He was called "god" at 25. His greatest work came at 46.

There's a version of Eric Clapton's story that most people know.

The prodigy. The legend. The man whose fans spray-painted "Clapton is god" on the walls of London Underground stations in the 1960s when he was barely in his mid-twenties. The guitarist who played on Beatles records, formed Cream, wrote Layla, and became the only musician ever inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame three separate times.

That's the highlight reel.

Here's the part that doesn't make the highlight reel.

By the early 1970s, Clapton had nursed a heroin addiction that resulted in a lengthy career hiatus. He eventually kicked heroin, then replaced it with alcohol — two bottles of brandy a day at his worst. Then in 1991, the unthinkable happened. His four-year-old son Conor fell from a window of a New York City apartment and died. All of a sudden it was clear Clapton was no god. 

By the time 1992 arrived, the world had quietly moved on from Eric Clapton.

He was 46 years old. Freshly sober. Grieving. And about to do the most important thing of his career — not despite all of that, but because of it.

On January 16, 1992, he stepped onto a spare stage at Bray Studios in Windsor, Berkshire, in front of just a few dozen fans, with MTV cameras rolling. No elaborate production. No stadium crowd. No wall of sound. He unplugged his guitar, sat down on a stool, and played.

He played "Tears in Heaven," the song he wrote for his dead son. He stripped "Layla" — a thundering rock anthem — down to a bare acoustic whisper. He went back to the blues that had made him pick up a guitar in the first place, as a thirteen-year-old boy who had just heard Muddy Waters for the first time.

The result redefined Clapton as a musician. The accompanying album went on to sell 26 million copies, remaining the best-selling live album of all time. 

He was 46 years old.

I think about this story a lot when I work with students who come to me convinced they've missed their window. That they're too old to start. That the people who were going to learn guitar already did, back when they were young and had the time and the patience for it.

What Clapton understood — maybe only because he'd lost so much — is that the most powerful thing you can do with an instrument isn't show off what you know. It's get honest about why you loved it in the first place.

Strip it back. Go back to the beginning. Play the songs that made you want to play.

That's not a beginner's approach. That's the approach of someone who finally knows what matters.

Your guitar has been waiting patiently. It doesn't care how old you are or how long it's been sitting there.

Hit reply and tell me — what made you want to play in the first place?

Jam soon, 

JB