Rock 'n' Roll Dictators: A Case Study

I've just finished John Fogerty's autobiography, Fortunate Son. Now, I'd say that Fogerty is one of my greatest musical heroes, but that's not quite accurate. It's his band, Creedence Clearwater Revival, that I adored as a young boy. Green River was the first album I ever owned, and I have fond memories of unwrapping the rest of their albums as Christmas and birthday presents in the early '70s.

But hold on a minute, you might say. Fogerty was CCR, was he not? Judging from his book, he'd have no trouble agreeing. After all, he wrote, produced, arranged and sang 97% of their material (100% if you discount their 1972 swan song Mardi Gras, about which more shortly). Additionally, all the instrumentation save for the rhythm guitar, bass and drums was played by him. This includes backing vocals on all but four songs ("Susie Q," "Porterville," "Who'll Stop the Rain" and "Sailor's Lament," according to the book). And if you believe Fogerty's claims, he wrote many of his bandmates' parts as well. All they did was execute them, to varying degrees of success in his estimation.

As I'm sure is obvious by now, Creedence Clearwater Revival is the textbook example of a rock 'n' roll dictatorship. The collective, such as it is, exists only to support the protagonist's vision. Assuming the dictator is as gifted as he thinks he is, all is copacetic until either (a) his vision falters or (b) the supporting cast mutinies. In the case of Creedence, both happened pretty much simultaneously.

Based strictly on the available evidence—CCR's music and the members' solo efforts—it's hard to argue with John Fogerty. Acquiescence to his bandmates' demands for equal time on Mardi Gras led Rolling Stone's Jon Landau to dub the album Fogerty's Revenge, and later in the same review, "the worst album I have ever heard from a major rock band." By this time, rhythm guitarist Tom Fogerty had left, leaving bassist Stu Cook and drummer Doug Clifford the sole beneficiaries of the fledgling Creedence democracy.

So: was CCR really John Fogerty, supported by three fair-to-middling hacks under his employ only because he needed a live band? To answer that, let's examine their subsequent solo careers. As far as I can tell, Stu Cook's entire oeuvre consists of his three songs on Mardi Gras. "Door to Door" is, I think, a rockin' and rather clever CCR knockoff, while "Take It Like a Friend" bubbles along in a funky, early '70s R&B vein, marred only by his unfortunate falsetto at the end. "Sail Away" is the only clunker here, a paint-by-numbers slice of Tex-Mex that goes nowhere and further exposes Stu's vocal limitations.

In addition to his three songs of fame on Mardi Gras, Doug Clifford released a solo album that same year, Cosmo, which even he says is "a terrible record." After hearing it on YouTube I can't disagree, though "Take a Train" struck me as a catchy number. Going back to Mardi Gras, Doug's "Tearin' Up the Country" is a chicken-pickin' trifle I could live without, and "What Are You Gonna Do" is redeemed only by the gospel backing in the choruses. "Need Someone to Hold," on the other hand, is hands down the best non-Fogerty Creedence tune—well played, written and sung.

As for Cook and Clifford's songwriting legacy, I'll just note that their tribute band, Creedence Clearwater Revisited, performs only Fogerty's material. Nor (aside from a Clifford co-write on a 1981 Tom Fogerty album) has the duo written anything else in the ensuing, oh, 45 years.

For a guy who was the first to leave and ostensibly had the most to gain by doing so, Tom Fogerty's self-titled 1972 debut album is pedestrian and sloppily recorded to boot. This was the best he could do after five years in little brother's shadow? Were you to place its top three songs—"The Legend of Alcatraz," "Lady of Fatima" and the non-album single "Goodbye Media Man"—on Mardi Gras alongside those of his erstwhile compatriots, they'd be distinguished only for their resemblance to a junior-league Creedence. In fairness, by the time of his fourth LP Myopia (1974), his songwriting and production skills had improved. Check out "What Did I Know," an amiable country-rocker, the Badfinger-like "Sweet Things to Come," and the homespun "There Was a Time." That said, Tom's best material isn't up to the lofty standards set by his brother in CCR.

As for little brother, his career has lasted the longest and produced the best music of the lot, though he too has recorded his share of duds, Eye of the Zombie and the unreleased Hoodoo among them. In fact, I'd argue that occasional flashes of brilliance aside, none of John's solo output comes anywhere close to matching CCR's five-album hot streak that extends from Bayou Country straight through to Pendulum.

All told, then, the evidence points to John Fogerty as the primary force behind Creedence Clearwater Revival, but not the only one. Despite his low opinion of the others' talents and ample data in support of same, the four of them possessed a certain chemistry entirely missing from their solo efforts, J.C. Fogerty's included. Simply put, the music these four made together is far superior to anything they've produced as individuals.

Now, back to Fortunate Son—not a review but a few observations. Beneath what an online reviewer aptly calls an "aw-shucks veneer" is one bitter man, despite his claims to the contrary. It's hard to say who he hates more: his ex-bandmates or Fantasy Records' head honcho Saul Zaentz. With the exception of brother Tom, who gets one compliment for every three barbs, John portrays the other two as selfish, whining ingrates with zero talent and even fewer creative ideas.

What's fascinating—and a strong, unspoken undercurrent throughout—is his utter bewilderment as to why the others demanded creative parity. What comes across is something like, "We were so successful, and we could have kept the band going for much longer if they'd just shut up and done what I said. I was the genius; they had nothing. Why did they go and ruin everything?" All true based on the evidence, but it completely ignores the psychological makeup of the average musician. As Fogerty ought to know, what drives most musicians is the pursuit of their artistic vision. "Musician" and "minion" aren't exactly overlapping temperaments. If you love following orders and taking direction, music is not the career path for you. What's most remarkable is that the others swallowed their pride for as long as they did, regardless of their creativity or lack of same.

