Remembering Carl Perkins, born on this date in 1932. —Ed.
Carl Perkins was one of the major shakers in the peak period of Sun Records, and these days he gets his due mostly as an architect of classic rockabilly. In that regard, one of his many hits compilations will provide an accurate if not comprehensive analysis. To get a taste of the full-blown ‘50s Perkins experience however, one will need to dig a little deeper, and seeking out the 1988 LP Honky Tonk Gal is an excellent choice.
Many outstanding recordings were made in the USA in the decade immediately following the Second World War, but at the top of the heap are a few truly indispensable documents. Amongst them can be found Charlie Parker’s master takes for Dial and Savoy, the high lonesome sound of Bill Monroe’s Blue Grass Boys as captured by Columbia and Decca, Muddy Waters’ electrification of the Delta in Chess Studios, and perhaps inappropriately since it compiled 6 LPs worth of material from prewar 78s, the Anthology of American Folk Music as issued by Folkways.
But if an outlier, I’ll stump passionately for that Harry Smith-compiled doozy. On top of being one of the few multi-disc sets that can be listened to in its entirety without a hint of exhaustion, it just as importantly established a disparate songbook that’s continued to influence music right up to this very minute. And the icing on the cake is how the inspired assemblage of a bohemian painter (and record collector!) integrated American folksong two years before the Supreme Court handed down their unanimous blow to the ugliness of segregation with the Brown v. Board of Education decision.
And that relates pretty well to Samuel Cornelius Phillips and his Memphis Recording Service, later known more famously as Sun Records, a small business concern that was really on a creative mission in loose disguise. It was also the cradle of some extremely essential postwar music. For instance, Jackie Brenston’s “Rocket 88,” considered by some to be the first rock ‘n’ roll song. Or that behemoth of the blues The Howlin’ Wolf, who delivered his first sides there. And by the mid-‘50s it was where a bunch of poor white cats, to borrow a phrase from the mouth of Presley, got real real gone for a change.
Of course, Elvis will always be the first name associated with the Sun scenario due to his massive conquering of the pop charts and his influence on innumerable musicians over the years. And these days Johnny Cash is the probably the second most celebrated Sun figure followed by Jerry Lee Lewis, with both having their individual stories turned into big Hollywood biopics.
That leaves Carl Perkins in the fourth spot, and at first that placement might seem like it’s giving the guy’s highly noteworthy ‘50s achievements a bum deal. But I like to consider it this way; Perkins’ is really just batting in the cleanup spot, and “Blue Suede Shoes” is his grand slam. Suddenly, the whole situation begins to fit him pretty dang well.
That’s because “Blues Suede Shoes” as recorded by Perkins was more than just a four-run homer, it shattered the bat into toothpick-sized splinters and left the ballpark still travelling upward. Released on New Year’s Day of 1956, it became a smash on all three charts; Country, R&B, and Pop. And it was a much bigger hit than Elvis’ cover, though his version has indeed overtaken Perkins’ original in the cultural memory (to the point where many think Presley wrote it.)
And as a concise slab of rock ‘n’ roll, what the tune’s author described as “a country man’s song with a black man’s rhythm,” its multi-chart success was surely reflective of changing times in the months following Brown v. Board, if in no way indicative of a conscious shift in social mores (that would come later, though the issue is far from resolved to this day.)
While the bulk of his discography came afterward, Carl Perkins’ legend is based directly on the records he made for Phillips at Sun, a body of work that greatly impacted rock history. According to Paul McCartney, without its precedent there would’ve been no Fab Four. I tend to think of that as overstatement in the service of a very good point; without Perkins, the early Beatles would’ve sounded much different.
In 1986 Rhino offered up the 14-track LP (two more on the CD) Original Sun Greatest Hits, and it served as a fine doorway into the superb junk that firmly defined Perkins’ greatness. If you’re interested in owning only one of the man’s discs, it’s a smart choice, though in 2000 The Complete Sun Singles CD appeared and was just what its title purports, rounding up the 18 songs that made it into the racks before Perkins left Sun for Columbia in 1958. But in adding exclusive selections it also lacks a few of the sweet ones from the Rhino collection like “Put Your Cat Clothes On” and “You Can Do No Wrong.”
Furthermore, Dance Party of Carl Perkins (aka Teen Beat), the oft-reissued ’59 comp that Original Sun Greatest Hits essentially replaced, while only containing thirteen numbers, is the only one of the three to feature his terrific adaptation of The Platters’ “Only You.” So if the idea of picking up a single release from Perkins might initially feel like a sensible one, the reality is far from that tidy.
