Fortunate Son

by John Fogerty

“Joy of My Life” is very conversational. It’s not like a regular song. In fact, sometimes I think it’s so personal, I even wonder if I should perform it live. I always have a good time playing it—I don’t know if everybody else enjoys it when I do!

  That one has an obvious influence. Due to my interest in flying, I’d go to the Oshkosh aviation show. I’d gotten friendly with this young couple, and Elizabeth, the wife, would ask me, “How’s Julie?” My answer was always, “Well, she’s the joy of my life.” One day Elizabeth said, “You’re always saying, ‘She’s the joy of my life.’ You should write a song.”

  That was in 1991. Later, when I started getting serious about the Dobro, I kind of wrote this cool little Dobro riff. I thought, Wow, that could make a neat song. I was at the Kern River, trying to write.

  So I came home, I’m with Julie, things are peaceful and great. We put the kids down, go to bed, and I’m lying there next to her in the night, thinking about my family, and the riff just starts playing in my head. And the words start coming.

  And instead of writing a song, I’m just telling a kind of narrative of right now. Especially when Julie was pregnant, it would be 7:30 p.m. and she’d say, “I’ve got to have my rest.” That’s almost the first words of the song—the remainder is just the story of my life with Julie. It just flowed. And fittingly, the song written for the Dobro widow was played on one.

  “Joy of My Life” is truly my first love song. And it really is a love song. Through my career, through the whole Creedence time, there just weren’t any. Because I didn’t write that way. Those kinds of songs seemed generic and meaningless to me. I was trying to write something that mattered. I’d written some love songs as a teenager, but in the Creedence era I just stopped because I didn’t believe in that. This one I believe in. I can write about feelings, intimacy, relationships. This does not scare me because these are things I know about now.

  Once Blue Moon Swamp was basically done, I thought we were going to mix it right there at the Lighthouse. But mixing is a really special deal, and I wasn’t convinced that it could be done there.

  Bob Clearmountain is my buddy. He got wind that I was done, and he said in the sweetest way, “John, I’d really like to mix your record.” Now, in my head I’ve kind of pegged him as Mr. Digital (and that is not true, he’s Old Skool)—he’s worked on Bruce’s records, Bryan Adams.… I knew he was great. I just didn’t know if he was the right “great” for me.

  Bob says, “I tell ya what: let me mix one. For free. No obligation.”

  I gave him “Bad Bad Boy.” When I came back at the end of the day, he had gone in there and found the essence of the song. I’m pretty sure what you hear on my record is what he did that day. I don’t know how he knew to do it that way, but he did.

  That’s when Blue Moon Swamp was taken off of me—“We’re done, we got a real mixer, he’s gonna do it.”

  Julie: One day John came in and asked to take me to lunch. Lunch?! I looked at him like he was crazy. Then it hit me: he’s done with Blue Moon Swamp. A great warmth went through my body. He’s actually done. We are actually going to be together and not have this cloud hanging over his head! John had crossed the finish line. Man, was that a huge moment in our lives. I felt such a burden lifted at that moment! It was beautiful and unforgettable.

  Off we went to share the record. John put it in his little briefcase, and we were going to play it for Warner Bros. I came along—I wasn’t going to miss this moment. I wanted to be there for John. There were a couple of folks in the room who knew what the record was, senior vice president of Warners Carl Scott being one of them. Bob Merlis, John’s publicity agent, knew it big-time. I can’t say the reaction was that big from the rest of the group, but when they started getting letters from the fans once the record was out, I think they all got it. It’s too bad that they delayed the marketing, because they had to play catch-up after that. The fans knew, but the label had to be told.

  After all that pain and suffering I had been through with him, I wanted to be there, and I was excited for John because I knew what this meant. It was the rainbow at the end of a very dark road.

  Blue Moon Swamp came out in May 1997. It was nominated for a Grammy—Best Rock Album. I’ll never forget the night John won. John and I were in New York City at the Rihga Royal Hotel, and we’re getting all dressed up and ready to go to the awards show. I think John was having trouble with his cuff links, and he had me helping him. I knew the telecast wasn’t going to air this particular award—it was at a preshow event. Bob Merlis said he would go for us.

