So this Eric Clapton fella. He quits three wildly successful bands, and runs off to America to play guitar with Mississippi wild man Delaney Bramlett, his lovely wife Bonnie, and their band. He returns to England, and promptly falls in love with the wife of his best friend, a guy named George Harrison, whose band, the Beatles, had achieved a degree of success.
Tortured by this unrequited love, he summons Delaney's sidemen (leaving Delaney righteously pissed, it must be said), and forms a band, his masterful guitar and vocals blending quite well with the greasy, southern-fried, blue-eyed soul of messrs. Bobby Whitlock, Carl Radle, and Jim Gordon.
He invites Duane Allman along for a few of the songs, and together they produce a pain-soaked blues masterpiece, an album that conveys the most goddamn vicious and evil pain a man can possibly experience, of being deeply, wildly, and uncontrollably in love with a woman he simply cannot have, a pain that puts a white-hot fucking poker into the pit of your fucking stomach and reaches deep inside and twists your fucking heart until the goddamn thing is drained dry, and the only thing left inside are the hot, salty, nasty fucking tears that you let flow in some twisted fucking effort to exorcise the very thought of that beautiful, untouchable, goddamn perfect fucking woman from your mind, and the blunt, searing, blistering goddamn pain from your soul; a pain so bad that you willingly drop to your knees and scream for God to release you from this agony and give you the sweet, empty bliss of death, a pain so wretchedly vile and savage and deep it makes you beg for Satan himself to come and whisk you off to the fiery pits of hell, to willingly give him your soul, if it will buy you, for one brief, fuckng minute, release from the thought of that soft. Exquisite. Unattainable. Goddamn. WOMAN.
Yeah. That kind of pain. It's all here. Enjoy.