Clapton_ The Autobiography - Eric Clapton [79]
I remember getting into trouble one night at a big dinner, when I loudly asked the wife of the host if she’d like to take a bath with me. This may have seemed funny to me at the time, but it wasn’t for Nell or any of the other people directly affected. I always had this madman inside of me trying to get out, and drink gave him permission. A diary entry of mine from the mid-seventies, written while on holiday on a yacht in Greece, reads, “I am sitting here drinking vodka and lemonade, having a party of my own. I am very sad and pissed…. I’ve been dreaming about what I would do to the first customs man who questions me about my guitar, or who, worse still, just touches it.”
It was my normal thing when I was angry to contest authority, so a customs official, or a policeman, or a concierge, or anyone else with a uniform would get the sharp end of my tongue, and then it would be left up to someone like Roger or Alphi to clean up the mess, or bail me out, make apologies, pay the bill, or do whatever it might take to redress the situation. Sometimes I’d invent mock dramas in order to pick a fight. I’d say, “You’ve insulted my wife,” and use that as a reason to launch into an indignant shouting match against some innocent person I’d taken a dislike to.
A notorious incident of this kind took place during the time we were living on Paradise Island, when I was invited to go to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to perform in a jam to celebrate the anniversary of Cain’s Ballroom, a very famous dance hall that had been open since the days of vaudeville and that was a popular venue for bands. Because of my connection with all the Tulsa musicians, I decided to go. I flew to Miami and from there to Tulsa, but by the time I got there I was so drunk I was warlike. I had got in some kind of altercation on the plane and they had called ahead to the Tulsa police, who were waiting for me when the plane landed, and I was arrested.
When we got to the county jail, one of the cops involved used my middle name when charging me, saying, “Are you Eric Patrick Clapton?” I replied to this, “Nobody calls me Patrick. You don’t have the right to call me that,” and then I went into a tirade against him. As a result of this, I was thrown in the drunk tank. I kept trying to tell them who I was, but they refused to believe me, so I said go and find a guitar and I would prove who I was by playing. They did this, and then they let me out. The following morning, a large photograph of me staring out from behind the bars of the tank was on the front page of the local newspaper, the Tulsa Tribune.
Flying off to jam with other artists was a good excuse to get away from Paradise Island. I played twice with the Stones, in New York and LA, as part of their Tour of the Americas, and in August I flew to New York for a session with Dylan, who was working on the album that was to become Desire. I remember feeling very elated that I had been asked to play, but when I arrived, it turned out to be a very odd situation. Two or three bands were already waiting to go into the studio with him, including an English band called Kokomo, and every now and then a bunch of players would come out, and everyone would ask, “Well, what was it like?” It was not unlike being in a doctor’s waiting room. I was one of five guitarists present, and when I went in, Dylan wasn’t particularly communicative. It was one of those awkward times when I didn’t really know what was expected of me. There was no question of a rehearsal. He played the song once or twice and then moved on to the next one.
I’d say twenty-four musicians were in the studio that night, all playing these incredibly incongruous