JJ Cale

I wasn’t sure why it hit me so hard when I read, in Slate on Saturday, that JJ Cale had died. Maybe because, within a long list of articles about Anthony Weiner, George Zimmerman, and texting protocol after a first date, here was, buried, this “oh yeah, JJ Cale died” piece (not knocking Slate, a publication I love). Maybe because, despite the fact that I directly encounter Cale’s music only occasionally, it seemed like he had always been here and always would be.

He was one of those musicians who were the lifeblood of progressive radio in the 70s, when I had the good fortune to work in that “business.”  If you asked each announcer at WDBS (where the announcers picked the music for their shows) to list 20 artists s/he might play during a typical program, there’s a good chance that JJ Cale would be on a few of those lists. When Dire Straits released their first album in 1978, what struck me most was how much it sounded like JJ Cale. How the careers of those two diverged could be a study in the workings of the music industry, as well as an example of the difference between an artist and a performer (taking nothing away from Mark Knopfler as an artist), a distinction made by Cale himself. His own recordings met with, at best, modest commercial success (“I’d probably be selling shoes today if it wasn’t for Eric (Clapton),” Cale said in 2006). That his music was recognized and covered by other musicians, notably Clapton, provided Cale with a comfortable living, a too-rare example of a good guy winning in the music business. Cale’s attitude about the business reflected the laid-back feel of the “Tulsa sound” he created – “When my songs started raking in some funds I thought, ‘What’s the use of working all the time?’ I believe in no work at all if you can get away with it. I’d recommend writing songs. You get all of the money and none of the bother.”

I never saw Cale play live and can recall only one opportunity to do so. The closest I came involved a chance encounter in a Holiday Inn parking lot in Wrightsville Beach in the early 70s. Wrightsville was a wonderfully slow and quiet place in those days. Walking through the half-empty lot to the beach mid-day I noticed, on the front sign, that Cale had played in the lounge the previous night, which dismayed me, since I’d heard nothing about it. Almost simultaneously, I saw a solitary figure standing in the lot doing nothing but, apparently, thinking. If not for the hotel sign, he would’ve struck me as an oddly out-of-place character, looking comfortably disheveled in his long pants & rolled-up sleeves; because of that sign, I realized he was JJ Cale.

He seemed surprised that I recognized him. I let him know how disappointed I was that I hadn’t heard about the show and he let me know how well it went, without rubbing my nose in the fact that I missed it. He was down-to-earth and matter-of-fact, and, after speaking for a few minutes, we went our separate ways, the only 2 people in sight. The experience had a dream-like quality, then and now. I didn’t realize at the time how metaphorical & rare that solitary encounter was for a musician who cultivated a quiet anonymity during his career, eschewing phone service, rarely performing live and avoiding putting his own image on his album covers.

I feel a big empty space for him today and I do understand why. On one hand, I’ve had no regular expectation of seeing him, or even hearing his music on any given day. On the other hand, I’m constantly reminded of his influence on so many musicians I do see and hear. He helped form my notion of what honest music, created and played with integrity, can be. He’s gone – what he left behind will not fade away.