WED., MAY 30, 2007
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A User's Guide to Creedence Clearwater Revival
by Lenny Kaye
"Timeless" is an accolade gifted only to the very few. Even ever-popular artists seldom outlast their respective rock generations, tied to nostalgia for their place in the space-time continuum and the subculture that elevates them. To transcend that sense of remembrance requires either a uniquely star-crossed performer (think Dylan or Das Beatles) or one who speaks with a universal simplicity (think Neil Young or Hank Williams).
Of all the many bands who came upon the scene in the afterglow of 1967's Summer of Love, Creedence Clearwater Revival appeared among the least likely to ascend to the pantheon of immortality. Despite their Bay Area roots, they could hardly be called a part of the psychedelic revolution, being decidedly retro and somewhat stodgy in the face of light shows and druggy experimentation. Yet this classicism, coupled with a steadfast reliance on the virtues of a chorus hook and a pointed phrase, not only made them one of the most popular groups of their turn-of-the-'70s era, but one whose songs still guarantee a singalong and a relevance: “I ain’t no Fortunate Son” resonates as well today as when John Fogerty directed it at another White House bent on its own self-fulfilling folly. There’s always a “Bad Moon Rising,” especially in these darkside times.
Unlike their peers, both fore and aft, Creedence grew up with rock & roll, and their evolutionary name changes reflect their passage to becoming the force of nature that would be CCR. Theirs is a quintessential American tale, with Doug Clifford and John Fogerty coming together in the San Francisco suburb of El Cerrito to form the Blue Velvets in 1958, John buying his first Sears Silvertone guitar and amp by delivering newspapers. Adding Stu Cook, on piano and later moving to bass, and John’s older brother, Tom, they first recorded in 1959 with “Tommy” at the forefront (quite the teen heartthrob in “Have You Ever Been Lonely”). John’s husky voice soon took over not only the lead vocals but became the focal point of the songwriting. In the wake of the Brit Invasion, in 1964, the group signed to jazz-oriented Fantasy Records, changing their name to the Golliwogs (the Blue Velvets, even then, sounded so David Lynch '50s), donning a variety of garage-pop styles, of which “Brown Eyed Girl” made enough local noise to keep them in rock dreams.
The first volume of the definitive Boxed Set contains many of these pre-Creedence rarities, and provides an engaging listen to John’s increasing understanding of his strong points. From early Liverpudlian experiments (“Don’t Tell Me No Lies,” “You Come Walking”) to later Fillmore fuzz-and-buzztone rave-ups on the order of “Little Tina,” it’s fun to spot the influences. The ‘Wogs (or is it the Gollys?) nod to the Zombies in “You Better Be Careful,” early Rolling Stones in “You Got Nothing on Me,” Standells honk in “You Can’t Be True,” “Midnight Hour” chord chops in “Gonna Hang Around”), all marking the growing command of John’s roughhewn voice. “Walking on the Water” could be delivered intact from a later Creedence album, its guitar solo a wild, freak-out special, man. Some fly-on-the-wall studio chatter brings you inside their studio life and growing familiarity with being recorded. If anything, a song like “Tell Me” shows just how little Creedence Clearwater Revival would differ from the last moments of the Golliwogs: add a bit more echo and some low-end EQ, and voila!
All of this gradual maturation would come to a head when Saul Zaentz bought Fantasy. Seeing the success of the newly-empowered FM “underground radio,” he helped spin the group’s newly updated Creedence moniker toward the long-form improvisation that is “Susie Q.” Taking off from Dale Hawkins’ 1957 great riff-and-a-holler, Fogerty allowed his inner guitar hero free-roam, and along with a reinvented version of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You,” brought their Blue Velvets lifeline full circle.
