The writing on the walls once literally read ”Clapton is God.” But the guitar deity, in turn, has always professed being a disciple of Robert Johnson, whose scratchy 78’s profoundly zapped Eric’s soul with a lifetime of divine inspiration. Draw a straight line between the two heroes, and you can pull influenced guitarists from Johnny Shines and Robert Lockwood to Eddie Van Halen and Joe Satriani off of that tangent. So, finally, Me And Mr. Johnson answers that nagging age-old question of “What would Clapton do if left to completely and freely indulge in the Robert Johnson canon?” It’s not the same sounding set of answers if asked in the Yardbird-era or when Cream ruled the world. This is latter-day Clapton: more the mature blues traveler, than the brave Ulysees. Playing by ensemble rules, a small circle of players paint blue renderings of songs that Slowhand knows just as well as anything he’s ever written himself. Billy Preston’s there propping up “32-20 Blues” with a piano backbone, and squeezing organ grease over “Little Queen Of Spades.” Steve Gadd’s drumming won’t dare let the swing in “They’re Red Hot” falter one tick. And Jerry Portnoy’s harp is on continuous purr, as when circling in a holding pattern above “Traveling Riverside Blues.” Yet it’s the guitars -- slippery, wooly, gnashing -- that inflict the damage. Granted: they’re kept on short leash. Nonetheless, Clapton, Andy Fairweather Low, and Doyle Bramhall II yank and tug like enraged rottweilers to get a piece of “Milkcow’s Calf Blues,” “Love In Vain,” and, of course, the apocalyptic crescendo of “Hell Hound On My Trail.” Mr. Clapton’s a kid in Mr. Johnson’s candy store.
- Dennis Rozanski Baltimore Blues Society BluesRag

• Candye Kane - White Trash Girl
• The American Folk Blues Festival Volume 3 DVD and CD
• Paul Rishell and Annie Raines - Goin' Home