by John Fogerty
There’s a handful of guys you keep coming back to, and for me, a lot of them are the kinds of guys who can’t be copied. Why has no one ever done Jimmy Reed since Jimmy Reed? No one has been able to do it. Jimmy had a bunch of harp solos that were really high. Jimmy played up there where nobody else went. And he’s not in a hurry on the guitar. There’s a couple of funny notes here and there. That’s his signature, those notes. Because he does them all the time! I listened to “Honest I Do” about three times the other day. Man, it’s just such a feel. Everything is for a reason and a purpose. That band is locked.
I saw him only once, at the Berkeley Community Theatre in 1964. Jimmy was drunk. Drunk. His guitar was out of tune, and he was sitting down. I remember after three songs that were kind of incoherent, someone in the audience yelled, “Tune up!” In those days, we were all prim and proper—to do that to an icon, it had to have been pretty bad. I was so sorry to have seen that. Later you find out he’d gotten screwed out of his record royalties so he’s pretty bitter, and he’s an alcoholic. Oh, really? Even though later I went through the same stuff, I think seeing all this as a young guy was informative, in that it made me not want to end up there. I was no better—don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I saw tragedy in it.
The music that was new when I was a kid was hot. I bought Bo Diddley’s first album. In my eyes, Bo was like Elvis. That was the first fight I had with the guys in my band. We got paid, like, twelve dollars total for a gig, and instead of buying new strings, I took my four bucks and twelve cents and bought Bo Diddley’s album. “What?! Why did you do that?!” “Because there are several songs on there I think the band should learn, like ‘Before You Accuse Me.’” Much later we recorded that one. I rest my case.
That first Bo album was just chock-full of stuff. “Who Do You Love?,” with its human-skull chimney and cobra snake for a necktie.… I was fascinated by the imagery. Many times I’ve said there’s a part of my writing, my imagery, that’s kind of spooky and weird and about dark places. Well, I walked into that room through Bo Diddley’s door. The song “Bo Diddley” is probably my favorite. Spooky as all get-out. That whole child-rhyme thing—if that ain’t the most primitive mumbo jumbo! Yet it sounded so full on the radio. I don’t even know if there is bass on that record. It doesn’t matter. Then you have Bo doing his thing on guitar, especially the solo. It’s just hypnotic. Bo magically fell into a thing that was just so hot because of the deep drums. The tom-toms, the maracas—it’s really tribal. Even now, that drum is so big—bum da bum da bum. A lot of bands have come down through the years trying to do the Bo Diddley beat and haven’t come close.
Man, I was lucky: I saw Ray Charles live several times right around the “What’d I Say” time. He had that old beige 120 Wurlitzer (later I got one myself). He played saxophone—that was amazing. The big album for me was Ray Charles in Person. Has a better live album ever been made? It was recorded with one microphone in the audience by a deejay from a local Atlanta station. It was an outdoor summer show, and because of the acoustics of the space you can almost hear the hot air. God, the sound of the instruments. Obviously they didn’t have echo machines. It’s live. It’s natural. “The Night Time Is the Right Time”—Ray’s version is way more soulful than Creedence’s, which is more rock and roll, screamin’ guitar. That live album has “Drown in My Own Tears.” Everything is just so slow. He’s wrenching every last ounce of feeling out of that song. That album had a huge effect on me, and its influence still lingers.
Little Richard is another one whose influence on me is total, complete. We played together at the Grammys in 2008 and I finally got to tell him, “Richard, man, I’ve loved you since I was a little boy.” He’s probably the greatest voice ever in rock and roll. I really mean that. His performances on those classic rock and roll records are perfect. “Lucille,” “Keep a Knockin’,” “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” “Send Me Some Lovin’.” They are like textbooks of how a rock and roll singer should sound. A couple more that have always meant so much to me—“Long Tall Sally” and “Slippin’ and Slidin’.” Like they say, “It don’t get any better than that!”
