Clapton_ The Autobiography - Eric Clapton [146]
The pheasant season began, and for a while it took my mind off my loss. I was invited to join Jamie’s syndicate and began driving down to Dorset every weekend to shoot on one of the most difficult preserves in the country. The lay of the land, the wind direction, and the skillful management of very high pheasants all conspire to make it very exciting and demanding. The interesting thing about these situations for me is that the people I am with have little or no grasp of what I do for a living. Consequently, I am starting out on the ground floor, and that makes me try even harder and is good for my humility.
In October, I caught a plane to New York, where Cream had agreed to perform three shows at Madison Square Garden. In many ways, I wish we had left it at the Albert Hall, but the offer we were made was too good to refuse. We walked into a rehearsal room the day before the first show and did a meager two-hour run-through without breaking a sweat. Of course, we didn’t need to practice too much. We were above that. In that short amount of time our mind-set had gone back to the sixties, and once again we were flying high on our egos.
As a result, and this of course is just my opinion, the New York shows were a pale shadow of what we sounded like in London. Lack of rehearsal was one thing, but it reflected something else. The arrogance was back. Also Madison Square Garden is a big place, and we sounded small and tinny in there. I repeat, I am only stating my opinion, but for me the heart had gone out of it, and also a certain amount of animosity had crept back in. Maybe it was the money, who knows, but I did know that enough was enough, and I would probably not be passing this way again. It was good, however, to know that both the other lads would be solvent for a while, and overall that made it worthwhile for me.
I got word in November that Billy Preston was seriously ill and had fallen into a coma. It came as a huge shock, because, just like Brian, he had seemed so well when I last saw him. In truth, he had been very ill on and off for the last five years, suffering from failed kidneys and having dialysis two or three times a week, even on the road. But comparatively speaking, he had looked and played well on the Escondido sessions, so it was dreadful news, and from what I could gather, things did not look very good for him. I planned to go and see him as soon as Christmas was over.
Christmas was very welcome when it came. With all that had happened through the autumn, I needed some light and laughter, and these days, because of the kids, Christmas was becoming exciting again, just like when I was a kid myself. We now had, including Ruth, four children to buy presents for and entertain, and it was fantastic, just the way it is supposed to be. Also I had got hold of a Santa Claus outfit, and at a set time, just after dinner on Christmas Eve, I or a suitable volunteer would make a fleeting appearance as Father Christmas, strolling across the garden just outside the window. The kids would be alerted to this by Melia and would go crazy, talking about it for days on end. It was so heartwarming to be able to do these little special things for my family, and I felt blessed.
On Boxing Day, I flew to Arizona to see Billy. He was in a private clinic, still in a coma, and it was thought that the chances of his recovery were slim. His manager, Joyce Moore, had been in contact with me throughout his