“No time for pity/for the tree or me…” — oh God. Cream’s superbrow compos(t) came as a bane to rock, whose death starts here. You say Tomarto, I say fat arch f*cker. When our trio’s frosting — check out the Mt. Rushmore cake on the cover — wanks technique sans mojo (funk or swagger), do we have to grunt for them? RE the jokey side-closers: they can’t even manage a good bad song. Hippie-thick dinosaur s*it, but Clapton cuts it throughout.
Rating: C+
