I didn't catch the Sky News report. I heard of the death of J.J. Cale via a text message from my daughter, regretting his passing in deference to my lifelong devotion to the Oklahoman guitarist, the horizontal architect of 'laid back.' I have to say I was shocked, more so than when I heard of the death of Elvis or, indeed, John Lennon. Even Bob Marley.
It was an ex-girlfriend who first tuned me in to him. She had gone looking for the writer of 'After Midnight' shortly after it became a hit for Eric Clapton in 1970. Ironically, Cale himself first learned of Clapton's hit when he heard it playing on the radio of his truck. He was a poor, jobbing musician and delighted to make some money, at last. He made 'Naturally', his first album, in 1971, inspired by the success of After Midnight.
That album's opening track was 'Call Me the Breeze' which was subsequently recorded by Lynyrd Skynyrd, and launched Cale on a path to relative material comfort,as a successful songwriter, after a life of struggle.
I saw J.J.Cale once. It was in the National Stadium on the South Circular Road, in 1977. It was my 21 st birthday celebration, too. We bought 14 consecutive tickets, an entire row, four rows back from front stage.
Back then, the National Boxing Stadium was the primary venue in the country where one night you might see The Chieftains or The Bothy Band and on any another, Van Morrison, Lou Reed, Black Sabbath or even blues' legends like Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, B.B. King or Canned Heat. I know, because I attended those shows around that time, too. It's funny how the term 'eclectic' became fashionable in the '90s as a hip catchphrase for someone's musical interests when, in those days, good music was good music, same as today and same as always.
The 'Stadium, that night, was engulfed in a warm, cloud of pungent smoke from bongs, pipes and spliffs as scruffily attired and tatted roadies with pony tails and prominent ass cracks scurried about the stage, adjusting lights, reassembling cables and wiring, tapping mikes and muttering, 'One - TWO, ONE - two,' in a blur of apparently frenetic activity and beneath the glare of the 'Stadium's houselights.
It was just about then a bedenimmed figure emerged from the dimly lit backstage area and picked his way through the chaos, to the lead mike. This man had grey, curly hair and wore sunglasses but in his denim jacket and jeans, didn't look out of place when he picked up a guitar and began to strum and attune the instrument. Just another roadie, you might've thought, until he launched into the opening chords of 'Call Me the Breeze' and there was an audible, collective, gasp from the audience and, you imagined, from the roadies onstage, as they began to realize the show had started.
The scramble to clear the stage took seconds. Then the lights came down and focussed on the lone figure onstage, his band, only now arriving and strapping in for their own performance. But by then, in his own inimitable style, J.J. Cale was already 'blowin' down the road.'
Last night, I played every album I have of J.J.Cale's and I'm listening to 'Hey Baby', the opening track of Troubadour, his fourth album, as I write this and it sounds as though he was writing his own epitaph, at least, as I'll remember him and always cherish his music.
Hey Baby, you're looking real good,
You make every day a song,
Like I knew you would.'
