Tiresome Clapton just meets requirements

Ten minutes into Eric Clapton's Saturday night stand at the MGM, I began to feel a buzz coming on. It started at my feet -- planted on the floor, immobile -- and slowly but surely went to my head, where it sprayed the works with Novocaine. At first I thought it was the muscle relaxants my doctor prescribed last week for my bad back -- then I remembered I hadn't taken any that day.

Now, I won't deny that Clapton has a peerless mastery of his instrument, even now. Watching him rip through one of his effortless, fluid leads is akin to watching a solar eclipse: the jaw hangs open, the mind boggles, the head shakes in mute disbelief. He made a sound so monumental, it shamed the 25-odd-piece string section backing up his nine-piece band (more on them in a moment). I applauded his every flourish, every spare lick, even when they approximated his "Lethal Weapon" soundtrack work.

Eric Clapton could have come out buck naked -- but for his guitar -- and satisfied the capacity crowd, if he felt like working that hard. But why should he? He has inspired an entire generation of players, including Eddie Van Halen, who has inspired a few budding players himself. He has seen more than a few of his compositions fly up the charts; the past decade alone has yielded an entire greatest hits compilation. He has played to so many people that the numbers can only be calculated by advanced mathematics. What else does Eric Clapton need to do?

Not a thing. And judging from the tiresome set he played the other night, he knows it.

Opening with a selection of songs from his new record "Pilgrim," Clapton's live set-up was a study in government-inspired redundancy. Two keyboardists! Three backing vocalists! Two rhythm guitarists! A full string section! It seems hard to believe that Clapton needed of all that virtuoso firepower, but he used it, and to pleasant effect: the "Pilgrim" numbers were the best of the evening, particularly the touching ballad "River of Tears" (the first number on which the string section was even audible) and the shuffling "One Chance." Clapton invested himself fully in the material, which would likely be acknowledged as brilliant if we didn't know what the man was capable of.

It was his stabs at vintage material that sank him. His classic cover of "I Shot The Sheriff" was all foam and no beer. And anyone who prefers his lethargic, "MTV Unplugged" retooling of "Layla" to the passionate original needs to examine their relationship to the man: they're not fans. It seems amazing that with all those musicians on stage -- some in danger of loitering -- that Clapton couldn't stand up, take a deep breath, and give the people what they wanted.

Last year, poking fun at the Rolling Stones was practically a cottage industry. Everyone from David Letterman on down couldn't believe that these four old men -- not aging, aged -- were still banging their heads and shaking their booties to the same beat they've been pumping out for 30 years. But they knew what their audience wanted, and they knew that if they were going to present themselves at a size equal to the myth they had created, they had better make some noise.

They ran. They jumped. They sweat. And at the end of each show, they no doubt collapsed into deep, satisfied slumbers, knowing they hadn't expended that adrenaline for nothing. Judging from Saturday night's noncommittal set, Clapton would be wise to call Jagger tonight, wake him up, and ask him if he's got any more of that good stuff lying around.

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