John Fogerty “Revival”
Nobody knows anything. That’s what legendary Hollywood screenwriter, William Goldman, once said. Uncoincidentally, episode eleven of “The Sopranos” is also entitled, “Nobody Knows Anything.” That line is actually delivered twice and for completely different reasons — once by Tony and once by Paulie. That ulta-short sentence — kind of sad, kind of sweet and absolutely true — has always resonated with me. I’ve heard it used by cynics. I’ve heard it used existentially. I’ve certainly been guilty of using it myself. As a suspicious barb. As a conversation ender. But I mostly think about it when I’m thinking about John Fogerty. Because — truly — when it comes to that guy, nobody knows anything.
As a kid, my version of The John Fogerty Story was mediated through Classic Rock radio, “Creedence Gold,” “Chronicle, Vol. 1,” “20 Super Hits” and the many other, mostly redundant, CCR compilations churned out over the years. Like all children of Boomers, I naturally associated CCR with the war in Vietnam and assumed that the band was, in fact, born on the bayou. “Fortunate Son.” “Proud Mary.” “Bad Moon Rising.” To call these songs “Classic Rock” was the height of understatement. In my mind, they were “Timeless” as much as they were “Classic.” They were always everywhere, right below “Happy Birthday” but above “For What It’s Worth.” More than The Beatles or The Stones or Bob Dylan, these songs were the soundtrack to 1960s America.
Obviously, Credence was long gone by the time I was coming of age. In that they felt so deeply connected to a specific time and place, that seemed only right. What I had not considered back then — but what makes so much less sense in retrospect — was that John Fogerty had also disappeared. Whereas Paul and Mick and Dylan and The Dead and Neil and pretty much anyone else who’d survived the sixties were still active participants in the barely-counter-culture, John Fogerty was a ghost. Following two charming, but mostly unsuccessful solo albums in the mid-70s, he just stopped making music.
For eighteen months — from January of 1968 through the summer of ‘69 — John Fogerty was arguably the world’s greatest songwriter. CCR’s run during that time — four perfect, platinum selling albums and nearly dozen, stone cold classic hits — was the closest thing America had to The Beatles. In fact, I’ve often thought that CCR was what The Beatles might have become if they’d swapped McCartney for Mark Twain. CCR was that great. I think it’s fair to say that CCR was, in fact, the greatest American Rock band of the 1960s. Of course they were not The Beatles — but to even be having that conversation. And those songs. That voice. That twang. That groove — a little country and a little bluesy. Really, that was all John Fogerty. And, by 1976, he was gone. How did that happen?
In 1985, however, after ten very long years away, John Fogerty returned. And boy did he return. “Centerfield” was a smash — selling millions of copies, landing Fogerty on MTV and producing one enduring ode to America’s national pastime. In addition to its hit songs, Fogerty’s comeback also included two curious tracks that told us a little bit about his time away. “Mr. Greed” and "Zanz Kant Danz” were unveiled swipes at Saul Zaentz, erstwhile movie producer and former owner of Fantasy Records. Those songs were the loose threads on the sweater of the story that, as a teenager, I knew almost nothing about. But, I did not have to tug very hard to get to the other story. Possibly the real story. Or, maybe just John Fogerty’s version.
Many features of Fogerty’s account are not up for debate: That he was the younger brother of Tom Fogerty, singer and guitarist for The Golliwogs, the group that also included future CCR members, Stu Cook and Doug Clifford. That he was not born on the bayou -- or anywhere near it, in fact. The Fogertys grew up not far from Berkeley, California. That his singing style and narrative voice were more literary affect than they were biographical fact. That he was the great musical talent of Creedence Clearwater Revival. That he wrote, sang and produced nearly all of their music, including all of their greatest hits. That he operated as their de-facto manager, representing them in business matters. That in 1971, Tom Fogerty left the band and that Cook and Clifford took on larger roles in the writing and arranging of songs. That CCR broke up in 1972. That in 1976, Fogerty delivered an album to Asylum records that was rejected and never released. That between 1976 and 1985, we didn’t hear anything from the former CCR frontman. That, in 1993, when CCR was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Fogerty refused to play with his surviving bandmates. And that, to this day, there have been no real reparations. No reunions. No apologies.
