Two Men Named John Mitchell — Clapton Goes to Wrong One’s Funeral with SHOCKING Consequences
Two Men Named John Mitchell — Clapton Goes to Wrong One’s Funeral with SHOCKING Consequences
There were two John Mitchells in London’s music scene in the 1970s. One was Eric Clapton’s friend, a session guitarist who’d helped Clapton on several albums. The other was a music critic who’d written scathing reviews, calling Clapton a technically proficient but emotionally bankrupt blues thief. In 1995, Clapton received word that John Mitchell had died. He attended the funeral to honor his friend, but he walked into the wrong one. The John Mitchell being buried was the critic.
The man who’d hated Clapton for 20 years. The family was horrified. Clapton was humiliated. But the dead man’s 14-year-old daughter was wearing a Clapton t-shirt under her funeral dress. And when she asked him to stay and play, Clapton learned that the people who hate your art don’t matter nearly as much as the people who love it, even if they’re the haters own children. November 12th, 1995, London, England. Eric Clapton was in his home studio when his manager called with news that would lead to one of the most
transformative moments of his career. Eric, I have sad news. John Mitchell passed away yesterday. Heart attack. He was 63. The funeral is tomorrow at St. Mary’s Church in Hamstead. 2:00. Clapton sat down his guitar. Memories flooding back. John Mitchell, the session guitarist who’d helped him on three albums in the 70s. They’d shared late night recording sessions, countless cups of coffee, and the unique camaraderie that comes from creating music together. They hadn’t stayed in touch over the years, but Clapton
remembered him fondly. I’ll attend, send flowers to the family. The next day was quintessentially London. Gray skies, persistent drizzle, the kind of weather that seems designed for funerals. Clapton dressed in a dark suit and drove to St. Mary’s Church in Hamstead. He arrived 15 minutes early, parking down the street to avoid attention. His fame could turn any event into a spectacle, and today was about honoring John, not about Eric Clapton, the rock star. Inside, about 60 people scattered
throughout the old stone church. As Clapton walked down the aisle, looking for a discrete seat near the back, several people turned to look at him. Their expressions were strange, not the usual recognition or admiration, but shock, even hostility. He found a seat in the fourth row from the back and picked up the funeral program. In loving memory of John Arthur Mitchell, 1932, 1995. Clapton looked at the photograph on the cover and his stomach dropped. This wasn’t his John Mitchell. The man in the
photo was a complete stranger. Older, heavier, sternlooking with thick glasses and a severe expression. Clapton had never seen this face in his life. Different man, same name, wrong funeral. Before he could decide whether to leave immediately or sit through the service to avoid causing a scene, a woman in black approached his pew, the widow clearly. Her voice was cold and formal. Mr. Clapton, could you come with me, please? Clapton followed the widow to the vestibule, his face burning with embarrassment. Two others joined, a man
in his 30s and a teenage daughter, both clearly family members. I’m Margaret Mitchell, John’s widow. This is my son, David, and my daughter, Emma. She looked at Clapton with absolutely no warmth. Why are you here, Mrs. Mitchell? I’m so sorry. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I thought this was a different John Mitchell, a session musician I knew in the 70s. I didn’t realize until I saw the program. I’ll leave immediately. You didn’t know my husband? No, ma’am. I’ve never met him. I apologize
profusely for my husband despised you, Mr. Clapton. Clapton froze. I’m sorry. My husband was a music critic for the Evening Standard and Melody Maker. For over 20 years, he reviewed your albums and concerts, and he hated your work. He called you, she looked at her son. David spoke coldly, reciting from memory, a technically proficient, but emotionally bankrupt blues thief. Margaret nodded. That was John’s standard assessment. He believed you’d taken sacred American blues music and stripped it of soul for
commercial profit. He wrote it in dozens of reviews over two decades. He made sure everyone who read his columns knew exactly what he thought of you. Clapton felt each word like a physical blow. to accidentally attend the funeral of someone who’d spent 20 years publicly hating his work. The humiliation was almost unbearable. I had absolutely no idea. I’m deeply sorry for this intrusion. I’ll leave right now. He turned to go, but a young voice stopped him. Please don’t leave. The teenage girl, Emma, had spoken. As
she nervously adjusted her black cardigan, pulling it tighter around herself, Clapton saw what she was wearing underneath, a faded Eric Clapton t-shirt from the 1992 Unplugged Tour. Margaret saw it at the same moment. Emma, what are you Why are you wearing that? Emma’s eyes, already red from crying, filled with fresh tears. Because I love his music, Mom. I know Dad hated it. I know I shouldn’t be wearing this today. I’ve loved his music since I was 10. I have all his albums. I play them
with headphones on so Dad wouldn’t hear. I know it’s disrespectful to wear this to Dad’s funeral, but I needed something that made me feel better. And Dad’s music, all that classical stuff he loved. It just makes me sadder. She looked directly at Clapton. her young face showing grief, defiance, and desperate hope. Please don’t leave, Mr. Clapton. I know you came here by mistake. I know my dad spent 20 years writing that you’re a fraud. I’ve read his reviews. He kept them in a file in
his office. He was proud of them. But I don’t care what he wrote. Your music helped me through my parents’ divorce when I was 11. through starting at a new school where I didn’t know anyone. Through every time I felt alone. You’re here by accident. But please, would you play something? Not for Dad. For me, because I need it. The vestibule was completely silent. Margaret stood with her hand over her mouth, clearly shocked by her daughter’s confession. David looked deeply uncomfortable, caught
