Get a little lonely when the sun gets low? Enjoy Andrew Kirell's tribute to a singular talent who famously hated the music industry but created wonderful music. The tug of war between creativity and commerce is the story of Gerry Rafferty. Talk about being stuck in the middle. That’s where Rafferty lived.
Gerry Rafferty: A Blissful Tragedy. Words and curation by Andrew Kirell, cover by Mick Clarke
In 2021, you’d be forgiven for not thinking about Gerry Rafferty, or even knowing who he was.
But you’ve almost certainly heard the eight-bar saxophone riff—the one that shattered the Billboard charts in early 1978 and dethroned the Bee Gees nearly 50 weeks into Saturday Night Fever’s reign. The same tune that kicked off a wave of sax-laden pop hits, capstoned a hangover musical decade marked by eerily melancholic sleaze, and then destroyed Rafferty’s life.
“Baker Street” was and continues to be a phenomenon, a seemingly timeless experiment in soft-rock excess that turned a reluctant, reclusive, and curmudgeonly Rafferty into a reluctant rock star overnight. There was Raphael Ravenscroft’s indelible sax solo; layers upon layers of gentle flute, electric piano, bongos, and wind chimes; a wailing guitar solo; and Rafferty’s sighing vocal delivery of a boozy, depressive tale about wandering the streets of London in search of salvation only to find yourself weeping, yearning for a better life that may never come.
That juxtaposition of self-destructive doom with sublime melodies and blissful harmonies is a defining feature of Rafferty’s two most classic albums—City to City and Night Owl—and also a woeful representation of his life. Upon his death in 2011, obituary after obituary lamented Rafferty’s boundless potential, squandered by his inability to shake the demons that he so eloquently wrote about shaking for several decades.
Born in 1947 to a working-class family in Paisley, Scotland, Rafferty was exposed to recklessness at an early age: His father was a raging alcoholic; and his mother, tenderly immortalized in Gerry’s song “Mary Skeffington,” fought hard to shield her son from bearing the brunt of dad’s outbursts. (A common theme in Rafferty’s tragedy: A keen awareness of alcoholism and its emotional toll—as expressed in countless, oft-bittersweet songs—never seemed to prevent his inevitable downward spiral.)
Largely armed with the Irish folk music of his family, the Scottish folk of his upbringing, and the sweet balladry of The Beatles, Rafferty first joined forces with future famed comedian Billy Connelly for the Humblebums—a short-lived venture that generated a slew of nice pub folk songs like “I Can’t Stop Now.” The mild success of his first act turned Rafferty off to the music business enough that in 1971 he recorded a solo album full of biting folk songs like “Can I Have My Money Back?” and “To Each and Everyone.”
Despite already objecting to the trappings of commercialization, Rafferty and former classmate Joe Egan formed Stealers Wheel in 1972 and churned out three major-label studio albums helmed by mega-producers Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. “Stuck in the Middle With You,” a galloping Dylanesque rocker that lampooned the music business, became their biggest radio hit and later achieved iconic status when it soundtracked a famously gruesome scene in Quentin Tarantino’s 1992 debut Reservoir Dogs.
By the time that group dissolved in 1975, Rafferty was notorious in the industry for openly hating executives, publishers, and other such vultures; and for allegedly obnoxious behavior and bitter treatment toward some peers. Such a reputation was always in strange conflict with his sheepish, soft-spoken, introverted persona—the opposite of a flamboyant, loudmouthed rock star.
The enormous overnight success of City to City in 1978 only served to push him into further isolation, but the album itself is a remarkable document of a deeply tender, thoughtful songwriter who could only express that part of his mind—the part that sought respite from its own tumult—through music.
Of course, there’s “Baker Street” and its soaring melancholy, and follow-up hit “Right Down the Line”—an unabashed declaration of love for then-wife Carla Ventilla and a self-deprecating acknowledgement of how much bullshit she had to put up with. In hindsight, it comes off all-the-more heartbreaking knowing said bullshit ended their marriage a decade later and sent him further into the abyss—but City to City is loaded with sweet, McCartney-esque lost gems and sunny, harmony-heavy ditties written specifically for his family.
Album opener “The Ark” is a gorgeous, hymnal search for hope of a better life amid his own internal gloominess. “Whatever’s Written in Your Heart” similarly relies on gospel-size harmonies and piano to say what Rafferty seemingly had trouble expressing outside his music: a deep remorse for constructing so many walls around himself and alienating loved ones. More propulsive folk-rockers like “City to City,” “Home and Dry,” and “Waiting for the Day” all burst with a weary warmth, copping to his destructive habits while daydreaming about retreating home to the comfort of his wife and daughter. His sole child, Martha, then a grade-schooler, was the direct subject of “Mattie’s Rag,” a joyous daddy’s-coming-home ragtime bop.
