On our way back from Disney, Nancy and I stopped in Tampa on Saturday for the Eric Clapton concert at the Ford Amphitheater. It was the first show of Clapton’s North American tour this summer.

I’m pleased to say that getting past security with a fanny pack full of diabetes paraphernalia was a breeze. It helps to do a little profiling first, so I stood back for a minute to see which of the six or seven bag-checkers might be taking more time with their inspections than others. Not that I had anything to hide, but right away I ruled out the three with the longest lines.

Long, slow moving lines often mean long, slow moving inspections. I wanted someone quick. So I moved to a shorter line where the guard was smiling, joking, and happy. You don’t want a miserable SOB ripping through your stuff, no matter how short the line is. So I opened the fanny pack, smiled real big, said nothing, and the cheerful fellow whisked me through with barely a look.

No one has any right to expect the sizzle, fire, and in-your-faceness of KISS or the Stones from EC. The man has not made a name for himself by throwing guitars back and forth with other musicians a la Rick Derringer, nor is he about to arrive on stage bare-chested and tattooed sporting a do-rag. Clapton plays guitar. Arguably, he does it better than most, if not all, blues/rock pickers on the globe.

But not last Saturday.

With the high prices of concert tickets these days, I have reason to be a little Grumpy. The artist formerly known as God turned in a pretty mortal performance, surrounding himself with musicians who, with the possible exception of Robert Randolph, clearly wanted to be somewhere else.

The tour opener was fraught with slip-ups that should have been ironed out in rehearsals, and not even a blues-laden set list was able to cut through the disappointing act in front of a ¾ full house.

A transition in darkness from electric to acoustic guitar had roadies wandering about the stage with flashlights for what seemed like an eternity. Portions of the backdrop lighting effects at one point displayed irrelevant, technical Xs, Ys, and numbers, until someone in charge picked up on it in mid-song and hit the right switches to restore the correct scenes. Back-up guitarist Doyle Bramhall II missed a queue for a lead solo and came in a full measure late.

An important, lone, snare/bass drum accent (just before the final chord of Layla) caught the sound guys off guard, resulting in a distorted, ear-splitting explosion disproportionately loud enough to physically startle people even at the back of the theater.

Clapton handed off far too much of the lead work to his sidekick Bramhall, and at times stood motionless with his arms drooped straight downward behind his Stratocaster while others did the heavy lifting. But things never got lifted very far off the ground.

Admittedly, these were not the same conditions I enjoy at home watching Clapton’s One More Car, One More Rider concert DVD. Open air shows present challenges, especially when a major highway is within throwing distance, and when sound has to be projected 400 to 500 feet out. I can’t blame Slowhand for that, nor will I think any less of his skills than I did before the show. The man is still as good as they make them.

Even if, from time to time, he just phones it in.