When I was about 17, I bought a cheap electric guitar and a small amp, and began trying to emulate the music I listened to. I wanted to play loud rock and since it was my angry-young-man phase (which, now that I think about it, lasted far longer than it probably should have), playing guitar loudly was part of the persona, I thought.

I met a jazz guitarist who told me that if I wanted to play most rock songs, I’d have to start with the blues. I really wasn’t interested in what sounded like scratchy recordings and simple, repetitive lyrics but over to Tower Records in Greenwich Village I went, searching for some blues records and an education.

I didn’t really know many blues artists by name, but I did, however, recognize some songs by people like Muddy Waters, Elmore James and Robert Johnson who, for me, was particularly intriguing since there was this mysterious legend surrounding his life and death.

Gradually, I shifted from just listening to learn how to play popular rock songs to actually liking the way playing blues made me feel. There’s something very big about blues — electric blues, in particular, but also in just the quiet strumming and picking on just one acoustic guitar — in which you can get lost; it’s like you can’t get enough and you want it to go on and on.

At that point, I’d been a fan of Eric Clapton for about 10 years or so, although I didn’t really know much about his life. To me, he was an iconic guitarist and, I supposed, lived the “typical” rock star lifestyle, since his songs and appearance seemed to indicate it.

The first time I saw him was at LiveAid in 1985 and, after hearing “Layla”, I was just completely inspired: that’s what I wanted to sound like. Shortly thereafter, with high aspirations, I began listening to his music more, trying to play along with solos that sounded so heartfelt to me. Since then, I’ve seen him live 4 times and he’s remained my main inspiration for playing.

Having just finished Clapton: The Autobiography, I have a new perspective on a man who really did live the blues — whether by self-inflicted pain, battles with addiction or the death of those near to him.

Though the book is an autobiography, the tone isn’t at all self-absorbed boasting. Clapton talks about his music and fellow musicians in the context of what they meant to him at a particular time in his life, especially during times of troubled relationships, a self-imposed heroin- and alcohol-induced period of seclusion or grieving the death of family and friends (of which there were many).

It was overwhelming reading about the extremes in Clapton’s life: while he was achieving the status of legend — which he recounts almost off-handedly — he was falling deeper into chemical addiction at the expense of his career and relationships.

The long climb back to sobriety after hitting his rock bottom coincided with the beginning of a series of career challenges, losses and tragedies; but despite the pain, Clapton seemed to deliver himself from the abyss of self-destruction with how he now dealt with life: by getting sober, he now had to face what he’d been numbing himself to for so long.

Life was hard and scary, and, with a new inner voice, Clapton learned how to experience the pain — and survive.

In the end, Eric Clapton recalls his many years of both success and turmoil with no shame and, seemingly, few regrets (his main one: that he never got to play together with Ray Charles). With an obvious degree of inner faith in his abilities not just as a musician but as a man, he says he’s a happy father and husband who, through persistence, found out a little more about himself — and life — than many dare.

• NPR Music: Eric Clapton Looks Back at His Blues Roots
• The Crossroads Center at Antigua: An International Centre of Excellence for the treatment of alcohol, drugs and other addictive disorders