The album’s No. 1 chart and radio-play status meant Rafferty began to rake in enormous amounts of cash and public attention—all of which he had forsaken, at times in contradictory fashion. He refused to tour the United States and turned down offers to work with the likes of Paul McCartney and Eric Clapton. His manager Jon Brewer recalled how Gerry refused to step foot in his Rolls Royce or his fancy office, and yet Rafferty himself began purchasing lavish estates, chartering private jets, smashing expensive wines, donning Armani outfits, and generally wreaking high-priced havoc.
One year after his explosive success, Rafferty returned with Night Owl, which sold well and contains just as many sun-drenched folk-rock jewels as its predecessor—albeit without any sax solos heard ‘round the world. The eponymous lead single is a sparkly, funky groove returning to the dejected lonerisms of “Baker Street,” this time following a person drunkenly stumbling through isolation (and there’s a Lyricon solo!).
Elsewhere on the album, harmonies reign supreme, accordion and mandolin are given a greater role, and a songwriter finds himself yet again lamenting his foibles and searching—through a crisp, almost Laurel Canyon-style production—for an inner peace he remained incapable of allowing himself to actually enjoy outside his recorded music.
“Family Tree” saw Rafferty returning to hymnal piano balladry, this time reminiscing about harmonizing with blood relatives amid even the worst familial drama. Dreamy but slightly sour tunes like album opener “Days Gone Down” and the closing duo of “The Tourist” into “It’s Gonna Be a Long Night” revisit Rafferty’s penchant for yearning to return home despite physical or mental distance. “Take the Money and Run” is a would-be hit that saw a newly mega-rich Rafferty taking aim yet again at his favorite targets: greedy music execs, producers, lawyers—dirty capitalists, the lot of ’em.
But the cracks in his personal life were more apparent here on the blissful lament, “Why Won't You Talk to Me?,” an accordion-heavy standout, reminiscent of The Band, that asked the titular question of a by-now massively frustrated partner. And on another album highlight—the strummy, synthy romp “Get It Right This Time”—Rafferty seems to give himself a pep talk, however ill-fated, about recognizing your own shortcomings on the road to personal growth.
Of course, Gerry only continued to struggle with his depression and alcoholism, even though he seemed fully aware of his flaws and the life he knew he wanted—an existential quandary familiar to anyone who’s struggled with mental illness and the self-fulfilling prophecies of doom that come with it.
As such, amid a backslide into self-imposed alcoholic isolation, his final major-label album, Snakes & Ladders, released in 1980, lacked the charm or emotional intelligence of its predecessors. It spawned a minor hit “The Royal Mile” and featured an almost Spector-like political epic in “The Garden of England,” but the book was already closing on Gerry Rafferty.
From there, his drinking binges grew more intense, his tragedy grew less and less sympathetic, and his public relevance faded fast. After releasing Sleepwalking in 1982, which featured a brief return to atmospheric triumph on “The Right Moment,” Rafferty disappeared for much of the ‘80s. The latter two decades of his life featured sporadic-at-best releases, persistent rumors of his disappearance, and epic benders that destroyed his marriage, his relationship with his brother, and plenty of hotel rooms. Eventually, his physical health gave way to frequent hospitalization. He died of liver disease in 2011.
And yet, throughout his public descent, private onlookers often remarked upon the kind soul behind the crankiness. The manager of one hotel that played host to one particular drinking spree said it was “such a shame” because he was “a really nice man.” And towards the end of his life, an unassuming Rafferty once strolled into a West Cork pub and charmed locals by taking requests well into the night.
It’s a shame that Rafferty is now just an underrated relic. He’s been reduced to a cautionary tale about success, wasted potential, and the unending search for “authenticity”—themes that artists will grapple with until the end of time.
Gerry Rafferty didn’t fail upwards like so many “mediocre white men” in the history of music and business. He failed downward, like many genuinely talented people do when they become unmoored from themselves and those they love. But he remains timeless to me, largely thanks to the deeply human contradiction at the core of his life and work: There can be bliss in tragedy.
Andrew Kirell is a Brooklyn-based singer-songwriter releasing his debut album later in 2021. By day, he is a senior media editor at The Daily Beast.