Fortunate Son

by John Fogerty

  We had three kids twelve and under when we started, and then Kelsy came in 2001, which made four. Two of which were rambunctious boys one year apart! I still don’t know how I did it. I think we had thirteen suitcases. On one European tour, we were in Frankfurt, and one of our sons decided to pack his toy gun in a carry-on. We didn’t know it was there and went through security. Well, you can imagine the terror on the faces of the security guards. John almost ran away and let me deal with it—thanks, John! We got scolded pretty bad.

  Many times after the show, we’d drive to the next town to break up the travel time. John would do a two-hour sound check, and then the show, and we’d get on the bus and arrive at the next hotel in the wee hours of the morning. John would pick up sound-asleep Kelsy and carry her into our hotel room. His energy amazed me. The truth is, we were a family on the road. Not your typical rock star life, I am sure. We felt we could have it all: our marriage, our kids, and John’s career, all in that order. So when he jumps on the bus after a show, he has his family at his side. He knows we climbed over the mountain (one step at a time, maybe), and we’re okay.

  I don’t think John realized the impact that his old songs had on the audience, what those folks had missed hearing. I would see grown men high-fiving each other and crying. I was proud of my husband, that he was back out there. So happy and excited for him.

  John: I am oh so lucky to be here in the world at this time in my life, and to have fans loving songs that I wrote forty-five years ago and still smiling when they look up at me at a concert, singing the words. I probably don’t deserve that, being a guy who’s been so difficult and hard to find. I recognize that my long, dark age had to have been difficult and mystifying to normal people. Lord knows it was for me! To have survived long enough to get happy and healthy again, to still be able to enjoy their company.… In some secret way, that’s why I’m working so hard, putting so much effort into being a guitar player. I’m a fan myself of many artists, and I realize how precious that is. You hate when something goes wrong, or their last album didn’t sound so good, but you stay with them and love them from afar. I’m lucky that I have those fans who have stuck with me from the beginning. It’s what I dreamed of as a little boy. You don’t always get to have your dream come true. To those fans I say, “God bless you.”

  Déjà Vu All Over Again came out in 2004. The drummer played to a click track. My engineer convinced me to do that, even though I’d learned not to do that with Blue Moon Swamp. It robbed some of the feel of Déjà Vu. In fact, around the year 2000, I got a Pro Tools rig, and after Déjà Vu I actually thought about making another one-man-band album—with a drum machine. If you’re competitive, you get obsessed and try to beat something. Even though I’d already learned my lesson, I spent way too much time on this stuff. I just don’t think in my lifetime a machine is going to sound like a human.

  The title song “Déjà Vu (All Over Again)” was written about the Iraq War.

  As usual, the rich white guys were not happy: here’s this place over in the Middle East loaded with oil, and here’s this bad guy, Saddam Hussein, who doesn’t do everything we tell him to do, so hey, we have to get rid of him. Which is what they always do—Noriega, the Shah of Iran, blah, blah, blah. Saddam’s thumbing his nose at America, and lo and behold, you start hearing talk on the radio about invading Iraq. I thought, We’re too smart, aren’t we? We’ve all heard this stuff before. We’re not going to let this happen again.

  I was renting a house where I kept all my recording and writing stuff, and I was driving over there one morning, like I did every day. I get out of the car, my keys in my hand, and walk to the front door, just like I always do. I’m actually on a mission that day: I’ve commissioned myself to write a swamp rock song. So I put the key in the lock and I hear this song in my head—the melody was there, I think some words were there. All I know is, the sound of it was the saddest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. It had this atmosphere, like echo. It was just sad, sad, sad.

  I push that away. In my brain I remember I’m here to write a swamp rock song, so I close the door and drop the keys on the table. It happens again.

  Did you hear them talkin’ ’bout it on the radio…

  Now I realize it’s calling me. I had tried to deflect it, but now I realize it’s one of those times. Like other times. But never quite like this.

  Somebody really wanted me to hear this. That’s how it felt. Somehow even my bumbling morning brain realized that I was receiving. I wasn’t creating. It was simply, “Your radio station’s picking this up. We’re sending this to you. Please don’t push this away.”

