Today’s song is ‘Bad Moon Rising’. This song was written by John Fogerty and was performed by ‘Credence Clearwater Revival’. It was the lead single from their album ‘Green River’ and was released in April 1969, four months before the album. The song reached Number 2 on the ‘Billboard Hot 100’ in June 1969 and Number 1 on the ‘U.K. Singles Chart’ for three weeks in September 1969. It was Credence Clearwater Revival's second gold single.
The song has been recorded by at least 20 different artists, in styles ranging from folk to reggae to psychedelic rock. In 2010, Rolling Stone ranked it Number 364 on its "500 Greatest Songs of All Time’ list.
The inspiration for its composition was explained when Fogerty reportedly wrote, 'Bad Moon Rising’ was inspired by a scene in the film involving a hurricane and the song is about the apocalypse that was going to be visited upon us".
The song has been used in many films such as: ‘An American Werewolf in London’: ‘My Fellow Americans’: ‘Twilight Zone’: ‘Howling 111’: ‘The Marsupials’: ‘Blade’: ‘Sweet Home Alabama’: ‘My Girl’: ‘Man of the House’: ‘Operation Avalanche’: ‘Mr Woodcock’: ‘The Big Chill’: ‘Kong- Skull Island’; along with being used in numerous television shows, even on video games.
The song has become notably popular in Argentina as a soccer chant, sung by fans at the stadium to support their teams during soccer matches. Different versions of the lyrics exist for different local teams, and even political parties!
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Several years before I trained to become a Probation Officer in 1970, I worked in a textile mill in Brighouse. I had given up my job as a Mill Manager on nights in a Cleckheaton dye-works and finishing firm to take up a relatively modest role in another mill. This dramatic change in job role witnessed my monthly salary of £240 (a very high salary for 1967) reduced to a weekly wage of less than £20. However, the upside to this apparent downsize in my career prospects was that I no longer worked nights and could, therefore, return to night-school studies three nights weekly for three years to obtain the necessary ‘GCE-A’ and ‘O’ level grades I needed to enrol on a course to become a Probation Officer at Newcastle. I had effectively changed occupations to pursue a career I was better suited for and which I felt deep down that I was destined to follow.
Whilst working at the mill in Brighouse, I met and became close friends with many different types of people. My new workmates were mainly good, honest people who worked and played hard and took whatever happiness life offered them with a sense of gratitude for their good health. There was, however, one man in his mid-50s called George. George was a single man who lived alone (no doubt the basis of many an uncharitable thought or word was spoken about George by his workmates). Overall, no other description would be accurate than to say that George was an unhappy man who never had a good or kind word to say about man or beast. It mattered not what George experienced, when, where, how and who with? Whatever the nature of his experience, the quality remained constantly pessimistic and depressing!
I always found that being in George’s presence for any length of time was like having a toothache that one wanted to be rid of as soon as possible. It was like being forced to swallow a bitter pill. I had been reared by a happy and positive mother who sang all day long as she worked about the house for her large family of seven children. Mum saw goodness in everything she viewed, often to the annoyance in her growing firstborn, who would sometimes notice the obvious badness of a thing or person.
Nevertheless, with my mother being an eternal optimist, I was always brought up in a positive environment, always told to look for the sunny side of the street. Just as a slice of bread and jam will nearly always fall onto the floor with the jam side downwards, my mother’s said to me when I inquired why this was, “ Billy, if you weren’t so greedy and didn’t put too much jam on your bread in the first place, who’s to say it wouldn’t have fallen sticky side up?”
I don’t know how my mother might have reacted had she been faced with working alongside George all day long in the mill. I wonder if he would eventually have worn her down also as he did so many others. George and my mother were essentially opposite sides of the same coin; whereas George would spot the difficulty in every opportunity, my dear mother would instantly see the opportunity in every difficulty. Whereas mum would see a doughnut as being a wholesome thing to eat, George would see nothing other than the hole in it and complain that the baker had short-changed him.
Before I left my millwork and went off to study as a trainee Probation Officer in Newcastle, my workmates at the Brighouse mill arranged a party send-off night for me. Much to my surprise, George attended along with thirty or forty others. I recall one comment from a good work mate when he saw George turn up wearing his usual face of glumness, ‘Good God, Bill! Surely you haven’t asked old misery guts to attend. He’ll put a damper on things.” To sum up the group consensus of party attendees regarding the attendance of George at the party, most believed that the only reason George had bothered to come to the pub do was to spoil the occasion.
That night, I was surprised to see George get fresh as he continued to knock back any free drinks that were on offer. At the end of the night, George was as drunk as a skunk and fearful that he might not get home safely if left to his own devices, me and workmates Trevor, Barry and Terry ordered a taxi and took him home. Upon arrival, being legless, it was necessary to open his door and see him inside while the taxi waited outside with metre running of course. Upon entry, we were instantly struck with an overpowering aroma of ‘cat’ smells.