between his father’s memory and his sister’s obvious pain. Clapton looked at this 14-year-old girl, asking him to play at the funeral of his biggest critic. “Emma, are you absolutely sure? Your father?” “My father isn’t here anymore,” Emma said, her voice breaking but determined. and I am and I’m sad and I need this, please.” Clapton looked at Margaret. Mrs. Mitchell, this is entirely your decision. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave immediately, and we’ll never speak
of this again. But if you’d allow me to stay and play something for Emma, I’d be honored, not to disrespect your husband’s memory in any way, but to acknowledge that your daughter is grieving and music brings her comfort.” Margaret looked at her daughter for a long moment, at the Clapton T-shirt visible beneath the cardigan, at 14 years of Emma hiding what she loved, at the desperate hope in her eyes. She took a long shaky breath. My husband had very strong opinions about music, about art,
about what was authentic, and what was commercial garbage, as he liked to say. Emma was different from her brother, more sensitive, more open to things Jon couldn’t categorize or control. The more Jon lectured Emma about proper music, the more she retreated into headphones and her own private world. Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. Jon was difficult, rigid, critical of everything and everyone, including his own family. Emma and John fought constantly about music, about her taste, about what she
listened to. I watched my daughter grow quieter and quieter over the years, hiding everything she loved because her father dismissed it so harshly. I should have stood up for her more. I should have protected her right to like what she likes. I didn’t, and I regret that. She wiped her eyes. If Emma wants you to play, Mr. Clapton, then please stay. John spent 20 years criticizing you publicly. Let his funeral be the one place where his daughter gets to celebrate your music without being told
she’s wrong. She deserves that much. Thank you, Clapton said quietly. I promise I won’t let her down. They returned to the church. The funeral proceeded. Prayers, readings, hymns. Then John’s brother delivered a eulogy about J’s career as a music critic, his unwavering commitment to authentic artistry, his refusal to compromise his standards for popular taste. Several people in the congregation nodded knowingly. Clearly, John Mitchell’s critical and uncompromising nature had
been wellknown. Then Margaret stood at the podium. She looked at her prepared remarks, paused, and set them aside. “My husband believed in standards,” Margaret said, her voice steady despite her obvious emotion. “In excellence, in authenticity. Many of you knew John as a critic, not just of music, but of art, culture, even people. Some of you knew him as difficult, uncompromising, sometimes harsh in his assessments.” She paused, looking out at the congregation. But there’s something John never understood.
The music that moves people, that truly reaches them, is completely subjective. What sounds empty to one person sounds like salvation to another. And dismissing someone else’s emotional response to art simply because it doesn’t match your own educated opinion, that’s not criticism, that’s cruelty. The church went intensely quiet. [snorts] Today, someone is here who John criticized for over 20 years in print. Someone who came by complete accident thinking he was honoring someone else.
Someone who tried to leave quietly when he realized his mistake. But someone my daughter, my grieving daughter, asked to stay because his music means something real and important to her. Margaret’s voice broke slightly. I’m grateful Eric Clapton is here because I want my daughter to know that her feelings are valid, that the music she loves matters, that her father’s opinions, as educated and strongly held as they were, don’t define reality for everyone. Margaret stepped down and nodded to Clapton.
Clapton walked to the front carrying his acoustic guitar. 60 people watched, some confused, some curious, some clearly disapproving. “My name is Eric Clapton,” he said quietly. “I came here today thinking I was attending the funeral of a friend. Instead, I walked into the funeral of a man who spent over 20 years writing that I was a fraud, that I’d stolen sacred music and commercialized it, that I was, in his exact words, technically proficient, but emotionally bankrupt. He looked at Emma in the front
row, tears streaming down her face. John Mitchell was entitled to his opinion. Critics serve an important function. They challenge artists. They educate audiences. And maybe John was right about me. Maybe I am emotionally bankrupt. I’ve asked myself that question many times. He adjusted the guitar. But Emma asked me to stay. She told me my music helped her through the hardest times in her life, that it made her feel less alone, and that matters more than any review ever written. Because if one person feels less alone
because of a song I played, then I’m doing what music is supposed to do. Clapton began to play Tears in Heaven, the song about his son Connor, who died in 1991, the song that had helped millions process grief, the song John Mitchell had dismissed as Mlin emotional manipulation designed to exploit personal tragedy for commercial gain. But as Clapton played in that quiet church with Emma sobbing and 60 other people listening in stunned silence, it didn’t sound Mlin. It sounded like what it was. Unbearable pain transformed into
something that could hold other people’s pain, too. When the final notes faded, half the church was crying. Even David had tears running down his face. Emma, thank you for asking me to stay. Your father and I would have disagreed about music forever. But he raised a daughter who knows what she loves and has the courage to ask for it. That’s something to be proud of. As people filed out, Emma approached with her mother. Mr. Clapton, thank you, Emma said, her voice from crying. That song is my favorite.