  So I ignored my normal routine. Got my acoustic guitar, found the chord, and just followed it.

  It’s like déjà vu. What? It’s like déjà vu.

  And the rhythm to complete it was right if I said “All over again.” I know that’s a Yogi Berra line. But I go past that. And then came,

  Day after day I hear the voices rising

  Started with a whisper like it did before

  I think, Oh shit, that’s what this is about? Vietnam? Because the new war hadn’t happened yet. So I stood there keeping the guitar on me for maybe an hour and a half. I didn’t want the inspiration to slide away. I was doing it over and over so I could remember it, and then I finally wrote it down. I didn’t have it all, but I had the chorus and the first verse before I ever put the guitar down.

  This was clearly just tuning in. I wasn’t cleverly crafting a song. It took my breath away—“Where did I just go? What happened here?” I wasn’t there to write an important song. I wasn’t even in the mood to be important. I hadn’t been important in a while. I’d been a silly rock and roll guy. And now I was writing about something I felt very deeply about. I can’t even tell you what that feels like. It had really never ever happened like that before. Or since.

  When I got to the part about “stumblin’ across Big Muddy,” I was pretty damn happy. That’s a reference to a Pete Seeger song. I wasn’t stealing from Pete—for all I knew he was sending it to me. Artistically, “Déjà Vu (All Over Again)” is one of the highest moments of my life. Commercially, it probably didn’t even make a dent, ha ha.

  For the next two years I sang that song on the road. At some point I started doing it acoustically in my show, and I wish I had recorded it that way for the album. Because the song doesn’t need all the stuff that’s on the record.

  Trying to get the populace upset about anything these days is a challenge. The times were a lot different when I was young. Things were more visible and we were a lot noisier then.

  But there have been times when I’ve done “Déjà Vu (All Over Again)” and people in my audience have booed. People who came to see me. I thought most of the people who come to see me are a little on my side politically—I take it they’ve heard my other songs. I guess these folks were my fans, and I grew up thinking that booing was a bad thing. So I felt it the way it was intended: critically.

  That particular summer, I was touring with Willie Nelson. (Willie Nelson is an amazing musical presence: absolutely unique and hugely influential on all of us who came after. I was thrilled that my family got to meet him when we both performed for the veterans in Washington, DC, during the October 2014 concert that I describe in the introduction to this book.) We were playing at some casino, and I was sitting on the bus with Willie and his sister, Bobbie. One of them said, “Are you doing ‘Déjà Vu’?”

  I said, “I don’t know if a casino is the right place…” I’m thinking alcohol, drunks, cigars, gambling—the whole thing. To me it just seemed atmospherically incorrect.

  And Willie said, “You should sing that song”—his voice got extra deep—“ everywhere.”

  I thought, Yeah… you’re right. They’re human beings; they’ve gotta hear this. I’m sorry if for three minutes it’s a little uncomfortable. So I kept doing it.

  And long after feeling embarrassed, I felt glad that those boos had been there.

  When we sta
rted to go into Iraq after 9/11, it was a confusing time in our country. I think we all may have learned a lot since then. I’d love to see if those people who booed me then have changed their minds, because a lot of the smoke has cleared and I think more of us see the motives. I would like to hear from some of those people who felt that strongly, who thought I was singing against the soldiers who were doing that impossible mission. Obviously I’m not. I have respect and praise for those kids. I’m talking about the policy. Greedy corporations trying to make a lot of money off our suffering.

  I have the feeling I’ll be singing that song again.

  Julie: Steve Bing had been reaching out to John for a couple of years to play on this Jerry Lee Lewis album. He just kept at it, and finally he flew out to meet us in this small town in Iowa, where John was performing, and recorded John’s part. He mentioned that he’d been to see the remake of The Manchurian Candidate and heard “Fortunate Son.” We explained that John had nothing to do with it, that because of Saul Zaentz and Fantasy, he had no input into the use of his songs. Steve thought that was terrible. Norman Lear’s company Concord Music Group had bought Fantasy. Steve said, “Norman Lear? He’s my buddy. I’m calling him right now.” He did, and told Norman that he needed to meet with John.