Generally speaking, those are the facts. However, the heroes and villains and rights and wrongs of the story are a matter of perspective. And, suffice it to say, the perspectives vary greatly. According to John Fogerty, CCR was functionally the music of John Fogerty, ably performed alongside two or three competent musicians taking direction from him. There’s little disagreement on the matter of Creedence’s contract with Fantasy Records: it was onerous. That being said, until very recently, most recording contracts with unproven bands were one-sided. Fogerty, of course, has spent most of a lifetime and millions of dollars swearing that Saul Zaentz promised to tear up the old contract in the event that CCR should have unexpected success.
Obviously, that’s not what happened. Credence went on to have inconceivable success, funding most of Fantasy’s operations and Zaentz’s other life in Hollywood. Meanwhile, those original deal terms remained intact. This inequity didn’t merely weigh on Fogerty, it buried him. In time, he could no longer fathom writing and recording music for a man that would do such a thing. The idea of lining Zaentz’s pockets while he — the golden goose — labored and suffered, seemed profoundly unjust. And, perhaps more than his sense of melody or story, Fogerty was driven by an abiding sense of fairness.
By his account, it was that egalitarian spirit which inspired him to invite Cook and Clifford into the writing process back in 1971 — a decision that the band and their fans almost immediately regretted. Fogerty’s version of the story is one of a tireless, generational talent trying to do what is right in the face of a band struggling to accept their roles and a label owner who would stop at nothing to oppress his artists and enhance his bank account. Fogerty has been unwavering in his telling and dogged in his pursuit of righteousness.
Unsurprisingly, there are other sides. Cook and Clifford intimated that they did not push for songwriting credits but that Fogerty initiated it as a means to hold back his own product from the record label he loathed. For his part, Zaentz contended that he never offered CCR a better deal way back when and that, in fact, Fantasy was still owed music from John Fogerty. While Fogerty claims that Zaentz once said that all great art was produced through oppression, Zaentz said it was all, simply business.
Cook and Clifford painted Fogerty as a controlling perfectionist, who overstepped and ultimately made poor legal and financial decisions. Years later, Fogerty sued Cook and Clifford for touring as “Creedence Clearwater Revisited.” Zaentz sued Fogerty for plagiarizing himself. And, in time, Fogerty developed the reputation for being the world’s most litigious rock star. Perhaps worse, critics suggested that he was the “original Robbie Robertson” — an artist who’d co-opted the identity of others and who’d marginalized his own bandmates in pursuit of supremacy. The deeper you dig, the more Creedence Clearwater Revival can seem like eighteen months of greatness surrounded by decades of unsorted mess.
Truth matters. Of course. But on the other hand — and especially in the curious case of John Fogerty — who the fuck knows? Was he the Mark Twain of his generation or the Atticus Finch or was he the guy who connected the musical dots between Ricky Nelson, Little Richard and the Grateful Dead? Was he the hero or the villain of the story? Time resolved some things. Lawsuits were settled. New contracts were written. People died. Credence became canon. There were new politicians to sing about. And, yes, John Fogerty had his amazing, if perplexing, second act.
As astounding as CCR once was and as thrilling as Fogerty’s return felt in 1985, everything that followed only served to confuse matters. The man who’d written and recorded more than seventy songs between 1967 and 1972 seemed to dry up in middle age. “Centerfield” contained nine originals, three of which charted. That album took a decade to birth. And though he’s been back in our lives virtually ever since, it’s unclear what happened to his muse. In 1986, he released “Eye of the Zombie,” an 80s take on Motown R&B, which was coolly received. Then, he slowed down again.
There are only three albums of John Fogerty originals since 1986. Zero hit songs. Zero platinum records. In fact, no records between 1986 and 1997. With age, Fogerty appeared wizened and more congenial — on the surface at least. He did the occasional prestige tour. He’d show up in a denim shirt and bandana around his neck for the odd interview. But that well and that groove that he discovered in the bayou of his dreams in the late 60s — that was gone. In the twenty-first century, John Fogerty appears to be a truly happily married man who is equally happy to be out of the music business. The albums and tours appear to be fan service or legacy maintenance more than compulsion. He doesn’t need the fanfare. He doesn’t need to be the American John Lennon. But — and I am not proud to admit this — I suspect that deep down, John Fogerty still needs to be right. That the guy who wrote “Fortunate Son” and was galled by Saul Zaentz brazen greed — he never went away.
And so, while a major part of me believes that nobody knows anything, there’s another part of me that absolutely had to know. In truth, it’s not his achievements or his legacy that I was interested in. That four album run and its titanic influence on Rock, Country and everything in between — that’s all settled law in my mind. I’m not even especially interested in the outcomes of lawsuits or the status of his relationships. I wanted to know if John Fogerty feels like justice has been served.
