Electricity by Candlelight documents an impromptu 1997 acoustic set by Alex Chilton, and if that sounds like a bone tossed into the salivating kissers of his many intense fans, yes that’s true. But it’s also much more, collecting seventeen disparate cover tunes that coalesce into the finest record from the last two decades of Chilton’s artistic life. As it plays it helps to clarify a complex and often troubled career, but mostly it’s just a sweet listen.
When it comes to building the case for underappreciated greatness, some cult musicians make it easy. Take Townes Van Zandt, for instance. It’s really quite simple. Just play one of his albums. You don’t have to really worry about the receiver somehow missing the point and not “getting” it, because “it” is right there; the getting part basically just comes down to personal taste.
With others it can be a bit more difficult, and solo Alex Chilton is a good example. Those of us who consider ‘79’s Like Flies on Sherbert to be his finest post-Big Star moment are often hesitant to recommend that LP to newcomers, and for good reason; the thing’s a mess. Its disorder is big and beautiful, but without context is comeliness is easy to miss. Hell, even with context it’s still highly divisive.
But without prior knowledge of Big Star’s Third/Sister Lovers, Sherbert and the oft-derided Bach’s Bottom (an extended studio muddle that also includes one of his greatest singles, ‘78’s “Bangkok” b/w a cover of The Seeds’ “Can’t Seem to Make You Mine”), ‘85’s “Feudalist Tarts” EP can kinda come off as a study in workmanlike and innocuous R&B (though it also serves as a tidy synopsis of where he’d end up going later on), and ‘94’s pop standards LP Clichés can register as somewhat bewildering.
Even the disc I consider most recommendable to Chilton newbies, 1987’s High Priest, gains a ton when taken as part of the grand and thorny narrative that is his career. Really, the best way to approach Chilton is to start with the first album from The Box Tops and progress forward chronologically, soaking up the long unavailable 1970 Ardent studio sessions (another key that unlocks his later work) and then investigating the Big Star records in order of release.
If Third/Sister Lovers knocks you sideways, then digging directly into his initial solo efforts, aka his “punk”-period, could result in Like Flies on Sherbert providing a major revelation. If not, then at least the less-prickly irreverence of his subsequent ‘80s stuff (and his participation as a key sideman in the discography of legendary Memphis group Tav Falco’s Panther Burns) will be easier to grasp, as will that late-career shift, accentuated by unexpected Box Tops and Big Star reunion tours, into a sort of rock journeyman brandishing those aforementioned penchants for pop standards and classic R&B.
If the above seems like a rather large undertaking in service of getting a handle on the guy’s output…well he is a cult musician, after all. But along with not recommending Like Flies on Sherbert as a starting point, it’s also wise to steer inquisitive new listeners away from commencing their Chiltonian investigations with those ‘90s recordings.
This is in part because his last three solo studio works, Clichés, ‘95’s A Man Called Destruction and ‘99’s Set (issued outside the states as Loose Shoes and Tight Pussy, surely a tastelessly provocative title, but also one that references a notorious comment made in 1976 by US President Gerald Ford’s Secretary of Agriculture Earl Butz) while far from negligible, are also the least indicative of what made him such a well-loved figure. On top of those, there is also 2004’s Live in Anvers. And Alex Chilton solo gigs were, according to legend anyway, an iffy proposition at best.
Never having witnessed Chilton in the live setting means I can’t provide a firsthand account of his rep as an underwhelming, often disinterested performer. I can only relate my experience with the audio documentation. His 1982 slab Live in London is not as bad as some have described it, but it lacks the fascinating destructiveness (of both form and self) that makes Like Flies on Sherbert such a monster.
Live in London is mainly just a rough, occasionally sloppy show featuring Chilton with a Brit backing band running through everything from a subpar “Bangkok” to a beefed-up “The Letter” to a serviceable “September Gurls” to a rack of covers ranging from the good (Cordell Jackson’s “Stranded on a Dateless Night,” Tiny Bradshaw’s warhorse “Train Kept a Rollin’”) to the lesser (Lowell Fulson’s “Tramp,” simply no match for Panther Burns’ later version.) If spotty, the album at least fits into and adds a little something to this era of Chilton’s artistic trajectory.
