Fortunate Son

by John Fogerty

  “Happy” is not exactly the right word to describe it, because these brave, neglected soldiers were carrying a lot of baggage. And I was right there in the lifeboat with ’em.

  Before one song I addressed the vets personally. I looked out there and said, “I myself have gone through about twenty years of pain—and I finally faced that pain. I looked it right in the face and said, ‘Well, you’ve got a choice: you can do it for twenty more years, or you can just say, ‘That’s what happened.’ You can’t change it…

  “So I’m telling you guys—that’s what happened. You got the shaft. You know it, we know it, it’s reality.… In fact, send me a letter—Berkeley, California—but promise me somethin’: drop it in the box, and then drop all that shit you’ve been carryin’ around. Is that a deal? Get on with it, buddy!” (I do wish it were that simple… it isn’t.) I went into “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” a song very much inspired by those times we’d lived through together. I was amazed by their reaction. It turned out to be a very emotional day, and a really great thing to be part of.

  After I left the stage, this guy came up, telling me how much my music had meant to him and his soldier pals. He had his war medal in his hand. “Would you wear it?” he asked. I was taken aback—he’d earned that fighting for our country. But I wasn’t about to turn him down. “You betcha,” I said, and he pinned it right on my guitar strap. I still wear it proudly when the occasion calls for it.

  Fantastic as it was, the Welcome Home show was an isolated event. I still had no intention of singing the Creedence songs in public again. And then in 1990 I started taking trips to Mississippi. For a few years, I’d been thinking about musicians I love—people like Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Jimmy Reed, Bo Diddley, John Lee Hooker, Elvis, and Jimmie Rodgers—and how they all came from Mississippi. I was thinking about the blues, the Delta. And I realized I didn’t even know what the Delta looked like.

  I kept having this pesky thought: Go to Mississippi. At first it was an annoyance. I’d brush it away, but the urge got stronger and stronger. It wasn’t like obsessing over a cool car. This was more like, “I have to figure this out before it drives me crazy.” I felt like Richard Dreyfuss building the mashed potato tower in Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  At this point I’d been with Julie for just a couple of years. One day I came to her and said, “Honey, I have to go to Mississippi.”

  She looked at me with those big blue eyes—Julie knows I’m not whimsical; I’m a fairly serious person—and says, “Okay. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “Now.”

  Off I went. I took a total of six trips, each about a week. Eventually I took a camera, bought myself a laptop. I made a lot of notes that first visit—too much time with the stupid computer in the hotel room. Next time, I flew into Memphis and had more of a plan. I was very serious about these trips. I visited the plantation house that Muddy Waters had lived in, visited the site of Dockery Plantation, went to a couple of juke joints—tiny little one-room clubs that had names with big aspirations, like “Rainbow Disco.” It looked like you could buy the place for fifteen bucks. One joint had a crude painting of Michael Jackson on the outside wall.

  Entering the digital age—I’d been resisting the whole damn thing—I bought my very first digital boom box on that second trip, not to mention my first CD, Big Bill Broonzy. The CD player didn’t have shocks, so I couldn’t listen while I was driving, since the boom box would skip.

  I also got ahold of a book about Charley Patton while I was down there. One of the greatest Delta blues singers—and a guy I had totally missed. I went and bought a cassette, put it in the player, and when he started to sing, the hair on the back of my neck stood up: “Oh my God, he sounds like that?” It was like hearing Moses.

  Charley Patton was before Howlin’ Wolf. At times I’d imitated Wolf, more or less. He was one of my guys. The way I say my “woids” in some songs had to have come from him, although it wasn’t something I was doing on purpose. So to hear Charley Patton, I thought, This is where it all starts.

  I wanted to find where Charley Patton was buried. I had the name of the town, Holly Ridge, and after talking to a few people I found this guy, Coochie Howard, a cemetery caretaker who’d been taken to Patton’s unmarked grave as a kid. I was amazingly bold for a guy who wasn’t even writing a book. I was just seeking knowledge.