Even as a kid I loved dissecting a recording. The music behind it all was just as important to me as the vocal. I thought Gene Vincent was great. His records were like instrumentals to me. “Lotta Lovin’,” “Woman Love,” and of course “Be-Bop-a-Lula.” I’d sit and play him on my record player, and in my mind I’d block out the vocal. Because there was all this great stuff going on back there. Man! That was an education to me: Without the singing, it’s like an instrumental. And as you’ll soon see, that’s how I presented the songs and the arrangements to my guys in Creedence. Gloriously, I grew up in an age when there were instrumental rock and roll records with lots of guitar. They were very important to me as a kid, and a great way to learn.
Like “Honky Tonk” by Bill Doggett, from 1956. That’s an incredible record. It was big-time important to me as a kid. Side one of the single is the guitar side, side two the sax. Both are incredible. It’s just that groove. As a kid, I decided one night that I was going to learn “Honky Tonk.” I put the record on and practiced. By the way, I played it in F, like the record. That’s hard, because it means you’re fretting every single note. In recent years I’ve checked out some of these online forums, and lo and behold, there are guitar nuts talking about playing “Honky Tonk.” Comments like, “If you’re gonna play that song, be a man and play it in F!” If you play it in E, it’s a lot easier. The Ventures did that and turned it into more of a rock and roll song.
“Hide Away” was another song that just killed me! A Top 40 record, it wasn’t just on the R & B station. Freddie King was a huge influence on my guitar playing and my musical knowledge in general. He’s playing a shuffle, but the piano player is kind of straight, and the drum is somewhere in between. It’s the coolest feel, especially in this age of computer music, where everything’s locked together in a really boring fashion. My first band, the Blue Velvets, played almost as many Freddie King songs as we did Duane Eddy. One of the songs we always played was “Just Pickin’.”
This might surprise people, but “Flying Home” by the Benny Goodman Sextet is one of my favorite records. It’s got a great feel and I just loved that melody. My mom talked about Benny Goodman, so as a kid I just went ahead and got my own copy of the 1938 Carnegie Hall concert. I don’t know much about the other big band guys, but I figured out everything I could about Benny Goodman. Once I discovered Charlie Christian’s guitar on that record, I became interested in him and wound up buying and collecting everything of his that I could find. I’ve listened to hundreds of hours of Charlie Christian.
I’d say there’s a whole lot of Charlie Christian in how I play. Just the feel of that swing, the way he riffs off the melody. Parts of “Keep On Chooglin’” are referencing Charlie. In my head, when I go Americana, and I hear that soft shoe happening, like “Shortnin’ Bread” or “Down by the Riverside,” and I’m trying to keep things just real simple, I’m probably in some way referencing Charlie Christian. Not that I’m as good as Charlie!
Speaking of that feeling you have when you make music that clicks, when I was a kid there was a lot about the record Rumble that was absolutely right. The guy’s name was Link. Link Wray. Oh my God. That record was really important. The song sounds like the title: “Rumble”! Blang blang blang. It’s so… menacing. When that was a hit on the radio, all kids were tuned in to it—not just me. Everybody understood: Man, that’s so cool.
Some guys rightfully become known as guitar gods, and Duane Eddy was a huge influence. James Burton was behind Ricky Nelson, Scotty Moore was behind Elvis—that was usually the way. But Duane was his own front man. The name on the record was his. “Rebel Rouser” killed me. Real melody, that honky sax, and those guys back there modulating every twelve bars—what made him do that? It’s just cinematic.
“Three-30-Blues”—as a guitar player, “Three-30-Blues” was a high moment. I used to practice that
with my band, and I still play that song. Some people might say, “Oh, that’s a simple blues.” But it’s a mighty simple blues. I heard Duane play that at the Oakland Auditorium with B.B. King on the bill. Fantastic. I heard later that B.B. sidled up to Duane and said, “I sure like that ‘Three-30-Blues.’” Only Duane Eddy sounds like that. He means every note.
I learned so much from his early albums. The thing I noticed was that all of his songs had these great titles, like “Forty Miles of Bad Road.” Cool song, but I realized he could’ve called it anything—it didn’t matter, because there’s no words. Duane came up with these descriptive titles that created a mood to match the feel of the music: “Rebel Rouser,” “Cannonball,” “The Lonely One,” “First Love, First Tears.” This was instructive to me as a songwriter. I was learning what went into a good song, and Duane helped me see that having a great title was a big part of it.