Fortunately, George lived in a bungalow that required no climbing of stairs to put him to bed fully clothed. We eventually managed to lay the unconscious George on top of his bed in what we later learned was his inheritance. The bungalow had once belonged to his deceased mother as did the sofa he still sat at, the table he ate from and all the chairs that furnished the house; even the bed he slept in. It would have been easy to have added ‘slept in alone’, but such a statement would not have been true, as it seemed that George shared his bed nightly with seven cats. We tried to shoo the cats off the bed to make room for George on it, but they refused to shift and defiantly hissed their displeasure as they showed their claws.
I later learned that all his life, George and his mother had been as close as any mother and son could possibly be. This bond with his mother strengthened after his father deserted them when George was a mere three months old. He never saw or heard from his father again who reportedly worked the fairgrounds. Never a person who mixed easily, George’s social life thereafter became non-existent. It essentially involved going to bed, rising and going to work, returning home at the end of his working day, having tea and watching television every night with his mother until bedtime, and sleep once more. Such a pattern had seemingly been George’s life until the age of 46 years when his mother suddenly died from either a stroke or a heart attack (I cannot recall which it was).
After mum’s death seven years earlier, George had bought a cat for companionship. He discounted all notion of getting a dog as that would have involved regular walks and the increased likelihood of having to meet and speak socially with people he passed on his travels. On the subsequent anniversary of his mother’s death annually, George would get another cat from the Animal Refuge Centre for stray and unwanted cats. This fact reminded me that we all readjust to dealing with our grief in different ways.
I made a point of inquiring about George some years later when I’d joined the Probation Service and two former workmates suggested we meet up for a drink in Weatherspoon’s of Brighouse to chat about old times. During our reunion night out between me, Barry and Terry that night, George came up in conversation. About six months after I left, he seemingly left his job, sold up the house and went to Wales. Naturally, he didn’t inform a soul about the reason behind this sudden change in life apart from saying to one persistent workmate who was determined to repeatedly ask him where he was going, who with and why until he received an answer from George?
For the first time, anyone had ever observed at first hand, George simply smiled and replied, ‘Because it’s time to go as there’s a bad moon rising’. Typically, George’s last comment to them was in keeping with all their expectations of him being a confirmed pessimist. That was the last I ever heard of George, but I can never go to any part of Wales without looking out on the off-chance that he may be somewhere near me. Given that it is 45 years since I last saw George, I’ll just keep my eye out for a small chappie walking his 52 cats behind him like the ‘Pied Piper of Pontepridd'.
Love and peace. Bill x
The song has been recorded by at least 20 different artists, in styles ranging from folk to reggae to psychedelic rock. In 2010, Rolling Stone ranked it Number 364 on its "500 Greatest Songs of All Time’ list.
The inspiration for its composition was explained when Fogerty reportedly wrote, 'Bad Moon Rising’ was inspired by a scene in the film involving a hurricane and the song is about the apocalypse that was going to be visited upon us".
The song has been used in many films such as: ‘An American Werewolf in London’: ‘My Fellow Americans’: ‘Twilight Zone’: ‘Howling 111’: ‘The Marsupials’: ‘Blade’: ‘Sweet Home Alabama’: ‘My Girl’: ‘Man of the House’: ‘Operation Avalanche’: ‘Mr Woodcock’: ‘The Big Chill’: ‘Kong- Skull Island’; along with being used in numerous television shows, even on video games.
The song has become notably popular in Argentina as a soccer chant, sung by fans at the stadium to support their teams during soccer matches. Different versions of the lyrics exist for different local teams, and even political parties!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Several years before I trained to become a Probation Officer in 1970, I worked in a textile mill in Brighouse. I had given up my job as a Mill Manager on nights in a Cleckheaton dye-works and finishing firm to take up a relatively modest role in another mill. This dramatic change in job role witnessed my monthly salary of £240 (a very high salary for 1967) reduced to a weekly wage of less than £20. However, the upside to this apparent downsize in my career prospects was that I no longer worked nights and could, therefore, return to night-school studies three nights weekly for three years to obtain the necessary ‘GCE-A’ and ‘O’ level grades I needed to enrol on a course to become a Probation Officer at Newcastle. I had effectively changed occupations to pursue a career I was better suited for and which I felt deep down that I was destined to follow.
Whilst working at the mill in Brighouse, I met and became close friends with many different types of people. My new workmates were mainly good, honest people who worked and played hard and took whatever happiness life offered them with a sense of gratitude for their good health. There was, however, one man in his mid-50s called George. George was a single man who lived alone (no doubt the basis of many an uncharitable thought or word was spoken about George by his workmates). Overall, no other description would be accurate than to say that George was an unhappy man who never had a good or kind word to say about man or beast. It mattered not what George experienced, when, where, how and who with? Whatever the nature of his experience, the quality remained constantly pessimistic and depressing!
