J.J. Cale & Eric Clapton
The Road To Escondido

One of the things that really grinds my gears, apart from Italian politicians playing in TV quizzes, is albums made without reason, without a why, and above all, without any punch.

It may seem strange to you, but this "The Road To Escondido" is exactly one of these, and the thing itself is incredible! I say this because one imagines The Big Master JJ Cale, a superb bluesman (nowadays in mothballs to be honest) and a true craftsman of the genre, who, together with The Big Slowhand Clapton, could create one of those memorable events full of sweat, soul, and lots and lots of skill? And instead?
Instead, just as Di Pietro continues to clown around with Bonolis, these two produce 14 songs of "pure craft" where the only thing missing is Truly Felt Passion and the desire to "interact" genuinely between the two.

The two elderly guitarists fawn over each other (as is common among certain calibers) with the following declarations (source: www. ligachannel. com for the nitpickers):
JJC: "Eric and I have known each other for a long time and finally were able to complete this experience, a first true album together. He is a great musician, and it was a pleasure to work so closely with him."
EC, on his knees, responds: "It was the realization of a dream, one of those things you could count among your last ambitions. Working with the man whose music inspired me more than any other. Words can't describe what J. J. Cale represents to me, musically and personally. Without wanting to embarrass him with compliments, I'll just say we had fun making a great album and as far as I'm concerned, I'm already eager to make another one with him."

This would be a commendable thing if such saccharine and honey corresponded to a result worthy of the fame that has long surrounded both of them (do we want to talk about the historic "Cocaine" written by Cale but made famous by Eric?! No, please? everyone played it, really everyone, at least once on a school trip with Don Worry and Sister Attizza!! NO, I REFUSE? I won't talk about it and that's that!).

A "weak" album, as we were saying, with more country/folk than blues atmospheres, full of redundant and tediously predictable passages never (I repeat N E V E R) offering a spark, a riff, something that goes beyond those four chords of verse-chorus-verse, made cloying here by interpretations that are at least "sterile" and "artificial," even though supported by a band of excellent sidekicks (just mention Pino Palladino and the late Billy Preston in his final farewell) who, despite their efforts, cannot lift these two fossils a meter off the ground from the Wax Museum.
A project managed by two Old Glories skilled (that at least is indisputable) at pandering to each other in a series of exchanges, prim and cute but weak caricatures of two characters who, in their heyday, marked an era in the way Blues was conceived (back then a white man playing blues was scandalous!!) and in the technical approach of "how to play it."

A prim, cloying, and tremendously contrived work, like the terrible cover, which tries to wink at the bohemian spirit of the golden years, depicting the two sad, bewildered, and already unconvinced guitarists in a fakely-country setting, as fake as the clothes, the truck, and even the sign with the destination's name written in black Carioca!

I repeat: a cute little album full of banality and predictable passages as much as Sgarbi's swearing on TV, and between the two, in my modest opinion, the most annoying and irritating are those that come out of the grooves of this more unremarkable than infamous work.

P.S. Nevertheless, Sgarbi, meanwhile, is always on TV playing the jester and swearing by contract - and being overly paid for it - and I close the parenthesis?