I recently watched the new Creedence Clearwater Revival documentary on Netflix (narrated lightly by Jeff Bridges), which is a cross between a rise-of-the-band story, contemporary interview footage from their first European tour, and a full concert film of the band’s first show in the U.K., a twelve-song set at the Royal Albert Hall on April 14, 1970. Like the band it follows, the documentary is basic and straightforward but powerful in capturing Creedence at the very height of its creative and commercial success.
Maybe Creedence wasn’t the greatest of all American bands. That’s a whole debate to itself, and even aside from questions of taste, much depends on which genres you include, whether you count bands fronted by a dominating solo artist, and how much you value factors such as longevity, innovation, live performances, artistic influence, and commercial appeal. Certainly, they are on the very short list of bands without whom one cannot have the argument.
But they are, I would submit, the most American band. No other band so thoroughly integrated the sounds of white music and black music; of rock, blues, and country; of San Francisco with the Mississippi Delta, Memphis, and Detroit. With good reason, Creedence is regarded as the most foundational band in the “roots rock” genre we associate with the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, Bob Seger, and John Mellencamp (other key progenitors included the Animals and the Band). Some of the other contenders for “greatest American band” were distinctly American: the Beach Boys embodied the sound of Southern California in the Space Age in a way that could only have been American, the Grateful Dead drew on all manner of streams of American music and folk tradition, and, of course, the entire African-American musical scenes of Motown and Stax were uniquely American. But nobody sounded as American in so many simultaneously different ways, yet drawing them into a cohesive sound, as Creedence. E pluribus unum.
The documentary captures some important realities about the band and its explosive overnight success after a decade of struggle. We hear John Fogerty, in a surprisingly soft-speaking voice as a 24-year-old, describe how he wrote “Proud Mary” the day he got his discharge from the Army — military service that caused the band to miss the “Summer of Love” in their home city of San Francisco, seemingly dooming them to miss a golden opportunity but actually preparing them for their great success. We see Fogerty’s Deep South musical influences contrasted with his total firsthand unfamiliarity with the region. We see the contrast between Creedence’s set at Woodstock and their TV appearance the night before on the decidedly un-countercultural Andy Williams Show.
We are reminded that this band did not so much play rock n’ roll as work rock n’ roll. In their live show before a staid crowd in the Royal Albert Hall, drummer Doug Clifford drives the band relentlessly forward, and bassist Stu Cook wears the expression of a man working a lathe rather than making entertainment. We hear them describe beforehand the pressure they put upon themselves for this show. Only when they reached their closing song, “Keep On Chooglin’,” do we see people get up and dance and the band break out of their tightly wound set to jam at length. John Fogerty does not even speak to the crowd until just before that song. It’s all business, played with manic intensity. The band is just four young men and their instruments, no staging, Fogerty (in leather pants and his trademark flannel shirt) unable to wander far from the cord plugged into his amp. It’s England’s most prestigious venue, but they may as well be playing in a garage.
Nobody ever had a run quite like Creedence, which released six platinum-selling albums in 31 months between May 1968 and December 1970, including three albums in 1969 alone — a year in which they outsold the Beatles. We are reminded that the news of the Beatles breaking up hit the British papers just days before Creedence’s show, escalating the sense that the band (three members of which turned 25 in 1970) was there to try to claim the title of the world’s biggest band. The documentary leaves off with the close of the show rather than dwell on the swift and bitter collapse of the band over the next two years. Like Brigadoon, Creedence was gone almost as quickly as it arrived, leaving little trace besides its timeless body of work from 1968-72 and Centerfield, John Fogerty’s 1985 comeback album.
Ultimately, the documentary is worth watching for the show, which is played in full with no interruption. The sound is fantastic, and the band had such a wealth of hits that they could leave gems such as “Down on the Corner” out and batter the audience with the likes of “Travelin’ Band” (as explosive an opening as any song in rock), “Born on the Bayou,” “Green River,” and “Fortunate Son.” These songs are so familiar to any rock listener — and Fogerty had such a gift for writing songs that sounded as if they’d always existed — that it is hard to hear them with fresh ears, especially because the band played them live almost exactly as they were on the record. It is nonetheless a revelation to see what a primal force this music was when played when it was new, by young men full of ambition and energy and palpable desperation to impress.