By quantriweb2023 
In the late autumn of 1967, amidst the shifting tides of American rock, a modest pop ballad quietly marked a threshold. “Call It Pretending” wasn’t a chart-topping hit or a sprawling anthem, but it captured something far more intimate—a young band standing on the cusp of transformation, their music poised between innocence and grit. This tender plea from the soon-to-be legendary Creedence Clearwater Revival whispered of vulnerability and hope, revealing a side of the band too often overlooked beneath their swampy swagger.
When “Call It Pretending” first appeared, it was a B-side to “Porterville”, released by The Golliwogs, Creedence’s former name. The year was 1967, a year brimming with exploding psychedelia and rock grandeur, yet this simple two-minute tune favored plainspoken honesty over flamboyance. Recorded in San Francisco’s Coast Recorders studio, just after Saul Zaentz’s acquisition of Fantasy Records, the track was a quiet pivot point. John Fogerty, hiding behind the pseudonym “T. Spicebush Swallowtail”, delivered lyrics that cut straight to a raw nerve—a lover at the edge of a decision, asking if they would “make a brand-new start” or continue to “call it pretending.” Later reissues scrapped the playful alias for Fogerty’s own name, signaling a move away from the band’s garage-band roots toward the commanding identity of CCR.
Listening to this song today, you hear something bittersweet and delicate. The polish of mid-60s beat groups still shines through—bright guitars, a steady but understated rhythm section—but the edges are soft, the feelings exposed. Unlike the gruff boldness of future classics like “Proud Mary”, here is a voice that trembles with the weight of uncertainty and yearning. “The melody lifts like a question you’ve rehearsed for weeks and only just found the nerve to ask,” a longtime fan once reflected. It’s an underappreciated moment when the man behind many of rock’s swampy anthems was simply trying to speak his truth plainly.
But the real intrigue lies in the timing. “Call It Pretending” sits at the crossroads where The Golliwogs faded and CCR emerged with renewed purpose. The band’s transformation wasn’t merely cosmetic—a new name on the label meant a realignment of their sound and spirit. While the single’s A-side “Porterville” failed to chart, and “Call It Pretending” did not even rise as a B-side favorite, these recordings were seeds planted in a transitional soil. They balanced tidy radio-friendly pop with the textured Americana that would define the group’s future. By summer 1968, the release of “Susie Q” pulled the band fully into the national spotlight, their identity sharpened to a razor’s edge with that signature blend of rock and riverine grit.
That pseudonym “T. Spicebush Swallowtail”, a playful nod to a North American butterfly, now seems like a final wink from the skateboard-and-basement era of the band’s life. John Fogerty himself later described “Call It Pretending” as “pop of the old style of the band,” choosing to exclude it from the debut CCR LP as they pursued a tougher, swamp-lit image. It was shelved for decades before Fantasy Records finally recognized its significance, including it on the 40th anniversary edition of their debut. What once seemed a throwback suddenly felt like a crucial preface: a quiet narrative moment that fleshed out the story of a band finding its voice in plain words.
For those who still own and cherish vinyl, the record carries the ghosts of that era—fingertips brushing the paper sleeve, the faint crackle before the music blooms. It’s a snapshot of a simpler time when a band trusted a song’s melody and a heartfelt plea rather than studio wizardry and extended guitar jams. The arrangement is lean and purposeful; every note cradles the emotions underneath. The lyric’s gentle confession—that sometimes, love means ending the pretense—is a truth both timeless and tender. It doesn’t shout; it asks, with quiet courage.
In a way, “Call It Pretending” invites listeners behind CCR’s mythic curtain. The public knows the band for the stomp and swagger of their anthems—the routable riverboats and dusty highways embedded in their sound—but here is the seed of clarity and real feeling. It’s two people in a room, weighed down by small decisions that carry the heft of life-changing significance. When John Fogerty sings, “Are we through pretending?” it’s not a rhetorical flourish but a vulnerable reach for honesty.
Today, “Call It Pretending” endures not due to commercial success, but because it captures a human truth at the start of a storied journey. The shy pseudonym, the clean guitar lines, the young voice still learning how to invest melody with meaning—all remind us what CCR might have been without their swampy swagger. When “Susie Q” finally cracked the charts months later, the world heard the confident stride. But this gentle B-side proves that beneath the bravado was a heart quietly already in place, waiting to be heard.
And maybe that is why “Call It Pretending” still feels like a secret shared between close friends—a conversation lingering in the dusk, asking us to remember that sometimes the hardest song to write is the one that simply asks: what happens next?