Taste is a straightjacket and JJ Cale never wore it. Despite his lack of volume and bombast, he was as dangerous as any killer quietly sneaking in your window at night. It's the quiet ones you have to look out for. And now he's gone, leaving a field of Americanna-bes who will never come close to creating the effortlessly winning groove that this authentic southerner had.
Among artists who make a strong first impression, like The Band, Elvis Costello and Otis Redding, to name a few, JJ Cale did not announce his arrival so much as insinuate it. A little older than his radio contemporaries when he had his first hit, he had the luxury of growing up in private. None of those foolish growing pains for him. You sensed he knew who he was and what he wanted to do.
"Crazy Mama" was his first hit, and this whispering blue seemed to quiet the cantankerous atmosphere of the time. You had to lean in to get it and when you did, as Eric Clapton, Mark Knopfler and many others who borrowed heavily did, it was religious. His vibe has been stolen almost as much as Bob Marley's, though his cult remains much more modest.
Cale was an Oakie – Tulsa, to be specific – and since I've had the pleasure of knowing others from that town, it makes perfect sense. While I'm pretty sure he was a rare bird even in that laid back town, I'm just as sure there must be something in the water there. Ask Leon Russell.
Without a little sickness, nothing gets written, and there was something behind that cool demeanor that hinted at a broken heart or two. Like all good blues men, he used alchemy to transform mere poison pen letters into acts of humorous defiance and celebration. Then there was "Tahiti."
That song, which could be mistaken for album filler, features the lyric "Let's go to Tahiti." That's it. That's the whole song. I can't explain to you how this is important, funny and cool. You have to put it on, groove to it. He has other titles, aside from the hits by Skynyrd and Clapton, that make my remaining hairs stand at attention.
One is "Hey Baby." An example of the kind of sonic perfection he committed to tape along with his producer Audie Ashworth, it is a sum far greater than its meager but perfect parts. The simplest horn lines, a groove so stupid-simple that it would be rejected by most thinking bands and two solos that have lived in my head for however many years this record has been around.
The first is by Nashville legend Lloyd Green and it makes you understand perfectly why steel guitars are much cooler than synths. Cale's solo at the end is eight bars and says more in that short span than many jam bands manage in a season of festival gigs.
Then there is his voice, tarnished with defeat and whiskey, toasting an obviously singular woman. He sounds up, for now, but then there are the songs like "Super Blue," where his rasp tells a different story.
The hallmark of Cale's writing and playing was a devilish simplicity and if you think you wake up one morning and just decide to be simple... well, just try it. Yes, taste is a straightjacket and middle-brow rock for the white wine set demands it. I've seen flutes on the stage where one of his acolytes played. Pretty tasteful — also a tad boring. Cale removed the extraneous stuff for a reason that had nothing to do with taste, and underneath he exposed an essence that was both sly and little dangerous. He loved flashing it.
It's silly to rant about the current state of music (not that that ever stops me) and I'm annoyed by people who think music history stops at a certain point in time — can they really mean it? But the loss of JJ Cale reminds me of just how much change there has been. Choreography, auto-tuning, the music-is-free-so-go-ahead-and-download ethos, along with an ever-present irony, make his exit seem like catastrophe. Of course it's a cool, cloudy day at the end of July, so that may be affecting my mood.
I think I'll put a little JJ Cale on. It never fails to warm things up.
JJ Cale died on July 26, 2013 in La Jolla, Calif. at the age of 74. He suffered a heart attack.