Now that I've said my piece, let's revisit Mardi Gras one last time. It's not the worst album ever, though in John Fogerty's defence had the democratic CCR produced a follow-up, that one might have been. To put a pretty bow on a disheartening story, I've assembled a "complete" version of the album by inserting the three Tom Fogerty songs listed above. Call it The Other Fogerty's Revenge. And the verdict? They make the album neither better nor worse, just longer.

Pilgrimage II: Put a Candle in the Window

You'll recall from my previous post the rock 'n' roll triumvirate of my youth: The Guess Who, Creedence Clearwater Revival and Three Dog Night, none of whom I'd seen perform in their prime. It's been 40 years since CCR's rancorous split, and an impromptu jam at guitarist Tom Fogerty's wedding aside, the band has not reunited. Bassist Stu Cook and drummer Doug "Cosmo" Clifford now tour as Creedence Clearwater Revisited—a tribute band, in essence—and Tom sadly died in 1990. That leaves the real deal, the man who wrote, sang, and strummed 98% of their material: guitarist/vocalist John Fogerty.

I found out in June that Fogerty had a mid-September date lined up at the Sony Centre; a combination of apathy and tight finances stopped me from splurging then. Alas, when a check of Ticketmaster's site on Labour Day showed but a few seats remaining, I laid down my $70. One last-row balcony ticket later, I was in.

I skipped the opening act (Luke and the Something-Or-Other) and hit the merch table, where a souvenir shirt and guitar pick set me back $40. And speaking of apparel, I was decked out in a Rickenbacker T-shirt that serves as the Creedence equivalent of "Mark Mars Army, Full Member." (Fogerty played a short-scale Rickenbacker 325 with CCR.)

A John Fogerty tour, it should be noted, is about as commonplace as Halley's Comet. In fact, this is a man who wrote nary a song and played zero gigs from 1975-1985 due to personal and professional demons. But as a shadowy, iconic figure emerged centre stage, cranking out the first bars of "Travelin' Band," the crowd's roar meant only one thing: J.C. Fogerty was back.

He bounced down the steps to the front of the stage, and at the same time a shift in lighting revealed the rest of the band: two guitarists, bassist, drummer, and keyboardist. A cursory "Good evening, Toronto!" was followed by "Lookin' Out My Back Door," Fogerty having swapped his Telecaster for an acoustic and the pianist switching to accordion.

I'd heard beforehand that Cosmo's Factory would be played in its entirety tonight. Apparently, he was alternating between Cosmo's and Bayou Country, though the guy beside me said Green River would be put in rotation as well, once the band headed west. Green River was the first album I ever bought—or more accurately, my parents bought for me—but to my mind, Pendulum is CCR's best, the album I'd most want to hear front to back. As any Mark Martian will tell you, though, CCR proper (the foursome) did not make a bad record, so Cosmo's Factory would certainly do.

Lesser-known gems from Cosmo's aside, I found the song selection predictable, a greatest-hits parade of CCR and solo material. Nothing was played from the first or last CCR albums. Similarly, the show's lone cover, Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman," struck me as an overly safe choice, though I'll bet the younger (read: 40s) segment of the audience was astonished to hear this Van Halen tune.

Mark Mars Moment: "Ramble Tamble," surely never played live until the first Cosmo's Factory show. I missed Cosmo's drumming, though. I'm thinking especially of the six-into-four hi-hat Cosmo bashed out going into the last verse. Fogerty's current drummer is technically better, I'm sure, but lacking in feel. Honourable Mention: "Keep on Chooglin'."

Bonus Points For: One of the guitarists switching to conga and cowbell for "Born on the Bayou." (Doubt they belong? Listen carefully to the record.) Oh, and the root-fifth-octave piano lick in "Ramble Tamble."

Song I Wish Had Been Played: "Walk on the Water," with a dedication to his late brother (who co-wrote it; Tom's only CCR writing credit). Runner-Up: "Effigy."

Fittingly, "Long as I Can See the Light" ends the Cosmo's portion of the set, just as it did the album. A mournful, gospel-tinged electric piano opens the song, setting a tone both stately and sombre. For some reason, the lyric always struck me as despondent, resigned even, despite the optimistic tag line at the end of each verse:

Put a candle in the window

'cause I feel I've got to move

Though I'm going, going
I'll be coming home soon
Long as I can see the light

My eyes welled up as I glanced at the empty seat beside me. Where my sweetheart should be, only a backpack. You'd put a candle in the window after a death, an ending. A wispy flicker lit to invoke the great light of God, a defiant insistence that all is not darkness, a simple plea for comfort, mercy and deliverance. It's been 19 years since Leilani died, and nearly a year since my estrangement from another dear one, a sweet woman who—in her brilliance, beauty and purity of heart—reminded me so much of my beloved.

"This used to be a sad song, but now it's a happy song, 'cause I just refuse to be sad," Fogerty says late in the set as a roadie hands him an acoustic guitar. "Spent 35 years being sad. That was enough. This is one of my daughter's favourites." He strums the opening bars to Pendulum's "Have You Ever Seen the Rain," and again, my tears come—for a lost youth, for dear ones now gone, for an uncertain future. Still moving, still going, no way home soon, no happy face to mask the sadness. Just a candle in the window.