One of Johnson's most celebrated works, "Hellhound" is the song that launched a thousand obsessions among the predominantly white blues fans of the '60s and '70s. It is arguably the bleakest, most desperate, yet most compelling blues ever recorded. Peter Guralnick, speaking for an entire generation, writes in Searching for Robert Johnson about the "stark terror" produced by the piece, noting that in this instance the lack of alternate version rings entirely appropriate: "It seems impossible to imagine a recording engineer saying, 'Could we have another take of that one, Bob?'" For a long time, this unspoken taboo seemed to extend to cover versions as well. A spectrum of acts, from Led Zeppelin to David Bromberg, covered songs like "Traveling Riverside Blues," "Stop Breaking Down," and "Sweet Home Chicago," but no one seemed to want to touch "Hellhound."

The fact that Clapton now takes it on is to his credit, but his rendition brings to the fore all the unfortunate mythology that has afflicted this work, and Johnson's oeuvre in general, almost since the time of his death. The power of Johnson's original comes from the constant interplay between hard-bent high notes and a dirge-like bass descent, themselves mirrored by the keening sob of the main lyric line and a lower, almost resigned reprise, like an aside to himself, that fully brings home the sense of hopelessness. This is a song about loneliness and panic and having no shelter from the storm — and not, as some like to think, about some mystical demon-doggy chasing him down Highway 49. Johnson's refusal to keep his voice in the high register — his constant swing between desperation and defeat — suggests the full depth of emotions to which one can sink. But Clapton, like many others enthralled by "Hellhound," seems blinded by a superficial, devil-at-his-throat atmosphere, and his version, full of melodramatic vocals and wailing slide lines (the howling wind, you follow?), makes it sound vaguely cartoonish — George Thorogood dubbing the soundtrack to a Christopher Lee movie.

Don't get me wrong: I'd wager that Clapton has been as genuinely touched by this song as anyone. But for all his sensitivity as a musician, he just doesn't seem to get it. And if I've spent so much time on this one piece, it's because it encapsulates my greatest disappointment with the album as a whole: that for all the talent and enthusiasm on display, something essential is lacking, a sense of depth and conviction. No doubt it's unfair to expect anyone to match Robert Johnson's depth of expression, but at the same time Clapton, by his reputation and his long-professed championship of the music, asks to be held to a higher standard. Me and Mr. Johnson is by no means a bad album. On the contrary, it's a very likable and listenable album. But at the end of the day, it still sounds like a bunch of middle-aged white guys playing someone else's blues.