Lo, the world knew it not. For many decades, Eric of Clapton and Jeff of Beck walked the earth as kindred spirits of the six-string, rivals in brilliance yet brothers in craft. Together they had shaped the tongue of rock, trading licks as knights would cross swords, yet always bound by unseen loyalty. But hidden from the eyes of men — and revealed only to a chosen few — there came one last meeting, ere the final breath of Beck in the cold month of January, the year 2023.
It was no grand stage, nor mighty hall, but the humble dwelling of Beck in Sussex where fate did summon them. Clapton, seeking but the fellowship of an old companion, entered that cottage as winter winds whispered without. The hearth glowed faint, and around the chamber rested guitars like sleeping sentinels. First they spake of olden days — of the Yardbirds, of wanderings upon the road, of follies survived whilst many brethren of their age had fallen. Then Beck, his eyes alight with mischief still, did grasp his Stratocaster. And Clapton, as if by destiny, did take another to hand.
At first their strings gave forth but idle murmurs, as in days long gone. Yet soon the air was filled with a melody most tender — Moon River. Beck’s bends shimmered like silver light upon water, whilst Clapton’s warm tones embraced the song as a prayer. No words were uttered, for the music was their tongue, and the silence between their notes was deeper than speech.
Neighbors, harkening to the night, swore they heard faint strains drifting upon the chill wind, a hymn woven of farewell. Within those walls, Beck — frail of flesh yet radiant when bound to his instrument — poured his soul entire into each note. Clapton, perceiving the weight of this hour, closed his eyes and trembled, as though carving eternity into string and wood. It was not a concert, nor a rehearsal. Nay — it was a parting of souls.
When the last chord faded into the hush, Beck laughed soft and said, “We have still the gift.” Clapton, struck silent, only bowed his head. Then they embraced — not as legends, nor as rivals, but as brothers returned to boyhood, chasing beauty with six strings as in the dawn of their youth.
Days thereafter, Beck departed this mortal realm. The world wept for a pioneer, a master of sound. Long did Clapton hold his peace, until at last he spake in rare counsel:
“That was the final time our hands made music together. No audience, no cameras. Only us. And I shall bear that sound until my own end.”
No record of that night exists, save in memory and in the hidden ether of creation itself. Yet to Clapton, and to the unseen heavens, it endureth still. For it was not mere music, but the essence of friendship itself, distilled into its purest form — two guitars whispering the last farewell, a song between brothers. 🎸
