[b]Review by J. Fogerty[/b]
This one has to do with "the gift," the craft of songwriting. As a young musician, I had developed the habit of saving titles, including ones like "Green River" and "Lodi." The first time I ever heard the word "Lodi," I thought it was the coolest sounding name, so I saved it for the longest time. One night my band part-Golliwogs/part other musicians were playing a dance on the Cal Berkeley campus at Herbst Hall. Quicksilver Messenger Service was playing as well. This was around 1966, so they were already semi-famous. They were singing a song that, judging from the chorus, I thought was called, "Lodiiiiiii, Lodiiiiiiii!" After their set, I ran up and asked the curly-headed guy, "Hey, was that song about Lodi?" He looked at me and said, "No man, Codeine." I was so relieved. Talk about two concepts colliding. I was thinking Americana, and he was talking psychedelia. My secret was safe. Soon my life had changed. I finally had a vehicle to make records, so I decided to write the song, teach it to the band, and actually record it. I was determined to write a song about "Lodi." And here's where "the gift" part enters in. When you're not feeling it, if you're not "in the zone," it's the most forlorn feeling there is. But when you've got it, and you're going into your room to write something like "Lodi," you're almost daring the gods to send something to you. So I sat down and wrote about being on the road, being a musician; not the happy, glamorous part, rather, I projected myself ahead maybe ten years, as a country musician singing that minor hit I had ten years ago. There I was. I wasn't in Los Angeles. I'm not even in Cucamonga. I'm all the way out in Lodi! The song went from "Lodi" to "Oh Lord, stuck in Lodi, again," not a happy thought.
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