Dad called it manipulative, but it’s not. It’s real. You lost your son. I lost my dad. The song makes the sadness feel less lonely. She pulled out a small worn notebook. Would you sign this? My music journal. I write about songs I love. Dad found it once and read it. He wrote in all the margins, correcting my opinions, telling me why I was wrong. But I kept writing anyway. Clapton opened it. An entry about Laya with John Mitchell’s harsh red pen notes. historically inaccurate appropriation of
blues tradition, technically competent, but spiritually void. Clapton felt anger rise, not at the criticism of his work, but at this man who tried to crush his daughter’s joy. He turned to a blank page and wrote, “Dear Emma, your father thought my music was fraudulent. Maybe he was right, but you thought it was meaningful, and you’re the one who matters. Never let anyone tell you that what you love is wrong. Keep writing. Keep listening. Keep trusting your heart. Your friend, Eric Clapton.
November 13th, 1995. Emma read it and started crying again. I’m keeping this forever. As Clapton walked to his car in the drizzle, Margaret caught up with him. Mr. Clapton, wait. John didn’t just criticize you in print. He criticized you at home constantly. Every time Emma played your music, Jon would find her and lecture her, tell her she was naive, tasteless, that she didn’t understand real music. Emma started living in headphones, hiding what she loved like it was shameful, and I let it happen. I
was too afraid of John’s disapproval to defend my own daughter. Margaret’s tears mixed with the rain. When you walked in today and I saw Emma’s face light up, truly light up for the first time in weeks, I realized my daughter has been waiting her whole life for someone to tell her that loving what she loves is okay. John spent 14 years telling her she was wrong. You gave her permission to trust herself. Thank you. In a 1996 interview, when asked about dealing with critics, Clapton gave an
answer that surprised people. Last year, I attended the funeral of one of my harshest critics by accident. Wrong John Mitchell. I tried to leave. His 14-year-old daughter asked me to stay. She said my music helped her feel less alone. I realized something that day. Critics don’t really matter. What matters is reaching people who need what you’re offering. John Mitchell thought I was emotionally bankrupt. His daughter felt emotion in my music. Who was right? The educated critic or the hurting
teenager? I choose to believe the teenager. I’ll always choose to believe the teenager. Emma Mitchell is 43 now. She teaches music in North London. That notebook with Clapton’s inscription carefully preserved hangs framed in her office. “My father spent his entire life telling people what was wrong with music,” Emma tells his students. Eric Clapton spent 15 minutes at my dad’s funeral telling me what was right, that my feelings mattered. “My father never told me that in 14 years. a stranger at
the wrong funeral did. In 2015, Emma wrote a blog post titled The Wrong Funeral: The Right Moment. It went viral. Clapton reached out. They met for coffee. “You probably don’t remember me,” Emma said. “I remember everything about that day,” Clapton replied. You taught me that people who hate my art will always be loud and visible. But people who love it need it quietly, desperately. They’re who I’m really playing for. Your father had a platform and a public voice. You had headphones
and a hidden t-shirt, but you were who the music was actually for. My father thought you were a fraud. I know, he told me in every review he wrote. But he was wrong. You showed up at the wrong funeral and stayed because a sad kid asked you to. That’s not fraud. That’s genuine kindness. Today, Emma tells her students the story every year. My father was a professional music critic. He knew music theory inside and out. He understood history and tradition. He had sophisticated, educated opinions. And he hated Eric
Clapton’s music. thought it was commercial garbage, but I loved Clapton’s music with my whole heart. And when my dad died, Clapton showed up by accident and played. I learned the most important lesson of my life. It doesn’t matter what the critics think. It matters whether music reaches you personally. My dad spent decades explaining why Clapton was wrong. But Clapton’s music got me through my entire childhood. So, who was actually right? John Mitchell spent 20 years calling Eric Clapton emotionally bankrupt. But
when Clapton accidentally attended Mitchell’s funeral and played for his grieving daughter, he proved that emotions, not technical proficiency, not critical acclaim, are what music is for. The wrong funeral became the right place. The critic’s daughter became the truest believer, and a teenage girl in a hidden Clapton t-shirt learned that loving what you love is never wrong. Sometimes the people who hate your art most vocally don’t matter at all because somewhere a 14-year-old is wearing your
t-shirt under her funeral dress, waiting for permission to love what she loves. And if you show up, even by complete accident, you can give her that permission.