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His memoir, just like his life, is seemingly compelling at first and utterly vacuous at the end. Clapton's story starts out with a confusing childhood and then builds a bright flame of artistry on top. This all crumbles as his desire and dependecy steer him to the brink self-destruction. But all of the compelling rock n' roll stories that should be in this autobiography are replaced with remorseful and arrogant AA/group-therapy recounts of his misadventures.
As he winds down his story I'm left, as a reader, wondering why am I reading this? The last several chapters read like a digest of his diary: Clapton gets married, clapton has kids, clapton goes on tour, claton gets homesick, clapton sees his kids and is happy, clapton is done with tour, clapton sits around and then goes fishing, clapton writes an autobiography. Who the fuck cares?