I always found that being in George’s presence for any length of time was like having a toothache that one wanted to be rid of as soon as possible. It was like being forced to swallow a bitter pill. I had been reared by a happy and positive mother who sang all day long as she worked about the house for her large family of seven children. Mum saw goodness in everything she viewed, often to the annoyance in her growing firstborn, who would sometimes notice the obvious badness of a thing or person.
Nevertheless, with my mother being an eternal optimist, I was always brought up in a positive environment, always told to look for the sunny side of the street. Just as a slice of bread and jam will nearly always fall onto the floor with the jam side downwards, my mother’s said to me when I inquired why this was, “ Billy, if you weren’t so greedy and didn’t put too much jam on your bread in the first place, who’s to say it wouldn’t have fallen sticky side up?”
I don’t know how my mother might have reacted had she been faced with working alongside George all day long in the mill. I wonder if he would eventually have worn her down also as he did so many others. George and my mother were essentially opposite sides of the same coin; whereas George would spot the difficulty in every opportunity, my dear mother would instantly see the opportunity in every difficulty. Whereas mum would see a doughnut as being a wholesome thing to eat, George would see nothing other than the hole in it and complain that the baker had short-changed him.
Before I left my millwork and went off to study as a trainee Probation Officer in Newcastle, my workmates at the Brighouse mill arranged a party send-off night for me. Much to my surprise, George attended along with thirty or forty others. I recall one comment from a good work mate when he saw George turn up wearing his usual face of glumness, ‘Good God, Bill! Surely you haven’t asked old misery guts to attend. He’ll put a damper on things.” To sum up the group consensus of party attendees regarding the attendance of George at the party, most believed that the only reason George had bothered to come to the pub do was to spoil the occasion.
That night, I was surprised to see George get fresh as he continued to knock back any free drinks that were on offer. At the end of the night, George was as drunk as a skunk and fearful that he might not get home safely if left to his own devices, me and workmates Trevor, Barry and Terry ordered a taxi and took him home. Upon arrival, being legless, it was necessary to open his door and see him inside while the taxi waited outside with metre running of course. Upon entry, we were instantly struck with an overpowering aroma of ‘cat’ smells.
Fortunately, George lived in a bungalow that required no climbing of stairs to put him to bed fully clothed. We eventually managed to lay the unconscious George on top of his bed in what we later learned was his inheritance. The bungalow had once belonged to his deceased mother as did the sofa he still sat at, the table he ate from and all the chairs that furnished the house; even the bed he slept in. It would have been easy to have added ‘slept in alone’, but such a statement would not have been true, as it seemed that George shared his bed nightly with seven cats. We tried to shoo the cats off the bed to make room for George on it, but they refused to shift and defiantly hissed their displeasure as they showed their claws.
I later learned that all his life, George and his mother had been as close as any mother and son could possibly be. This bond with his mother strengthened after his father deserted them when George was a mere three months old. He never saw or heard from his father again who reportedly worked the fairgrounds. Never a person who mixed easily, George’s social life thereafter became non-existent. It essentially involved going to bed, rising and going to work, returning home at the end of his working day, having tea and watching television every night with his mother until bedtime, and sleep once more. Such a pattern had seemingly been George’s life until the age of 46 years when his mother suddenly died from either a stroke or a heart attack (I cannot recall which it was).
After mum’s death seven years earlier, George had bought a cat for companionship. He discounted all notion of getting a dog as that would have involved regular walks and the increased likelihood of having to meet and speak socially with people he passed on his travels. On the subsequent anniversary of his mother’s death annually, George would get another cat from the Animal Refuge Centre for stray and unwanted cats. This fact reminded me that we all readjust to dealing with our grief in different ways.
I made a point of inquiring about George some years later when I’d joined the Probation Service and two former workmates suggested we meet up for a drink in Weatherspoon’s of Brighouse to chat about old times. During our reunion night out between me, Barry and Terry that night, George came up in conversation. About six months after I left, he seemingly left his job, sold up the house and went to Wales. Naturally, he didn’t inform a soul about the reason behind this sudden change in life apart from saying to one persistent workmate who was determined to repeatedly ask him where he was going, who with and why until he received an answer from George?
For the first time, anyone had ever observed at first hand, George simply smiled and replied, ‘Because it’s time to go as there’s a bad moon rising’. Typically, George’s last comment to them was in keeping with all their expectations of him being a confirmed pessimist. That was the last I ever heard of George, but I can never go to any part of Wales without looking out on the off-chance that he may be somewhere near me. Given that it is 45 years since I last saw George, I’ll just keep my eye out for a small chappie walking his 52 cats behind him like the ‘Pied Piper of Pontepridd'.
Love and peace. Bill x