  Well, the phone rang right before we headed out the door. And Bob said in his sweet voice, “You got it! You got the Grammy!” I just screamed with joy for John and ran over and grabbed him and gave him the biggest hug. John wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. It was a vindication of that long period that was so hard and impossible for John, but he did it—and he did it against all odds.

  John: Maybe the best part came the first time I played “Joy of My Life” for Julie.

  This was before the album was out. Every year at our kids’ school there was this thing called the Dads’ Club Variety Show, and I would always do something for it. This year I had a plan, but nobody else knew about it. After we played a few songs, I turned to the other dads in the band and asked them to leave the stage. This was an outdoor amphitheater, at night.

  I was there by myself with my Dobro, and I launched into “Joy of My Life”—for my wife, who was sitting in the audience and had no idea. I was really just singing it for her. It might’ve been a little shaky—I’m not the world’s greatest musician. It was more from the heart. I got through it, and it didn’t turn out too bad.

  Julie: Tears were rolling down my face. I am not sure I took it all in at the time. I had two small boys and a daughter I was caring for. Not to mention the fact that a hundred people were staring at me! It was such a beautiful gift from John. Knowing everything that it took for him to make that record, I knew that this moment was a big one for him. And for us.

  One lyric in particular from that song really hits my heart. “She says, ‘Come lay beside me / I been waitin’ since you left.’” That’s a true story. John came home from making Blue Moon Swamp, it was very late and I knew he had given it his all, and I said those words to him. After all the roads we had traveled, those words rang so true. “I been waitin’ since you left”—before Blue Moon Swamp, John had left himself behind. He couldn’t get past that dark cloud. And now he was free.

  CHAPTER 19

  Why I Didn’t Play at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, or They Don’t Care About the Music; Just Give ’Em the Money

  THERE IS ONE event that happened in the middle of the Blue Moon Swamp period that’s a story unto itself: the induction of Creedence Clearwater Revival into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on January 12, 1993. I refused to play with Doug and Stu at the ceremony (Tom had died on September 6, 1990, which I’ll also reflect on here). I played Creedence songs with Bruce Springsteen and Robbie Robertson instead.

  Stu and Doug made a big stink about this and sold their case to the media—and at the same time acted like there was nothing more to the story. To the outside world, it just looked like I had snubbed them. Stu wrote a letter to the hall of fame, which was leaked to the Los Angeles Times. I responded to that, but my response was unclear, not definitive. I didn’t give much detail. I didn’t like saying something mean or one-sided, so I pulled back and spoke in general terms. Nobody had bothered to ask me in any depth. Was I just being a jerk, or had someone done something that made me feel this way?

  I was confused by the reaction. I thought people would understand, but I guess I didn’t explain it very well. That’s sort of been a defect in the way I’ve talked about these conflicts.

  Over the years, people had certainly gotten the idea that I had taken a stance with Saul Zaentz: “Yeah, John’s angry. Yeah, Saul ripped John off.” But they don’t really know the absolute betrayal I endured. I didn’t use tha
t word until, at the insistence of my wife, I spent a little time in front of a shrink. When I told him what had happened with Saul and my bandmates, he told me, “Well, John, that’s betrayal.” The shrink gave me that word, and yes, that’s exactly what it is: betrayal. Hopefully I can explain it once and for all, right here.

  The very last time Creedence Clearwater Revival played together as a quartet was at Tom’s wedding, on October 19, 1980. Playing the wedding was stressful. Don’t get me wrong: I was happy that Tom was getting married, moving on with his life—even though at the time I was still pretty upset with Tom, and with Doug and Stu. I was there because Tom was my brother. There was a pretty big distance between us, but I knew that Tom would want us to play, so I did it. It wasn’t great. It didn’t really prove anything. Afterward, I felt like I’d compromised myself—that other people would look at this and say, “See? You’re all together here! If John had any objections he should’ve stood up at the wedding and said, ‘No, I won’t play with you guys.’” Well, you don’t do that at a wedding. That’s not very nice or polite. Family sticks together.

