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"&lt;p&gt;Of the many reasons why middle-class white boys such as Eric Clapton and Aerosmith flocked to the music of older, impoverished black men in the 1960s and early 1970s, here is one of the best: The great bluesmen were also great pop songwriters. Robert Johnson, Willie Dixon and Mississippi Fred McDowell, to name just three, told real-life stories in hot, tight packages of poetic vernacular and hard-won joy. Clapton and Aerosmith take different routes back to blues school on these covers albums, but they do so with mutual fealty and honest delight.&lt;/p&gt;\r\n&lt;wm:embed type=\"related\"&gt;&lt;/wm:embed&gt;&lt;p&gt;Johnson has been Clapton&amp;apos;s steady rollin&amp;apos; muse since 1966, when he cut Johnson&amp;apos;s &amp;quot;Ramblin&amp;apos; on My Mind&amp;quot; with John Mayall. That song is not among the fourteen Clapton covers on his all-Johnson program; nor is &amp;quot;Crossroads,&amp;quot; which he turned into high-speed-guitar spectacle with Cream. In fact, Clapton keeps his solos in &amp;quot;When You Got a Good Friend&amp;quot; and &amp;quot;Little Queen of Spades&amp;quot; to a blistering chorus or two, to better show off the dirty-rubber swing of his longtime road-and-studio band. Clapton pays broad tribute to Johnson as a composer and public-domain synthesist, spicing the sorrow of &amp;quot;Love in Vain&amp;quot; with the carnal sport of &amp;quot;They&amp;apos;re Red Hot.&amp;quot; But he recalls his own passage through darkness in these songs, too. When he finds Satan on his doorstep in &amp;quot;Me and the Devil Blues,&amp;quot; you can hear in Clapton&amp;apos;s deep, scarred howl that he is confronting an old acquaintance.&lt;/p&gt;\r\n&lt;p&gt;Aerosmith don&amp;apos;t have much time for pain on &lt;em&gt;Honkin&amp;apos; on Bobo&lt;/em&gt;. The songs are mostly about gettin&amp;apos; some, then gettin&amp;apos; outta there &amp;#x2014; Dixon&amp;apos;s &amp;quot;I&amp;apos;m Ready,&amp;quot; Bo Diddley&amp;apos;s &amp;quot;Road Runner&amp;quot; &amp;#x2014; and the attack is heavy Sixties shindig: snarling guitars, thunderclap drumming, Steven Tyler&amp;apos;s 3-D snake hiss and widescreen yowl. &lt;em&gt;Bobo&lt;/em&gt; is really a combined tribute: to the originators of the blues&amp;apos; core repertoire and the explosive, electric inventions of 1960s British bands such as the Yardbirds, Mayall&amp;apos;s Bluesbreakers and the Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac. Aerosmith&amp;apos;s devil&amp;apos;s-army gallop through &amp;quot;Baby Please Don&amp;apos;t Go&amp;quot; is a lunatic escalation of Them&amp;apos;s 1965 cover of the Big Joe Williams song. There is a tightness to this mania; &lt;em&gt;Bobo&lt;/em&gt; is a celebratory attack on the canon, not a violation of it. And there are moments of exotic restraint, such as the misty-mountain noir of Perry&amp;apos;s hurdy-gurdy in McDowell&amp;apos;s &amp;quot;Back Back Train.&amp;quot; But Aerosmith&amp;apos;s specialty is jubilant overkill, and &lt;em&gt;Bobo&lt;/em&gt; is a huge, affectionate spoonful. You want scholarship and propriety? You&amp;apos;re barking at the wrong doghouse.&lt;/p&gt;"^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.rollingstone.com/music/albumreviews/me-and-mr-johnson-20040324>