All of this was just a preamble to 1969, when Bayou Country and “Proud Mary” hit the charts, followed by Green River and “Bad Moon Rising.” They played Woodstock, incessantly toured. In 1970, Willy and the Poor Boys gave us the joyous “Down on the Corner” and raging “Fortunate Son.” There was “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” “Traveling Band,” “Born on the Bayou” (the definitive swamp-rock tune) and others you know by heart and osmosis. By October 1972, riven by a palace revolt that saw each of the individual members’ calling for their creative say, and John wanting to preserve his solo vision intact, they recorded the overtly democratic Mardi Gras and called it a day, little realizing that their short moment in time was on its way to being ever alive, whenever and wherever a scratched match or flicked lighter or lit cellphone is lifted in tribute, each generation’s alight.
And why? Standing at the nexus of country, rock and blues (pinpointed by their cover of “Cotton Fields”), everyone seems to love Creedence. Yet their populism, grounded in simple three-chord virtues and Chuck Berry licks, is hardly saccharine. John’s lyrical imagery not only rides roughshod over divisions of genre and social class but deepens and darkens as you get further within its catchphrases. Just listen to “Tombstone Shadow” from Green River. In 1969, “Effigy” witnesses “the fire spreadin’ to the palace door,” while in 1970, with the Vietnam war on every napalmed television screen, he warns “Two hundred million guns are loaded / Satan cries 'Take aim!'” If these lines continue to resonate, then it’s no wonder Creedence still echoes over hill and dale, or would even if Edison were still making vertical-cut records.
With foreboding so close at hand (“clouds of mystery pouring”), the imminence of what it means to be an American hasn’t been this near disillusioning since the '60s turned seventy. John’s “rain” diptych presents (in more ways than one) a heads-tail view of hopeful lone-rangering (“Who’ll Stop the Rain”) and impending apocalypse (“Have You Ever Seen the Rain”), just as the “star spangled eyes” and “ooh they point the cannon at you” of “Fortunate Son” posit themselves against Creedence’s feel-good reputation (“Keep on Chooglin’”). Like the out-of-luck drifter in “Lodi” who seems unable to break through his own imprisoning, they take their refuge in song.
“Looking Out My Back Door” offers not only return-from-the-road homecoming (“Just got in from Illinois”), that moment when you drop your bags on the floor and breathe a sigh of relief, but is also a paean to the power of imagination, stepping through a front portal to enter a phantasm universe where anything is possible — such as four boys from El Cerrito becoming a touchstone for rock’s empowering virtues, a voice from the heartland that belongs to us all.
Of all the many bands who came upon the scene in the afterglow of 1967's Summer of Love, Creedence Clearwater Revival appeared among the least likely to ascend to the pantheon of immortality. Despite their Bay Area roots, they could hardly be called a part of the psychedelic revolution, being decidedly retro and somewhat stodgy in the face of light shows and druggy experimentation. Yet this classicism, coupled with a steadfast reliance on the virtues of a chorus hook and a pointed phrase, not only made them one of the most popular groups of their turn-of-the-'70s era, but one whose songs still guarantee a singalong and a relevance: “I ain’t no Fortunate Son” resonates as well today as when John Fogerty directed it at another White House bent on its own self-fulfilling folly. There’s always a “Bad Moon Rising,” especially in these darkside times.
Unlike their peers, both fore and aft, Creedence grew up with rock & roll, and their evolutionary name changes reflect their passage to becoming the force of nature that would be CCR. Theirs is a quintessential American tale, with Doug Clifford and John Fogerty coming together in the San Francisco suburb of El Cerrito to form the Blue Velvets in 1958, John buying his first Sears Silvertone guitar and amp by delivering newspapers. Adding Stu Cook, on piano and later moving to bass, and John’s older brother, Tom, they first recorded in 1959 with “Tommy” at the forefront (quite the teen heartthrob in “Have You Ever Been Lonely”). John’s husky voice soon took over not only the lead vocals but became the focal point of the songwriting. In the wake of the Brit Invasion, in 1964, the group signed to jazz-oriented Fantasy Records, changing their name to the Golliwogs (the Blue Velvets, even then, sounded so David Lynch '50s), donning a variety of garage-pop styles, of which “Brown Eyed Girl” made enough local noise to keep them in rock dreams.