  Coochie took me to a large field, and we walked right up to a place on the edge. Very assuredly, he pointed to a spot in front of us and told me, “Charley Patton is buried right there.” Coochie told me that his mom had pointed out the spot to him when he was four or five years old, and I can only imagine that he’d been looking at that spot for many a decade, because on that day he looked to be in his mid-sixties. I think he said there had been some kind of temporary marker, like a flag or small piece of wood, but that it disappeared long ago.

  Later, through Skip Henderson, another blues fan I met down there, I had the opportunity to put a headstone on Charley’s grave. I really don’t like making a big deal about it, but it sure brought some wonderful memories my way. They had an official ceremony, unveiling the headstone on July 20, 1991. They had a service, with a real preacher. It was moving. One of Patton’s relatives was there. I had a little guitar slide in my pocket, and so, hoping that a little Patton mojo might rub off, I talked her into holding it for a few seconds. It was hotter than blazes that day. I sat next to Pops Staples, who was wearing a breezy, all-white linen suit. Me, I had on a dark blazer and tie. Guess who didn’t grow up in Mississippi? The intense heat from days like that was one of the inspirations for my song “A Hundred and Ten in the Shade.”

  That brings us to Robert Johnson’s grave—well, one of Robert’s purported resting places, of which there are three (I may have visited all of them). This one, which is currently said to be “the most probable,” is in a little graveyard behind Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church, outside of the little town of Moorhead (Johnson’s death certificate lists only a “Zion Church,” which is part of the problem). You go to the post office, ask the postmaster, and he directs you: “Be sure to look for the big pecan tree. Robert was buried under there.” As with Charley, there was no marker. (Blues researcher Stephen C. LaVere would put a headstone there not long after my visit.)

  It was humid as all get-out in Mississippi that day. There was a swampy, tropical feel. I was dripping wet. There are those of us who will tell you that when you’re in Mississippi, you can feel a rumble happening in the ground, electricity in the dirt. It feels like the place is buzzing.

  I found the church. This was my first visit to Robert’s burial site. There had been a bad storm, and the ground was completely flooded. A few ancient tombstones were scattered about. I was determined to touch that tree. There was a lot of undergrowth and weeds, making it a bit tricky, but I’m a fisherman. I waded into the water, which was up to my knees, and put my hand on that big old tree.

  At that moment Robert Johnson was suddenly a pop star. Sony had released a box set of his work on CD, and it had gone Top 10, eventually platinum. It was a current seller. Even though I was there for earlier, long-lived desires, I realized that there was renewed interest in Robert.

  And there I was, staring down at his lonely grave, wondering who owned his songs now. Being a bit cynical due to my own experiences, I pictured some tall building in which sat a crooked lawyer sporting a big cigar. Some guy who had as much to do with this music as the man in the moon was probably making millions off of it. I was disgusted at the thought.

  I said, “It doesn’t matter, Robert.” I was literally talking to Robert Johnson at this point. “Those are your songs, Robert. The whole world knows those are your songs.” I don’t know if I was actually saying it out loud, but it unfolded like a conversation. I was sticking up for this guy who was a particular inspiration for what I do.

  It doesn’t matter. The whole world knows those are your songs.

 
; Suddenly it was like an explosion went off in my head. I thought, John, that’s your story too. The parallel was inescapable. Some disgusting guy with a big cigar did own my songs. I stood there a moment, mulling that over.

  And I thought, Dammit, John, you gotta start playing your songs before you’re lying in the ground like Robert. Everybody knows they’re yours. It doesn’t matter who owns them.

  It was clear as a bell.

  As I’ve indicated, I think of myself as a principled person. I couldn’t just go, “Ha! Never mind. Forget your vow.” Something would snap in my head. I’d feel that I broke a promise to myself, a promise to respect myself, and one that I took seriously. But I recognized this as the way out.

  There was still a long journey ahead, but thanks to Julie, I was able to do these trips. And thanks to a little help from Robert Johnson, I’d seen a glimmer of light.