Live in Anvers fits in as well, but if it adds anything, it’s mostly support to the accusations of Chilton’s live failings, establishing him, on this night at least, as going through the motions and with lackluster if largely competent backing on top of it all. His ‘80s “comeback” recordings (“Feudalist Tarts,” the “No Sex” EP, and High Priest) were frequently criticized at the time as lacking the goods in comparison to his earlier pinnacles, but over time they have endured pretty well. And outside of Big Star and The Box Tops, they are maybe his most highly regarded releases in the present day.
But if already debatable, the appearance of Electricity by Candlelight makes it even more so by providing Chilton with some needed late-career vindication. On February 13th, 1997 at New York City’s The Knitting Factory, after a power failure between sets seemed to foretell the end of the evening, Chilton reemerged with acoustic guitar in hand to dish out a few numbers for the stragglers in the club.
What began as a small gesture of kindness on Chilton’s part grew into a full set of covers steeped in loose spontaneity and rich engagement; as the songs pile up, it becomes obvious that he was having as good a time as the audience, and for an artist often noted for moroseness and detachment, it’s a wonderful rarity.
Captured on a tape recorder by fan Jeffery Vargon, Electricity by Candlelight’s audio quality makes it basically a legit bootleg. But the music here is a thousand miles away from the other noted Chilton boot, Dusted in Memphis (and Elsewhere), which hails from his early post-Big Star period. That one is further documentation of Alex at strung out loose ends, but the tunes assembled here find him in complete control of his artistic gush, and if not the place for the uninitiated to start, it’s easily his best record post-High Priest.
And the disc actually does do a pretty fantastic job of summing up what Chilton was all about, so any non-conversant folks that just happen to stumble upon it won’t be left at sea and will actually get a few lessons in the bargain. For example, his opening with a pair of country selections provides a strong dose of Chilton’s knack for rescuing lesser-known songs and using his own talent to succinctly communicate why they were unjustly forgotten.
It’s a safe bet that hardly anybody in The Knitting Factory on this night had any prior knowledge of a ’58 Clyde Owens b-side and a ‘71 album cut from Glen Sherley, but in Chilton’s hands they warmed up the crowd with ease. From there he jokes with the attendees, glides half-seriously into Tammy Wynette’s “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” and then tackles a rack of standards, and as the audience’s level of enjoyment increases it pushes Chilton far beyond his initial intentions.
As drummer Richard Dworkin begins lending some light accompaniment, Electricity by Candlelight becomes much more than just a curious footnote in Chilton’s oeuvre, blossoming into a major statement. And interestingly, his warm reading of “The Girl from Ipanema” does a better job of expressing his late fascination with pop standards than does anything on Clichés.
But a trio of Beach Boys covers provides this LP with its peak. First comes “Wouldn’t it Be Nice,” which greatly reinforces Chilton’s pop standards-side. “Surfer Girl” adds to this aura, but also casually asks ears to reconsider a chestnut they’ve heard countless times, and unlike the majesty of “Wouldn’t it Be Nice,” possibly undervalued. But “Solar System,” a deep cut from the ’77 Beach Boys rec Love You, brings us solidly back to Chilton’s mode of savvy song rescue.
Along the way he gently deflects numerous requests, often explaining that the tunes need a full band to do them justice, and aside from a run-through of Loudon Wainwright III’s “Motel Blues,” the Big Star era is never referenced. This is for the better. The set winds down with a cool take of Cash’s “I Walk the Line,” and closes with a stab at “If I Had a Hammer” that while essentially spinning into a likeable goof still conjures a terrific hootenanny vibe. And that’s something not easily attributed to Alex Chilton. I would’ve loved to have experienced it in person.
And I’ll note that the CD issue of this baby ends with an outstanding studio cover of Johnny Lee’s ’81 country hit “Bet Your Heart on Me” that spurns the ephemeral nature of most bonus cuts and attains the sublime. That it has me seriously contemplating adding another dreaded compact disc to my collection should suffice as proof of its goodness.
However, the meat of the matter is the live performance, and Electricity by Candlelight makes a fabulous case for Alex Chilton’s late ramblings. If his brilliance in this era was often obscured, these 17 selections make it clear he never lost it.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-
