A swampy trance made for midnight radio—a rockabilly spark stretched into eight hypnotic minutes, where a bar-band groove turns a simple name into a spell.
Essentials first. Song: “Susie Q” (often styled “Suzie Q” on CCR releases). Artist: Creedence Clearwater Revival. Album: Creedence Clearwater Revival (1968). Writers of the song: Dale Hawkins, Stan Lewis, Eleanor Broadwater (from the 1957 original). Peak U.S. chart position (CCR version): No. 11 on the Billboard Hot 100 (November 1968)—the band’s only Top-40 hit not written by John Fogerty. Single format: issued as Fantasy 616 with “Suzie Q (Part One)” b/w “(Part Two)” on June 15, 1968. Album take length: about 8:37, edited into two sides for the 45.
For many listeners of a certain age, “Susie Q” is where CCR truly arrives—a Louisiana rockabilly classic refitted for late-’60s AM and the new underground FM. You can hear the strategy: Fogerty takes Dale Hawkins’ 1957 hit (with a teenage James Burton carving that famous guitar line) and “psychedelicizes” it just enough for the San Francisco dials—stretching the groove, letting the guitars breathe, and turning a two-and-a-half-minute stomp into a slow, humid boogie that locks you in. On the LP, it unspools for more than eight minutes; on the single, it’s split into Part 1 and Part 2, with the jam cross-fading between sides so the radio could have its tidy bite and the heads could have the long ride.
That length wasn’t an accident. John Fogerty later explained that he deliberately cut “Suzie Q” long and atmospheric to win spins on KMPX, the progressive-rock FM station that prized extended, moody tracks—“the eight-minute opus” built for the new format. The plan worked: the record crossed from the hip FM shows to Top 40 AM, ultimately peaking at No. 11 and becoming CCR’s first national hit. If you remember hearing it bleed through a car speaker at night, that’s because it was designed for that space: spare, mesmerizing, every instrument giving the rhythm room to breathe.
Musically, the band keeps the arrangement austere and hypnotic. Doug Clifford’s kick and hi-hat map out a patient pulse; Stu Cook’s bass walks just enough to keep the floor moving; Tom Fogerty’s rhythm chops are the hinge on which the whole trance swings. Over the top, John Fogerty grinds the lead like a swamp-drenched mantra, even quoting the riff of Howlin’ Wolf’s “Smokestack Lightning” after the second verse—an affectionate nod that deepens the track’s Delta-to-Bay connection. The production favors pocket over polish; it’s the sound of a bar band that suddenly found a way to be both radio-tight and after-hours loose.
Part of the magic lies in what CCR didn’t change. Dale Hawkins’ original had already sketched the blueprint: a flirtation set to a spare, insistent riff and a cowbell heartbeat. CCR keeps the bones, slows the breath, and lets the groove become the message. For older ears, that restraint is what makes the record endure. There’s no psychedelic fireworks, no aimless noodling—just a locked engine that lets memory surface: neon blinking in a diner window, the warm pop of tube radios, the name “Susie Q” circling back like a thought you can’t quit. And when the 45 flips to Part 2, the trance deepens, proof that sometimes repetition is revelation.
Context matters too. On the debut album—cut in San Francisco at Coast Recorders in late ’67 and early ’68—“Susie Q” sits alongside other roots choices (“I Put a Spell on You”) and early Fogerty originals, announcing the swamp-rock vocabulary CCR would refine across the next three years. The single’s chart run in late 1968 wasn’t just commercial validation; it was the green light for the flood to come: “Proud Mary,” “Bad Moon Rising,” “Green River,” “Fortunate Son.” But it starts here—with a cover that sounds inevitable, as if the song had been waiting a decade for this exact tempo, tone, and attitude.
If you’re revisiting it now, listen for the two versions talking to each other: the compact Part 1 that made radio programmers nod, and the full album take that lets you settle in and sway. Either way, you’re hearing why CCR cut through a crowded year. In 1968, plenty of bands chased spectacle; this track went the other way, making focus its special effect. It doesn’t announce itself as a classic—it becomes one, measure by measure, until even the silence between notes feels like part of the rhythm.