I recently finished my second read of guitarist Eric Clapton’s autobiography, the aptly titled “Clapton,” which details in depth the brilliant artist’s personal and musical life, from his birth in the Village of Ripley (approximately 25 miles from London) to his most recent, and possibly last, world tour in 2006 and 2007. And I must say, it’s as interesting and honest an account of one’s life I’ve ever read over the course of more than 30 years of musical and literary curiosity on my part.

To be honest, you don’t read this book as much as you experience it, particularly if you’re a fan of the man, or of guitar, or of music in general. His writing skills are top-notch, for one thing (he relates at one point his love of language), yet it’s the brutally truthful way he goes about telling his story that really hits a nerve.

And there are parts of the book that are brutal; Clapton pulls no punches here.