  We went to the Concord offices, spent a couple of hours with Norman, and eventually made an agreement to do an album for them. John told about how he had to sign away his artist royalties in order to get out of the contract with Fantasy. Norman Lear and his colleague Hal Gaba felt that was wrong and said, “First thing we want to do is reinstate your artist royalties.”

  So we walked away feeling pretty good. That was a nice gesture. After all, it was incredibly wrong that John did not get paid for all those Creedence albums.

  We start negotiating the contract, we’re just about ready to sign, everything’s set to go, and literally two days before, our lawyer John Branca calls and says, “I’m really sad to tell you this, guys. Concord’s written a letter and now they’re saying they’re only reinstating John’s artist royalties for the length of his contract with them. I’m going back to them to tell them the deal is off, and how dare they do this to John Fogerty.”

  Long story short, John Branca called Concord and let loose. He was furious that they were putting John through this. In the end they did the right thing. I think they had good intentions, and then the money people and the lawyers got in the way. I have to thank Concord, because they pay the royalties—and that’s the right thing to do.

  If there is one thing I still hope for, it is that John Fogerty will be able to own his songs again. That they are put in the hands of the author who wrote them. They need to come home. “Someday may come,” and I will never give up hope. When that day comes, oh boy, get ready for the biggest celebration ever.

  John: For my 2004 album, Déjà Vu All Over Again, I wanted to write a song for my daughter Kelsy. I started it the day she was born. I had this idea: “I Will Walk with You,” meaning, “I’m going to be with you every step of the way.” Kind of a daddy’s promise to take care of his baby. It’s a pretty serious thing to me.

  The doofus in me started writing some sort of big arena-rock ballad. At that point you’re not singing to a little girl; you’re singing to some big girl in a Mötley Crüe video. So I left the song alone for a while.

  Before Kelsy was born, I’d get up early and practice my acoustic guitar in her room. Then, once she arrived, we had a little tub in there so Julie could give her a bath. So one day she’s in there giving Kelsy a bath, I’m playing the acoustic guitar, watching the two of them. I’m looking right over the headstock of the guitar. And it dawns on me: this should be an acoustic number. I don’t do a lot of those. From then on, I knew what to do. It sure took a while—2001 to 2004.

  Kelsy is musical. Maybe she’ll grow up to be a rocket scientist, but music is what she really loves right now. We talk about music in the car. I take Kelsy to school and back, so we have a lot of time to listen and talk about it. Basically, that means listening to Taylor Swift, because Kelsy is a big fan. I’ve even done Taylor’s song “Mean” with Kelsy onstage.

  We went to see Taylor in Los Angeles and scored a couple of backstage passes. It was maybe one day before the event, and Kelsy says, “Dad, do you think you can bring my guitar to the meet and greet for Taylor to sign?” You have to understand: this is my little girl. I will walk through the fires of hell in a gasoline suit for my little girl.

  But I’m thinking, Yeah, but when we get to security, they’re gonna think it’s a machine gun. And maybe Taylor will feel insulted—maybe she’s not supposed to sign stuff like that. But we made some calls and Taylor graciously signed it after the concert. That’s pretty doggone special, for both of us.

  I was so impressed with the instrumentation on Taylor’s records that I looked up Nathan Chapman, the producer of her early albums, and had him play mandolin on my version of “Wrote a Song for Everyone” that I recorded with Miranda Lambert. I’m very impressed with Taylor. As Kelsy hears me say all the time, “So many great songs, so many great songs.”

  In an indirect way, I have to thank the Wiggles, the Australian band known for their kids’ TV show, for three of the songs on my 2007 album, Revival. I had recorded “Rockin’ Santa!” with them. That was as much for me as it was for Kelsy. We’d listen to the Wiggles in the car all the time. What a hoot: one moment they’re doing a mod song, the next they’re surfers or doing some sort of French cabaret chanteuse number. Outstanding.