I think influences can come from anywhere. The sound of a bee’s drone or a truck’s Doppler effect as it drives further down the road. And of course the TV. I became aware of Ricky Nelson through The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. I was already watching the show like the rest of the world. Rick was doing the cool things that teenagers did, like washing his jeans in the shower. They sprung his recording career on us in an episode where Rick plays football—which Ozzie likes—and plays music, which is what Rick likes. Rick did “I’m Walkin’,” and the next week he did “A Teenager’s Romance,” singing with his eyes almost closed, eyelashes fluttering. He was sixteen years old and impossibly good-looking—no flaws! By “Stood Up,” the fourth single, Ricky had shanghaied a young guitarist named James Burton from some country band. When I heard James going dangadangadanga, oh man, I knew something had changed. This was rock and roll ground zero. I was totally on board! When I saw them do the song on TV, this cool dude was playing guitar behind Ricky. During traffic patrol in sixth grade, a girl asked me if I liked music, and I said, “I like that guitar player with Ricky Nelson. He’s really cool.” I didn’t even know his name. I didn’t even play guitar yet!
The main music coming out of Rick Nelson was rockabilly, as opposed to Frankie Avalon or Fabian or Bobby Rydell, or even Elvis by then. I was lucky enough to get to posthumously induct Rick Nelson into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1987. Sam Phillips was sitting right down there in the audience. I looked at him and said, “Sam, he gave you a run for your money.” Ricky Nelson was doing rockabilly—pretty urgent, even dangerous, stuff. Even when he did “Lonesome Town,” he just killed it. That was a slow ballad, but it wasn’t sappy and dumb: it was rock and roll guys playing a ballad.
I remember listening to his version of “My Babe” over and over and over. That guitar was like, “Oh, yeah!” In some ways that record was better than Little Walter’s original. It was James. James just shines and sparkles, and Ricky clearly knew this, because there was always a James moment on those singles. Listen to “Believe What You Say.” There’s the greatest guitar solo you ever heard. Basically, the world stopped. Ricky was letting everybody know there was this wild genius in town. Scotty Moore, James Burton, and a few others in the world at that time were inventing cool rock and roll guitar. And James was all of eighteen!
I thought Ricky seemed like a very normal teenager. A nice guy. I liked that a lot. Elvis was spending his money recklessly, buying big rings and Cadillacs—I worried. I just thought that was really extravagant. Ricky was just a kid living at home. He seemed like a good role model. I never heard about temper tantrums, anything scandalous—he struck me as mild mannered, not showy, not crazy. I know that sounds boring, but to me that was an admirable trait. I’ll go to my grave saying this, although lots of folks would disagree: you don’t have to be crazy or a lunatic to make good rock and roll. I know guys who make really great music and they’re solid dudes and family oriented. They value that sort of thing. Like Bruce Springsteen and Dave Grohl.
Rick wanted me to produce him back during my long, dark time. It was 1978 or ’79. I was in no shape to handle that. I couldn’t even produce myself, let alone one of my heroes. At least I got to meet him. The very last time I saw him was in Memphis, recording a tribute to Sun Records in the eighties. He was singing along on one of my songs, “Big Train (from Memphis).”
An interesting bit of musical history (at least to my mind) is connected to that solo in “Believe What You Say.” One of my favorite records of all time is a song called “Party Doll” by Buddy Knox and the Rhythm Orchids from 1957. Starting with this song, I became a very big fan of Buddy and the sound he was making. The drum part on this record became very influential, as it was maybe the first rock and roll song to feature a “two-one” backbeat. I was fortunate enough to meet Buddy Knox in the late eighties, and I mentioned the drum part to him. He was proudly aware of the milestone and immediately responded, “Yes, but it’s reversed” (which it is).
Anyway, Buddy had another big hit that year called “Hula Love,” which I also had as a boy. Then he seemed to disappear. To a kid, a few weeks is an eternity. Anyway, time passed, and suddenly here was another Buddy Knox song called “I Think I’m Gonna Kill Myself.” I loved that record, but you couldn’t get it. I had to order it at my little record shop and wait for weeks. Apparently, the subject matter of the song had gotten it banned in some places.