  So we weren’t exactly pals throughout these years. From time to time, Tom or Doug or Stu would call up and kind of ask for a favor, and later I’d always regret that I did it. Because I would usually get poked in the eye after doing the favor. And then in June 1989, I was on my way to Bill Graham’s house for my second meeting with Saul concerning the libel case and song ownership matters. I turned on the radio in the rental car and heard this Shell Oil advertisement. It was a promotional thing. If you bought five gallons of gas, for another dollar you could get this hits compilation album. It named a couple of the songs—I think the Four Tops was one of the artists—and right there, along with them, was “Proud Mary.” I went, “What?!”

  We didn’t have many rights at all as Creedence, but one of them was approval (or disapproval) of compilation albums. The Beatles didn’t appear on them, nor did Elvis. I thought they were tacky and lowered the stature of our band. This was very important to me: there was a specific clause in our 1969 contract that stated that we had the right to say no to that. And here was my song being peddled by a gas company on some schlocky cassette called Cruisin’ Classics. Soon after this, other things began appearing—like some paint company used “Who’ll Stop the Rain.” (“Who will stop the rain? Our paint thinner will!”)

  I had to go face Saul at that moment, so I decided to deal with it later. Back home, I told my brother Bob to find out about it. He called up Doug Clifford, who pretended to know nothing about it. This went on for ten days. For a couple of weeks, it was a complete mystery. Finally Doug fessed up, and it was a whopper. My three bandmates, including my brother, had sold their group voting rights to Saul Zaentz.

  As I’ve stated previously, we had decided from the very beginning of Creedence that everything got decided by way of a unanimous vote—not a majority vote, a unanimous vote. It was even written into our contract. Fantasy could not compile our songs with other artists without the approval of Creedence. This was something that we all owned together. It’s our vote collectively; it isn’t something I can give to somebody walking down the street—“Here, buddy, go vote in Creedence now!” It doesn’t work that way.

  Apparently Saul felt that if he bought three of the four votes, then he could do whatever he wanted. And behind my back, Tom, Doug, and Stu went along with the plan. It had happened in 1988, before the plagiarism trial started. Saul bought each member of the band—first Doug and Stu. They got $30,000 each—that’s right, thirty pieces of silver. Tom got wind of this, and he wanted more money. He got $50,000. Now Saul was the majority vote of Creedence—even though we had all agreed that no matter what we did in the band, it had to be a unanimous vote. I don’t even think this was legal, to sell such an intangible thing.

  To me, the selling of the votes was the final betrayal. From that day in the eighth grade, in Mrs. Starck’s class, right up until the moment I found out about this, I still thought of Creedence as a band—yes, the band broke up in 1972, but the music from the time that we created it was something we were still in together. I’d always think, What is the best light that our band could be shown in? I fought Saul on their behalf—a lot of times at my expense and not theirs, by the way.

  I was so protective of Creedence. And I certainly couldn’t and wouldn’t suddenly concoct a secret plan with Saul in 1988 and say, “Hey, guess what? You don’t have to pay those guys as artists anymore—just pay me. And they won’t get a penny.” That can’t be done. Not by me, anyway—that would be immoral and wrong. But they sold out, the same way you’d sell out your country by selling atomic secrets to the Russians. Yeah, it was that big a deal to me. A band is a sacred thing. You don’t betray that.

  When I found out about the selling of the votes, I thought, Wow, why was I protecting these guys? They certainly weren’t protecting me. And remember that this happened at the same time that I was meeting with Saul, trying to actually get a better royalty deal from Fantasy—not just for me, but for Doug and Stu and Tom.

  This Shell Oil thing happened a matter of weeks after the Exxon Valdez disaster. The world was rightfully mad at these oil companies, and here my band had put us right in their back pocket. It was very distasteful to me. So I sent out a little group of packages, each containing an empty can of oil and a newspaper article about some oil tanker that had run afoul down in Southern California. Over the tanker picture I wrote the word “whore.” I sent one package to each guy in the band and one each to Saul, Al Bendich, and Ralph Kaffel at Fantasy. In my cynical way, I put everybody on notice that I wasn’t happy.