To that end, I read his autobiography and his occasional interviews, all of which were educational but none of which were especially revealing. Then, I went back to the music. I skipped everything that was familiar — basically Creedence through “Centerfield.” Then I started at the end and went backwards. And then, I stopped, in 2007 at “Revival,” Fogerty’s seventh solo album and his last one to include new material. Though it’s often quite gentle and almost entirely familiar, I thought that it might also function as a closing statement. Or, at least I hoped it would.
Musically, “Revival” is fine. Just fine. Rarely is it better than that and it’s almost never any worse. There’s nothing here that could sneak its way onto the FM dial, with the possible exception of “Broken Down Cowboy,” a decidedly unmodern Country song, distinguished only by Fogerty’s halting tenor. It’s slow, steady fare — like a longneck of Lone Star at the end of a bad day. You know what to expect and it feels pretty good but, also, it doesn’t try to do a whole lot. On an album that nibbles around the edges of Country music and at the end of a career that did the same, this is one of the few instances wherein Fogerty just goes straight Nashville.
Most of “Revival” plays it even safer. “Don’t You Wish it Was True,” “Natural Thing” and “River is Waiting” are all uncomplicated amphitheater fare — Fogerty’s takes on early Rock and Roll and Classic Soul, lightened up for an audience that once loved Creedence, but then adored James Taylor. No fan of CCR would ever request these songs, but, in a two hour set, sometimes you have ten minutes to fill. This trio fills space adequately.
Fogerty’s band features Heartbreaker, Benmont Tench, on keys, and former John Cougar bandmate, Kenny Aranoff, on drums. It’s an esteemed quintet that keeps things polite throughout. But even fine manners are not enough to salvage, “Creedence Song,” which is as slight and self-reverential as the title suggests, and “Summer of Love,” which directly nicks Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love” and “White Room” but forgets to bring the jazz, psychedelia or volume. Neither track is bad, so much as they are cloying. I was certain that Fogerty was capable of redundancy. I’ve got no problem with that. But I’d hoped that pandering was beneath him.
My biggest gripe with “Revival” is its complete lack of groove. There’s no swamp blues or boogie. There are none of those famous jams that answered the question, “What if the Grateful Dead were also secretly a great garage band?” In fact, the best two tracks on the album are the outliers — ones that stray furthest from the legacy of CCR. After nine, mostly ho hum tunes, Fogerty switches gears and absolutely into “I Can’t Take it No More.” For one hundred seconds, it sounds like he’s fronting The Ramones. Over three chords and a cloud of dust, he tears into America’s thirty-second President — the man who, for Fogerty, epitomized the “Fortunate Son.” And two songs later, he closes with “Longshot,” a track devoid of politics but thrilling in its riff. It closes the album with Power-Pop, nearer to Kiss or Cheap Trick than to the “Evening with John Fogerty” that we thought we were getting. Other than its sentimentality and the arresting voice of its singer, “Longshot” is unlike anything else on the record.
If “Revival” is, in fact, Fogerty’s closing argument, I’m ultimately unsure what he was trying to convince us of. He swapped Saul Zaentz for Bush and Cheney, but that didn’t seem to move the jury. For decades, he’d made his left leaning Libertarianism very clear. His politics were so obvious as to be almost too obvious. To note, at least half of his audience appeared to completely miss the point. Conservative candidates and radio personalities have been fist-pumping to CCR for years. And so, as much as I enjoyed “I Can’t Take it No More,” I suspect he felt the same way during the Nixon years. And the Ford years. And the Reagan years. And the first Bush years. No real revelations there.
Similarly, Fogerty’s cowboy hat was nothing new. He’d been playing Hank and Merle tunes since his solo debut in 1973. But, in 2007, he was no maverick. He wasn’t riding into town to save the day, either. He was the broken down cowboy. He was the guy you don’t bet on. He sounded like a man who’s tired of fighting. Perhaps he felt that justice had already been served. By that time, Fantasy Records had been sold to a group who made it their mission to resolve the long-standing acrimony with Fogerty. Saul Zaentz died in 2014. Tom Fogerty died in 1990. For better, and for much worse, there were no more battles for John Fogerty to fight. And so, it makes sense that “Revival” does not sound like a second coming. Or like a hootenanny. And it sure doesn’t sound like justice. It sounds like the work of a man who is breathing easily. It sounds like an exhale.