So now to the point: “I Think I’m Gonna Kill Myself” featured a guitar solo that sounded exactly like the solo in “Believe What You Say,” and I was certain of that for years and years. After hearing it recently, I can now see that they are not the same. They are, however, in the same key and played in the same very high register. Back in the late fifties, the Telecaster was just about the only guitar you could reach those notes on. I thought about the mystique of these two solos many times over the years, so when I met Buddy Knox I asked him about it. His answer was “I don’t know if they’re the same, but it sure was some great playin’ by Cliff Gallup.” Man, was I excited by that answer. Only us guitar geeks care, I suppose, but Cliff was the guy on “Be-Bop-a-Lula.” And he disappeared too! (By choice.)*
In the summer of ’57 I was working up at the Russian River in Healdsburg, California, and “That’ll Be the Day” was all over the radio. They had a big outdoor PA blasting that song. I just went crazy. Rockin’ guitar, rockin’ drums, harmony singing, the lead guy’s voice—I just knew them as the Crickets then. And that riff! It all sounded so damn right.
Every artist had a band, but the focus was usually on the singer: Elvis, Ricky. With the Crickets, it was presented as the Crickets. It was the band. This was just a different approach, and their debut album, The “Chirping” Crickets, had that picture. Four guys in suits, all four holding the two guitars, but they’re looking straight into the sun! There’s Buddy trying to smile, but the sun is shining right in their faces, so they’re all squinting. You can tell these were not rich guys. They ran up on the rooftop of a big building in New York City to take that shot. It’s a fairly unflattering picture. That picture told a story, though. One that the Beatles would only refine. The wisdom of keeping it a singular image, not being ragtag—like, for instance, the Grateful Dead. Being a little more showbiz about it.
I had made up my mind that Buddy Holly was one of those people that I was going to follow for his entire career, buy every record he made. I had already gotten the first album and a few singles. I still had a paper route in the eighth grade, and getting the papers one day I saw the headline that Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens had died in a plane crash. So years later, when Don McLean’s “American Pie” came out and he talks about delivering papers with the news “the day the music died”? I thought, Wow, I actually did that. That was a sad day for rock and roll.
I got ahold of a Buddy album in 1965 or so, on some off label, and there were unreleased versions of songs, one of which was “That’ll Be the Day” in the wrong key. It’s nothing like the version that became the big hit, and I was quite sure Buddy was rollin’ over in his grave. Maybe collectors enjo
y all that, but as an artist, I cringe at the idea. The artist goes through a process of evolution to get to the recording that he wants to present to the public, and the rest is not presentable. It was meant to stay behind closed doors. I knew I didn’t want that to happen to me, so I would always destroy my outtakes—for instance, an earlier unrealized version of “Mystic Highway,” or the first version of “Wrote a Song for Everyone.” They can’t put it out later if it doesn’t exist!
There were a few records from the rock and roll era that seemed to be in another place from everything else. I obsessed over these:
“Deep Feeling” by Chuck Berry
“Lost Dreams” by Ernie Freeman
“Honky Tonk” by Bill Doggett
“Blue Moon” by Elvis Presley
“For Your Precious Love” by Jerry Butler and the Impressions
“Little Boy Blue” by Bobby “Blue” Bland
and more recently:
“Island Style” by John Cruz
I think I first heard country music on television. I was four years old. There was a show called The Hoffman Hayride that was big in our house. I remember seeing Jimmy Wakely and liking the way he looked. He was a cowboy and had this great big blond guitar. Later he teamed up with Margaret Whiting. Now when I listen to them it sounds pretty schmaltzy, kind of like a country Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald, but the outfits were great!
One of the most startling things I remember seeing on early TV was Johnny Cash. This is back about ’56. Most variety shows had a big chorus line of girl dancers, like the June Taylor Dancers. They’d form a circle and would be shot from above. The shows were big and glittery, with a cast of thousands like a Busby Berkeley movie. Right amongst all that Johnny did “I Walk the Line.” It was really stark. There was his face, behind him only shadow. Way back there you could see one guy going plunk, plunk on a guitar, but most of the time it was just Johnny, shot from the side like someone on Mount Rushmore. I just sat there with my mouth open because it was so powerful. This wasn’t the June Taylor Dancers. This was dark. Strong. And this guy—whoa. Commanding.
