CARLTON FLETCHER: ‘Bad Moon Rising,’ Amy Blackmarr and my musical career

“Forget all about that macho sh — and learn how to play guitar.”

— John Mellencamp

It came out of nowhere, as it often does, and hit me with the impact of a Dick Butkus (old football reference) tackle, as it always does.

It’s not so much the song itself, Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising,” as it is the first two notes of the CCR classic. It’s notes I know so well, notes that mark the extent of my musical career … yeah, we’ll call it that.

I love music. Anybody who knows me even a little bit knows that I am semi-obsessed with music. I love all kinds — if it’s good — but I’m particularly partial to the music from around the mid-60s to the mid-70s, a decade that includes the ascendency of The Beatles, the Stones and others who were part of the British Invasion; Stevie Wonder, the Temptations and the wonderful Motown Sound; the emergence of ’60s message music a la Bob Dylan, and the wonderful noise of blues-based heavy metal played by Led Zeppelin and the like.

But I love, love, love Zydeco music, eastern Indian raga, and early hip-hop before it became a genre of posers and “bad-girl” soundalikes that persists to this day.

People have often asked me, especially after I’ve talked rapturously about something like the vocal perfection of Art Garfunkel, Eddie Vedder, Otis Redding, Van Morrison or the drumming in songs like “Make me Smile” or “Smoke From a Distant Fire,” if I play music. I usually laugh and say something dumb like, “The only thing I can play is a record player, and I often mess that up.”

But the truth is, I have no musical ability. None. Zero. Zip. I can’t sing. I can’t play piano … or drums … or ukulele … or tambourine … or didgeridoo.

And I especially can’t play guitar.

Back when I was around 14, though, my parents bought my brother, Don, who like me loves music, guitars for Christmas. He got a bass, and I got a basic electric. We were going to turn our love for music into this magical sound that would set the world on fire.

A friend who lived nearby, Tony Sumner, knew how to play piano. He was one of those lucky people who picked up music by ear and could play any kind of instrument you want to name. He, Don and I got together and decided we were going to form our own garage band. Look out, Mitch Rider.

So the three of us — thank God we didn’t come up with some hokey name for our “band” — got together to work on our music. The song we decided to learn first: “Bad Moon Rising.” Tony got with Don and taught him a couple of necessary bass chords, and they were off. Then he tried to teach me a few chords so that I could back his lead guitar.

I learned “D.” And that’s the first two chords of “Bad Moon Rising.” Oh, there are other chords, but I couldn’t quite get any of them. Tony showed me over and over, and I practiced until the blisters on my fingers calloused over.

But I just couldn’t get it. And when we practiced, I’d just fake it. No one paid attention or particularly cared. And I figured I was smart enough and determined enough to eventually get there.

But one day — and I don’t remember how this came about, probably me bragging about being in a band — Amy Blackmarr saw me and told me she’d heard about our band. I had been “in love” with Amy Blackmarr since the first time I’d seen her, my first real crush. I was so excited, I think, that she was talking to me — oh, and I guess I should inject here that Amy did not share my feelings, pretty much saw me as an annoyance at that time, which I pretty much was — that I agreed for our “band” to come over to her house and play for her.

Bad mistake. I was nervous just being in her presence, but in the back of my mind I thought I could fake it enough to at least convince her I was a skilled musician. Trouble was, she actually was musically gifted.

So our band broke out “Bad Moon Rising.” Here’s what I did: I hit those opening D chords along with Tony, and that was it. I moved my fingers and would hit a string now and then, but that was it. When we finished, Amy said something like, “That was good … but, Carlton, I really couldn’t hear you playing.”

I was devastated. And I mean that in the truest sense of the word. We hung around a bit longer, Amy even sang “Bad Moon Rising” while Tony and Don played. I sat like a stump, embarrassed to no end.

That was the last time I played my guitar. Ever. I never tried again to learn another chord, never strummed along to a record. I quit.

The band never took off, of course. And my music career came to a crashing halt. I’ve learned to live with it. But every now and then I’ll hear “Bad Moon Rising” and, well … I remember again why some people are made to listen to music, not play it.