  I made several more trips down to Mississippi. It felt really good to learn about all that music, not to mention take in the energy that comes from it. And I came back home and started playing Dobro. This all led to the Blue Moon Swamp album. But first things first.

  I must confess that, outside of this or that obligation, I hadn’t picked up a guitar in any serious way in ages. Years of litigation and disappointment had left me spent. I didn’t want to hear anything about music, and I certainly wasn’t making any.

  When Julie came home and saw me with a guitar in my hands, she stopped dead in her tracks. She’d never seen that happen before. I get emotional remembering it, because she said it was one of the happiest days of her life.

  CHAPTER 18

  “This Is Only Going to End One Way”

  JULIE: John had a music room in the house. He had converted a bedroom into a small studio. The room was soundproofed, and John had studio gear and instruments in there. Every time I walked into that room, I had this overwhelming feeling of joy—and sadness. The guitars sat there so proudly on their stands. These were the guitars that played on “Proud Mary,” “Fortunate Son,” “Green River,” and so on. They were so beautiful to me, and I was so proud of him. Knowing that those guitars were played on those songs and what those songs meant to John—well, it just knocked me out. I couldn’t get over the feeling of loss for John. Those guitars sat untouched for years.

  Then one day, around 1990, I came home from shopping with Lyndsay. Coming through the front door, I heard guitar playing. I saw John with the guitar in his hand, and it just got to me. I stood very still so I wouldn’t interrupt this beautiful moment and draw attention to it. Tears ran down my face, and joy filled my heart. This was the first time I’d heard John’s music in our home. It was a big symbol for me, a very emotional one. I remember standing there by the front door thinking, John is coming back.

  John: I was getting the will and the energy—to try. To create something new. I don’t just mean opening your mouth and regurgitating some old song that was a hit twenty years ago; I mean daring to dig. I wanted to record a new album. I knew instinctively what that had to be. I was not going to make any more records like Eye of the Zombie or Hoodoo.

  I wanted to get back to being that guy I was in 1969, and I hadn’t been him for a long time. When you’re young and bulletproof, the music rolls out of you. Then, for whatever reasons, you reach a plateau in your life where layers accumulate—money, success, lawsuits, heartbreak, everyday life—and you’re not doing your art anymore. The very idea of scratching around in the pile of baggage that has become you, especially when you’re an older person, is the scariest thing you can imagine. Let’s face it: most rock and roll artists lose it when they get older. It’s just too hard, too painful to walk the high wire like you did when you were young and fearless.

  Frankly, I’d rather go digging around in some other guy’s crap! Digging around in my own crap, the idea that you’re really going to face that—it’s, “Oh my God, what am I gonna do to myself? How disgusted, how unhappy am I gonna be? How frustrated, how repulsed, how disappointed in myself am I gonna be when I rip all my scabs off?”

  You may have noticed that I’m the type of guy who doesn’t take commitments lightly. You see, I just seemed to know instinctively that I would never be any good again unless I was willing to dig through all the layers of protection, all the layers of pain and hopelessness, and scratch my way through the stupid, drunken, and evasive years that had accumulated like reptile skin around my heart. All the while staring it right in the face without blinking. I knew it was gonna be rough, and it was. I had made the decision to dive in and go for it. And I could only go into that emotional place by realizing, “I got Julie, I got me, and we’re gonna do this.”

  Several things happened around that time. There were the trips to Mississippi. And I’d bought a Dobro. I was just drawn to the sound.

  For three and a half years I played Dobro. I got really manic about getting good, because I knew I wanted that thing on my record. So much so that I called Julie the Dobro widow. I’d be practicing in my little room and she couldn’t tell if I was getting better, so she would comment every now and then.

