My dear George, on your birthday

I like to think that my mother taught me the lyrics of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" when I was eight years old, during the beginning of my Beatles education, but that never happened. I like to think that when I was in high school, my walls were covered in posters of George from St. Pepper's and All Things Must Pass and the Beatles. That didn't happen either. In high school, my walls were covered in magazine clip-outs - I specifically remember collecting a series of Absolut Vodka advertisements - and movie posters like Trainspotting and Clueless. I listened to Dave Matthews Band. My brother was on the brink of discovered classic rock for the both of us around the time I asked for Revolver for Christmas. I had asked for the album because I was obsessed with "Got To Get You Into My Life," the upbeat, peppy Paul song I mistakenly assumed was about Linda. But the song, and the album really, was about drug discovery and enlightenment. I remember skipping over the Hindu-influenced "Love You To" and not even finishing the album to hear "Tomorrow Never Knows." Now, ten years later, those are two of my favorite songs of all time. But then, I didn't know you. 

I grew up under the influence of my mother and father's musical taste, as most children do. My father only listened to classical music: Chopin, Mozart, Bach, Schubert. My mother, an opera singer, listened to an array of musicians and bands, ranging from Edith Piaf to Simon and Garfunkel to Willie Nelson. And, of course, the Beatles. But her exposure to the Beatles was limited. My parents were born and raised in Tehran, where only trickles of western music were allowed to seep over the impressionable teenagers. Public schools in Tehran in the 60s were the equivalent of Catholic schools in the 60s. They were separated by gender, all children were required to wear uniforms, and their knuckles were readily whipped with rulers. But by the time my mom was 16, she had her shit figured out. She'd take a mini skirt and knee highs and heels and hide them in her locker, and after school, once the last bell rang, she'd blossom out of her drab rags like a butterfly. There was a store in the bazar that sold British releases of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and other rock 'n roll bands that made it all the way to the Middle East, and my mom would spent every last cent of her allowance on them. 

I now realize that my mother's knowledge of Beatles only extended to pre-Rubber Soul Beatles. She never went beyond, never journeyed through the fields of psychedelic discovery and enlightenment dripping from your later albums, starting with Revolver. And it's interesting to look back and think that with my Christmas gift I had somehow released you into me. Into my consciousness. But I did. 

1938 was a momentous year in history. Hitler's Nazi Germany invaded Austria. The Baseball Hall of Fame opened up in New York. Swiss chemist Albert Hoffman synthesized Lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD). Howard Hughes flew around the world in 91 hours. And in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, a man named John Weldon Cale was born. The music world would never be the same.

J.J. Cale was raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and moved to the bustling music hub that was Los Angeles in the early '60s to become a studio engineer. Cale met the bluesy rock and roll duo Delaney & Bonnie and played rhythm for them at house parties. But Cale wanted his own thing. Taking full advantage of the recording studio he was employed by, Cale recorded the single "After Midnight" and released a demo version to radio stations in 1966. 

Meanwhile, Eric Clapton, fresh off his Cream split, had found his way to Los Angeles and became friends with Delaney and Bonnie while touring with Blind Faith. Cale no longer played rhythm with the duo, but Delaney was so impressed by his talent that he played a few of his songs for Clapton, specifically "After Midnight." Clapton recorded the song in 1970 with Delaney, Leon Russell, Bobby Whitlock, Jim Gordon, Carl Radle, Jim Price, and Bobby Keys. In a 2009 interview with Mojo Magazine, Cale described his reaction upon hearing Clapton's cover: "I was dirt poor, not making enough to eat and I wasn’t a young man. I was in my thirties, so I was very happy. It was nice to make some money."

Following the release of Clapton's version of "After Midnight," longtime friend and producer Audie Ashworth encouraged Cale to capitalize on the song's spreading commercial success by releasing the single on an album, his first ever. Appropriately titled Naturally, the sessions for the album finished in 1971. The album was released on Leon Russell's Shelter Records in the US and A&M in the UK in 1972. J.J. Cale was 34 years old.

"Crazy Mama"

In a 2009 story for Los Angeles Times, writer Richard Cromelin described the album as a "unique hybrid of blues, folk and jazz, marked by relaxed grooves and Cale's fluid guitar and laconic vocals. His early use of drum machines and his unconventional mixes lend a distinctive and timeless quality to his work and set him apart from the pack of Americana roots-music purists." 

J.J. Cale once said the best compliment he had ever received was from George Harrison before he died in 2001. Interviewed by Mike Greenhaus, Cale said, "Right before George Harrison died, he called me. I had never talked to him in my life and he called me four or five months before he died. He said, 'You know, I really love that first album you made. I have it in my car. But, have you made any albums since then?' We all sort of laughed. Of course, I've made nine albums since then, but he was still locked on my first album."

As we all are. 

J.J. Cale spent his entire musical career in the shadows of other musicians who got famous for covering songs he wrote. His name, for the most part, would never be recognized, never associated with well-know songs like "After Midnight" and "Cocaine." But J.J. Cale left the music world with an unsurpassable amount of talent, and he will forever be missed.