, the SBC Center isn’t all that big, so the tiny ants on the stage below us had faces.

I was an object of universal pity and sympathy as I doggedly, courageously, crutched my way up the nearly vertical steps that went on forever. Rachael, the perfect daughter, hung in behind me, occasionally whacking me in the shoulders to make sure I didn’t fall backwards.

Special opening guest that night: Robert Cray. It doesn’t get much better than this. I’d have paid good money to see Cray. Here are his thoughts on the war, which he played that night:

Twenty

Warning: This video will shatter your heart. I’m not being hyperbolic.

The audience was not restive while Cray played. Anyone who came for Clapton was inevitably a Cray fan, too, whether they already knew it or not.

Clapton came on and opened with ‘Tell the Truth“. At that instant, he and his band owned the entire stadium. And they didn’t let go for two hours. They rocked and swung as hard as any musicians I’ve ever heard. All on stage were masters of their craft and working at a very high level.

I refer you to Bradley’s “Guitar Lesson” for a detailed review of Clapton’s band and their skillz. This was more of the same. Though the set list was different, the experience was quite similar to the one he described in his post.

Basically, we were suspended in an endless rhythmic and melodic moment for the length of their set. “Layla” was as screaming and yearning as he’s ever done it. Brad’s theory is that Clapton has finally come to terms with that album, which he made when he was in burning agony.

There’s a cultural and technological change that I found both surprising and delightful. You’re not supposed to bring cameras in to the stadium. But, throughout the evening, there were numerous little blobs of brightness floating in the sea of people. Cell phone cams. Before last night, I hadn’t realized how ubiquitious they are now, and how thoroughly privacy and control of public spaces is no longer possible. Silly, old-fashioned Rory for not already getting this. Most of the clips in the links in this post are cell cam shots from recent concerts.

Here’s a brief clip from Barb’s cell, to give you a taste of how the concert looked and sounded to us.

Finally they walked off stage. After the obligatory clapping and whistling went on long enough, they came back and blasted into a long, hard-rocking rendition of “Cocaine”. Much like this one at the concert Brad attended at Budokan: Cocaine.

Jimmy Vaughn came on to play with them for the encore, another bonus. I see him as a primitive guitarist in many ways. He gives me hope. Unlike my reaction to Clapton, Derek Trucks, or Doyle Bramhall, I can at least aspire to some day play as well as Jimmy.

As Brad has noted, Clapton is extremely generous. The set had consisted of frequent extended solos by others in the band. Trucks and Bramhall got to play a lot more than they likely would have while backing any other superstar.

His next generosity blew my mind. Cray strolled into the spotlight, and they kicked into ‘Crossroads‘. With Cray taking the lead vocals, instead of Clapton.

Unbelievable.

We were close to being the last people out of the Center, since we waited for everybody to clear out until I could safely hobble down the steps, then waited for the parking lot to clear so that Caroline could bring her wagon close enough for me to get to it. None of them hit me for being a crip and delaying them repeatedly. I think they even might have had a good time, too.

Best of all, Caroline and the rest let me sit shotgun, both ways. And that seat has an electric butt-warmer. Yes! Ecstasy.

….Oh, yeah — And Clapton is still God.

Then we rode back to Casa Ramrod, where I had the best sleep I’ve had in a month.

Hugs to you all,

GreyLion

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Pic and Movie Credit: The Delightful Barb Denton