  And I started buying albums that had Dobro. All paths of the Dobro eventually lead to Jerry Douglas if you’re serious and trying to learn. How he sounds when he plays the Dobro hits me right in the heart. It touches me very deeply. I just love his music. He’s my favorite musician of all time. He could’ve been a zither player—the instrument doesn’t matter. It’s the sound, the emotional content and the technical ability. So listening to Jerry gave me a big boot in the butt. And it made me rediscover a promise that I’d made to myself as a kid.

  I was listening intently to a Jerry Douglas record and savoring the playing of the other musicians around Jerry. I was just smiling in wonderment. I’m sure I said something like, “These guys are just so good—all of ’em!” It was as if a little flashlight in my head suddenly shined on this little molecule that was my promise to grow up and be like Chet.

  When I was fourteen or so, I thought about Chet Atkins a lot. He was probably the best guitar player on earth. And I said to myself, I’m gonna grow up and I’m gonna be really, really good. Great. Like Chet Atkins—a great guitar player.

  I had total recall of that memory. Then my conscience kind of woke up and I went, “It didn’t happen!” It was like cold water in my face. “Oh my God—it didn’t happen!” This was 1993. I was forty-eight years old!

  I daresay most sane people would have gone, “Oh well—too late now.” Or “You’re good enough.” I just thought, I gotta get really busy! That’s who I am. That’s what I’m supposed to do.

  And so I started practicing—seriously.

  And it all went into the Dobro first, and then from there to guitar. And right in there is where I gave up the idea of being a one-man band. Consciously and for real. The moment I started thinking about guitar again is the moment I said to myself, It takes a lifetime to get good on one instrument—to be world-class. That’s what I’m gonna do. All the rest is taking me away from that.

  During this period I would go to the Kern River and stay up there for a week or so. During the day I would find a quiet place by the river and just think about what I wanted to do. I had a writing pad, a recorder, and, back at the cabin, a little drum machine. At night I’d pick up the guitar and come up with ideas for what I’d been thinking about that day. Being near water seemed to be a really good thing.

  It’s no secret that throughout my life I have paid close attention to drummers. With Blue Moon Swamp, I certainly wasn’t going to play the drums. I was done with that. I knew I wanted real musicians. I wanted the joy of people playing in the same room and having that feel. It was a long evolution.

  I tried out thirty drummers. Jeff Porcaro, Chris Layton, Eddie Bayers—great, great musicians. But nobody could do it all. The guy might be the top of the mountain as far as players go, and yet he might not be the guy who best understands how to play a particular thing I’m trying to do. I would bring in more and more musicians. It went on and on.
/>
  I’d be in the studio with this famous guy or that famous guy, and they wouldn’t be able to play a certain feel, so I would edit the drumming by cutting up the two-inch master tape. This was a long, long process, not like it is now with Pro Tools, where you just push a button and—whoosh!—the drums get lined up. Maybe we would do two songs in a six-hour day, and then I’d edit the best pieces of those sixteen takes—part of the verse here, another part from take eleven—but you still have places where it’s shaky, and so you’re literally down to snipping three-sixteenths of an inch out of the track. John Lowson, my engineer, would lay it out when we got to that point: “Okay, we’re gonna cut the two-inch. There’s no goin’ back.” It’s a little like brain surgery. Because if he screws up… Editing the master was always stressful.

  On Blue Moon Swamp there was an incredible amount of editing. It took a lot of patience. We’d spend all day on a verse and a half, just trying to get the drums right. Then we’d have the bass player come back and play his part. I’d play along with him, but mine was just for reference, for inspiration. I’d have to edit some of the bass part, too. That’s the way everything was going on that album—edit, edit, edit. There were a lot of parts that I recorded myself. That’s another thing I want to get away from in the future. It was a lot of work, time-consuming, a lot of stress. I was in the studio for five years starting in 1992. John Lowson kept track of all that. Thank goodness he was a really calm guy. I’m told that there were five hundred analog reels of tape and twelve digital by the end.

  Julie: We had gotten married in April 1991. Three months before the wedding, I’d discovered that I was pregnant. And John and I had not really talked too much about having a baby. I had to tell him about this surprise.