The first volume of the definitive Boxed Set contains many of these pre-Creedence rarities, and provides an engaging listen to John’s increasing understanding of his strong points. From early Liverpudlian experiments (“Don’t Tell Me No Lies,” “You Come Walking”) to later Fillmore fuzz-and-buzztone rave-ups on the order of “Little Tina,” it’s fun to spot the influences. The ‘Wogs (or is it the Gollys?) nod to the Zombies in “You Better Be Careful,” early Rolling Stones in “You Got Nothing on Me,” Standells honk in “You Can’t Be True,” “Midnight Hour” chord chops in “Gonna Hang Around”), all marking the growing command of John’s roughhewn voice. “Walking on the Water” could be delivered intact from a later Creedence album, its guitar solo a wild, freak-out special, man. Some fly-on-the-wall studio chatter brings you inside their studio life and growing familiarity with being recorded. If anything, a song like “Tell Me” shows just how little Creedence Clearwater Revival would differ from the last moments of the Golliwogs: add a bit more echo and some low-end EQ, and voila!
All of this gradual maturation would come to a head when Saul Zaentz bought Fantasy. Seeing the success of the newly-empowered FM “underground radio,” he helped spin the group’s newly updated Creedence moniker toward the long-form improvisation that is “Susie Q.” Taking off from Dale Hawkins’ 1957 great riff-and-a-holler, Fogerty allowed his inner guitar hero free-roam, and along with a reinvented version of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell on You,” brought their Blue Velvets lifeline full circle.
All of this was just a preamble to 1969, when Bayou Country and “Proud Mary” hit the charts, followed by Green River and “Bad Moon Rising.” They played Woodstock, incessantly toured. In 1970, Willy and the Poor Boys gave us the joyous “Down on the Corner” and raging “Fortunate Son.” There was “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” “Traveling Band,” “Born on the Bayou” (the definitive swamp-rock tune) and others you know by heart and osmosis. By October 1972, riven by a palace revolt that saw each of the individual members’ calling for their creative say, and John wanting to preserve his solo vision intact, they recorded the overtly democratic Mardi Gras and called it a day, little realizing that their short moment in time was on its way to being ever alive, whenever and wherever a scratched match or flicked lighter or lit cellphone is lifted in tribute, each generation’s alight.
And why? Standing at the nexus of country, rock and blues (pinpointed by their cover of “Cotton Fields”), everyone seems to love Creedence. Yet their populism, grounded in simple three-chord virtues and Chuck Berry licks, is hardly saccharine. John’s lyrical imagery not only rides roughshod over divisions of genre and social class but deepens and darkens as you get further within its catchphrases. Just listen to “Tombstone Shadow” from Green River. In 1969, “Effigy” witnesses “the fire spreadin’ to the palace door,” while in 1970, with the Vietnam war on every napalmed television screen, he warns “Two hundred million guns are loaded / Satan cries 'Take aim!'” If these lines continue to resonate, then it’s no wonder Creedence still echoes over hill and dale, or would even if Edison were still making vertical-cut records.
With foreboding so close at hand (“clouds of mystery pouring”), the imminence of what it means to be an American hasn’t been this near disillusioning since the '60s turned seventy. John’s “rain” diptych presents (in more ways than one) a heads-tail view of hopeful lone-rangering (“Who’ll Stop the Rain”) and impending apocalypse (“Have You Ever Seen the Rain”), just as the “star spangled eyes” and “ooh they point the cannon at you” of “Fortunate Son” posit themselves against Creedence’s feel-good reputation (“Keep on Chooglin’”). Like the out-of-luck drifter in “Lodi” who seems unable to break through his own imprisoning, they take their refuge in song.
“Looking Out My Back Door” offers not only return-from-the-road homecoming (“Just got in from Illinois”), that moment when you drop your bags on the floor and breathe a sigh of relief, but is also a paean to the power of imagination, stepping through a front portal to enter a phantasm universe where anything is possible — such as four boys from El Cerrito becoming a touchstone for rock’s empowering virtues, a voice from the heartland that belongs to us all.
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