“Creedence made music for all the waylaid Tom Sawyers and Huck Finns,” pronounced Bruce Springsteen, inducting them into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame in 1993, “and for the world that would never be able to take them up on their most simple and eloquent invitation, which is: ‘If you get lost, come on home to Green River.’”įogerty’s post-Creedence depression in the ’80s had nothing to do with music. In Fogerty’s dual America, the bonfires of protest raged on the White House lawn (“Effigy”), but the people on the river were happy to share food with strangers (“Proud Mary”). Some Creedence songs exchanged voodoo for parable, portraying a folkloric South of bayous, railroad stowaways (“flatcar riders”) and old-time courtesies. Writing while bodies fell in a faraway war, John Fogerty composed allegories for a conflict which he emotionally opposed, but which, all the same, he could easily have joined. Paradoxically, their songs were haunted by anxiety and premonitions – malevolent moons and Biblical rainfall – like those from a Calvinist preacher crossed with a pessimistic meteorologist. Their grooves were smooth and warm, with steady, hypnotic momentum from Tom Fogerty’s rhythm guitar and a Memphis-like sense of economy. Their lyrics were just so American.”Ĭreedence’s art was neither cosmic nor complex. “What they did was remind Americans from whence they’d come. “Creedence didn’t bring anything new to the culture,” Rohrer clarifies. At Creedence concerts you’d see pre-teens, grandparents and literally every age group in between.” Some of their most enthusiastic fanmail came from US soldiers stationed in Vietnam, and inmates of federal prisons back home. “They had the broadest demographic imaginable. “Creedence took America by storm,” says Jake Rohrer, their former press officer and tour manager. Why has he mentioned a lawsuit? Why would someone sour the atmosphere of their own gig?
But his tone turns sarcastic as he informs the crowd: “Of course, before you know it, lawyers got involved and I was sued.” The crowd don’t know what to say. The third song he plays is “Travelin’ Band”, a worldwide hit in 1970, which Fogerty wrote as an homage to Little Richard, a boyhood hero. “This was an important record in the days when they still had vinyl,” he winks to the Beacon audience, “when people had Grateful Dead hairdos and smoked Jefferson Airplane cigarettes.” His voice remains one of the most rip-roaring of rock’n’roll instruments, seeming to come with its own slapback echo.
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I was a bitter person.” Claiming to be free of his grudges, Fogerty – whose dyed hair makes him appear younger than his 66 years – is animated onstage. “Yes, there were long, dark times,” he tells Uncut. He compares it to the Eagles reuniting for their Hell Freezes Over tour. He officially began reintroducing Creedence songs into his sets that year.įogerty acknowledges the burden of engaging with the music (and, perhaps, demons) of his past. He relented on a few occasions in 1986–7, following some gentle cajoling by Bob Dylan and George Harrison, but then came a typically Fogertyesque withdrawal – a gloomy, implacable silence – before his re-emergence in 1997 with Blue Moon Swamp. Both million-sellers, they contain eight classic singles between them.įor various reasons, Fogerty refused to play Creedence’s music for almost 15 years after their 1972 break-up. Tonight, John Fogerty is playing the first of two shows in which he’ll perform Creedence Clearwater Revival albums (Cosmo’s Factory and, tomorrow, Green River) in their entirety.
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The 30-foot Greek goddesses towering either side of the Beacon stage have witnessed everything from opera to a series of Allman Brothers concerts. “I had so much anger,” says Fogerty, “I couldn’t play those songs…” Words: David Cavanaghīuilt in the Roaring Twenties, New York’s Beacon Theatre is known as the ‘older sister’ of the famous Radio City Music Hall.
Here, Fogerty tells his side of a remarkable story – and then hears the very different stories of his old Creedence sparring partners. By 1972, though, it was all over, and the ex-bandmates embarked on a bitter war that still continues, 40 years later. At the dawn of the ’70s, Creedence Clearwater Revival were the biggest band in the world – a brilliant and driven hit machine with deep roots in American tradition. John Fogerty is out on an extensive tour of the US right now, so it seems a good time to dip into the archives and remind ourselves of this great feature from Uncut’s February 2012 issue (177).
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