  The Wiggles gave me a guitar made by Maton, an Australian company. Over the years, Australia’s become a very familiar and fond touchstone in the life of the Fogerty family. We’ve toured there and like to cruise around. So I visited the Maton facility down under and had them make me a guitar, a hollow body electric guitar with little sound holes.

  Working on songs for Revival, I had about four guitars sitting in my room, but the one that was speaking to me was the Maton. I was in a certain kind of mood, and that kind of melody I associate with Southern music came through me. “Proud Mary” is from that place. There’s a certain shuffle to the melody, like Allen Toussaint’s “Southern Nights.” I’m playing the Maton and out comes “Don’t You Wish It Was True.” I started strumming those chords that same sort of lilting way. When you write a new song and it seems to be a fresh, defined idea—not just “I love you, moon, June, spoon”—you really feel good about it.

  A few days later, I was trying to get into a song and looked around my room and over at that guitar. I picked it up and almost immediately wrote “Broken Down Cowboy.” The next time I picked it up, out came “Gunslinger.” Basically, I picked up the guitar three times and out came three songs. Three good songs. Three for three. I actually sent Maton a note: “Did you guys know you built a lot of really good songs in your guitars?”

  Writing “Broken Down Cowboy,” I saw that guy instantly—kind of a rawboned, lanky guy sitting in a cantina at a little round table. He’s got shot glasses of tequila, a cigarette, a deck of cards, and he’s playing solitaire. He’s wearing a straw cowboy hat, what used to be a nice cowboy shirt, kind of frumpy jeans, boots. Has that leathered, weary look to his face, fifty or sixty years old. I could just see it. And eventually I realized it was me—the old me. “Saddlebags full of pain / Carries ’em around just like a middle name.” I was writing the song and almost breaking down. I literally had tears in my eyes—“Fuck, this is good shit. This is me.”

  My brain was just racing to play it for Julie. I was beside myself. But real life intervened—I had to go do other stuff, and that opportunity slipped away. It wasn’t until about a month later that we were at a rehearsal place and I was teaching the song to the band. Julie comes walking in with her girlfriend. I didn’t know she was there at first. She just stopped dead in her tracks. I saw her and could hardly finish the song—I was bawling and trying to sing. Julie realized this was kind of for her, because it’s about me. And us.

  Jeez, that was quite an e
xperience. Some healing took place there because I was releasing that pain—owning it, writing about it. “If I was a gamblin’ man / Never would’ve let you play your hand / With a broken down cowboy like me.”

  In 2009, I made my second Blue Ridge Rangers album, The Blue Ridge Rangers Rides Again. The big difference, of course, is, you guessed it: on the first one I played everything myself; on the second one I had a band. On Rides Again, there’s a lot of really great playing, some superlative musicianship. Not on the first, because it’s me overdubbing everything. The first one is more rock and roll, the second one’s a bit more hillbilly, honky-tonk. On Rides Again, instead of songs I knew from my childhood, I just chose songs that I love, like John Denver’s “Back Home Again.”

  I had been at the very first Farm Aid doing a press interview when suddenly I heard John Denver singing “Back Home Again.” I didn’t even know he was on the bill. I’m afraid I wasn’t so polite—I bolted from that interview and ran a quarter mile to the stage just to hear him do that song. I know that at times John Denver sounds kind of sappy—to me too—but after you let it all settle down, the really great songs go beyond any genre. It’s amazing how authoritative, how complete, how powerful he is. All from just standing there strumming a guitar. I think of him as way up on the mountain, commercially and artistically. Another song I did on Rides Again is John Prine’s “Paradise.” I learned that one from John Denver’s cover. That’s the version I love. Both of these songs remind me of my Troy, Oregon, days and the logging trucks coming down the switchback, their air brakes echoing across the valley.

  Doing “When Will I Be Loved” with Bruce Springsteen was fun. I hadn’t really checked in with Bruce before I recorded the track, and I put it in the key of D. I have a fairly high voice, and that song’s in a place that’s hard even for me. I was singing the melody, and the harmony was above that, so it was high for Bruce too. He’s a trouper, though, and we got it. When Bruce sings hard, with an edge, it’s really good—“Born in the USA.”