A jukebox crush with a wink—two-and-a-half minutes of joyride romance that pauses to catch its breath, then peels out with a saxophone grin.
Essentials up top. Song: “Molina.” Artist: Creedence Clearwater Revival. Album: Pendulum (Fantasy, released December 9, 1970). Writer/producer: John Fogerty. Recorded: November 1970 at Wally Heider Studios, San Francisco (engineer Russ Gary). Placement/length: Side 2, Track 4; 2:41. Single status: not a U.S. single, but issued internationally in 1972 (often b/w “Sailor’s Lament”), reaching #32 in Germany. Also notable: Pendulum was CCR’s last album with Tom Fogerty, and the only CCR LP with no cover songs—every tune written by John.
On the surface, “Molina” is a breezy rocker: a flirty name, a motor under the melody, a chorus that lands on first listen. But listen closer and you hear how Pendulum broadened Creedence’s palette. Alongside the classic guitars-and-drums chassis, there’s electric/electronic piano pushing a rhythmic shimmer and, after a playful false ending, a compact saxophone break—both played by John Fogerty. It’s a small but telling departure from the band’s earlier “bar-band straight ahead,” and it gives the song its sly, late-night sparkle.
That false ending is part of the charm older ears remember: the band hits a stop, leaves a long breath of silence—as if the 45 might be over—then kicks back in with a sax riff and final sprint. CCR rarely fooled with studio tricks; here, the joke is gentle and musical, more wink than gimmick, the kind of move that made you smile across a kitchen or a VFW dance floor. Even some later compilations trimmed or altered that tail, which is why album diehards cherish the original LP sequencing and mix.
In the larger Pendulum frame, “Molina” sits amid expansion and transition. The album arrived five months after Cosmo’s Factory, and you can hear John Fogerty layering keyboards and even a sax section into CCR’s swamp-rock grammar—without losing the dry, close-to-the-band sound that made their singles breathe on AM radio. It would be the last time the four classic members cut an album together; Tom Fogerty left in early 1971, making Pendulum both a creative stretch and a fond farewell to the original lineup.
What’s the song about? “Molina” reads like a postcard of small-town temptation: a mayor’s daughter with a taste for fast nights and faster driving, “messing with the sheriff,” running red lights—romance as motion. Fogerty keeps the language quick and pictorial, more rock-and-roll vignette than parable, and lets the groove carry the story. It’s one of the rare straight love songs in the Creedence catalog, told with a grin rather than a sermon, which is likely why it became a quiet fan favorite even without U.S. single treatment. (Contemporary summaries and lyric guides hear the same story—reckless charm, a whiff of trouble, and a singer who can’t help but chase.)
The chart footprint is tidy and a little quirky—very Creedence. In the States, Fantasy was rightly focused on the double-barreled single “Have You Ever Seen the Rain”/“Hey Tonight,” but labels in Europe took “Molina” for a spin as an A-side in 1972, pairing it with “Sailor’s Lament.” It made a dent—Top 40 in Germany—and turned up on 7-inch pressings in several territories. If you collect paper: you’ll find multiple European issues and later reissues on Discogs, with consistent couplings and dates.
Musically, it’s Creedence doing what they did better than almost anyone: economy with personality. Doug Clifford keeps a heartbeat backbeat; Stu Cook walks the bass in short, steady steps; Tom Fogerty’s rhythm chops the air; and John phrases just ahead of the beat—urgent but unhurried. Then, after that breath-held pause, the sax jumps in like a streetlight snapping on. You can two-step to it, you can drive to it, and you can drop the needle and watch a room warm by the second chorus.
A couple of archival footnotes deepen the affection. CCR never performed “Molina” live, and John Fogerty hasn’t carried it onstage in his solo years either, so the studio cut is the definitive experience. That also means the arrangement you love—the specific keyboard pulse, the stop-time gag, the sax tag—isn’t a souvenir of a tour; it’s a carefully built record from a band at its studio peak. And for those who keep scorecards, critics at the time split on it (from NME praise to a Rolling Stone shrug), while decades of listeners filed it under “deep-cut that feels like a single.”
Play “Molina” now, ideally between “Hey Tonight” and “Born to Move,” and you’ll hear Pendulum’s balance snap into focus: rootsy bones, new colors, and a singer-producer brave enough to add a saxophone smile to the Creedence stride. It’s a small record with a long half-life—the sound of a band still in love with the simple things: a backbeat, a name in a chorus, and the little drama of stopping just long enough to make the return feel like daylight.