  Sometime after that, Stu let it be known that he wanted to talk to me. He came to my office out in San Fernando, and a couple of nervous pleasantries were exchanged.

  “Well, Stu, what’s up?”

  “I’ve done things to harm you,” he said. “I’ve done things that are wrong, and I want to say I’m sorry about that. I apologize.”

  I was not in a conciliatory mood. I looked at him and said, “Sorry. Don’t get it. Yeah, you’ve done some things to harm me. But you gotta go fix the things that you’ve done that are still harming me. You undo all that stuff—then maybe I’ll listen.”

  And then I asked him, “How in the hell could you sell your vote to Saul? We were a band. We had a bond. I had your word of honor as a man. Sell your vote to Saul? How could you possibly do that?”

  His response: “I just got tired of them asking me what to do with this song or that song—should it be in this movie or that movie? It wasn’t gonna happen anyway. You’d just say no. Besides, I don’t care what they do with the music—just give me the money!”

  Those were the exact words he said. Just give me the money. Just give me the money.

  People in a rock and roll band very much feel like it’s them against the world. Your parents think you’re wacky—“Why don’t you get a real job?” The social structure thinks you’re wacky—you’re not earning any money and you look funny. All you have is a dream. You’re like guys in a foxhole. You don’t know what the future is, but those present are basically vowing, “Until the day I die, I’m in this thing with you.” Way back in 1968 I had made an agreement with Tom, Doug, and Stu to be equal partners. I let them share in my songwriting money. At the time, I thought I was dealing with people who understood the responsibility of what we had. But to say “I don’t care what they do with the music—just give me the money”?

  I couldn’t believe anybody would be so knuckleheaded.

  I was disgusted. We certainly didn’t have much to talk about after that. If you want to know why I wouldn’t play with those guys at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Stu said it right there: I don’t care what they do with the music—just give me the money.

  And I made that clear to the hall of fame when they called in late 1992. They said, “We are going to induct Creedence Clearwater Revival into the hall of fame. Would you perform with the other band members?” I said, “No.” I had
gone to every ceremony except one, so what I did tell them was that at the end, when everybody’s onstage, jamming, if we all happen to be onstage, that’s fine. I’m just not going to stand on a stage with those people, three in a row, play our songs, and be presented as a band—particularly because these guys just sold their rights in that band to my worst enemy. I also made it very clear that if I didn’t play at all, that was fine too.

  It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before. After Bill Clinton was elected, they wanted Creedence to play the inauguration in January 1993, and I had rejected it. I said, “I’m not playing as a band with Creedence. I don’t play with those guys. We will never play as a band again.”

  Prior to 1993, there had never been a ceremony where the actual inductees played their songs. When Bo Diddley and Jerry Lee and James Brown got inducted, they didn’t perform at all. It just wasn’t done that way. The year that Creedence got in was the first year that the inducted artists actually got up and performed. So this was a new concept. After I made it clear that I wasn’t going to play with Stu and Doug, the hall of fame came back to me with another way of looking at it: they wanted the songs to be heard, so they proposed getting other people—including Bruce and Robbie.

  I expected to have fun that night. But Stu and Doug were playing a role that they had concocted. Had I known they were going to pull that, I would have made a different speech. Instead, I sidestepped saying anything about group haggling and the chicanery that had gone on, and I talked about the great music we had made. The truth was, they had turned their backs on our group, dishonored the music, and sold out to Saul Zaentz, taking money and making a side deal that didn’t include me.

  I didn’t want to get into that, but they acted to the public like they were victims, playing for sympathy! It was phony.

  I had run into Doug and Stu the day of the ceremony, or perhaps the day before, in the very room where the inductions would be held. I wanted to be very clear about my intentions and their expectations. I told them, “Considering what you have done, I will not play with you. You guys went and joined with my worst enemy.”