And Rounder Records’ 1988 album Honky Tonk Gal makes this readily clear. Though the jacket’s description of “Rare and Unissued Sun Masters” can give the impression of an LP best suited to the interests of rabid rockabilly maniacs, its thirteen tracks ultimately reveal Perkins’ early work as being far more varied than the portraiture of Original Sun Greatest Hits.
Many of those passionate rockabilly nuts cite the car accident and severe injuries Perkins suffered en route to The Perry Como Show to perform “Blue Suede Shoes” as the cruel twist of fate that denied him rising stardom. And some also persist in deriding Elvis as the inferior model that usurped his deserving glory. But as Honky Tonk Gal’s excellent liner notes by Colin Escott explain, that’s not really accurate.
The career of Presley post-Sun is the long, occasionally bizarre narrative of a country boy navigating the role of a pop star. Heavy books have been published on the subject, and you’ll need a sturdy shelf to hold them all. It was a wild ride, but as history has proven, Elvis did have the stuff to triumph in the pop milieu. Sales figures make that abundantly clear, though for a lot of ears (this writer’s included) his music was only fitfully interesting after his departure from Phillips.
To be succinct, Perkins wasn’t cut out for that kind of sustained pop stardom. Instead he was a pioneer, brilliant at combining the essences of two compatible strains of music, but while a strong singer and extraordinary guitarist, he lacked the sheer adaptability and even more so, the dynamic and malleable personality needed to make it at Presley’s level.
That’s not to say that Perkins didn’t do certain things better than ol’ El. Much has been deservedly made of Presley’s transformations of Bill Monroe and Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, but Perkins’ relationship to the blues is just as apparent and stronger by being more subtle. Though he claimed to have not heard Blind Lemon Jefferson’s original at the time he waxed “Matchbox” (quite believable given the fleeting nature of recorded music pre-LP), relating that the song was suggested to him by his father Buck, the connection is still worthy of note, mainly because “Matchbox” is just so damned bluesy.
Perkins was born dirt-poor, and like others of similar circumstances, he navigated racial divisions pretty smoothly, though this isn’t to imply he was “colorblind.” Rather, he was able to absorb the blues form at a deep level, and this lent his rock ‘n’ roll maneuvers a purity and greater sensitivity as the blues intermingled with those powerful country elements, producing a distinct flavor missing in many other similar efforts from the era. Or put another way; many early rock ‘n’ rollers forced the issue (often to great results), but for Perkins it was a natural combination.
The consequence is that while his Sun recordings still hold up great today, they either possessed less friction or were less immediately in-your-face than the attempts of his numerous contemporaries, making follow-up hits difficult and the right-place/right-time success of “Blue Suede Shoes” something of a curse. His attempts to write to the teen market ala Chuck Berry are surprisingly successful artistically (especially since it was a lifestyle he didn’t really understand) but they chalked up diminished sales, and by the end of the ‘50s he was basically a (temporarily) forgotten man.
Honky Tonk Gal’s titular opener is a prime example of his strengths in stylistic invention. But as the ’54 take plays it also reveals why he wasn’t a sustained pop hit-maker. That country element, which as Perkins sings is redolent of Hank Williams, is just too ingrained, absorbed in a manner more profound than the repeated play of records or prolonged exposure to the radio. And his blues inflection is subtle, most boldly apparent in his excellent solo, so it’s no surprise “Honky Tonk Gal” remained in the can until the release of this album.
From here Honky Tonk Gal explores the modes of country, some straight-up, a few hybridized, and a dose of zesty rocking. Perkins excels in both settings, with an alternate version of Perkins’ first single “Turn Around” even more reminiscent of Williams on a down-tempo honky-tonker that’s thick with Bill Cantrell’s fiddle and Stan Kesler’s steel guitar. From there, “You Can’t Make Love to Somebody” is fine hopped-up country boogie, similar to but different in execution from Perkins’ overt stabs at rock ‘n’ roll.
A different take of “Let the Jukebox Keep on Playing,” Perkins’ second 45 and first for Sun proper (“Turn Around” b/w “Movie Magg” was actually on Sun subsidiary Flip), finds Cantrell’s fiddle very much in the mix, and if the differences from the release version aren’t large, there’s enough variation to make them worthwhile. And the song does couple-up nicely with “Turn Around” to propose that Perkins’ could’ve had a solid career as a legit dealer of honky-tonk country.
“Everybody’s Trying to Be My Baby” is also an alternate of a more well-known Perkins tune, and if the rampant braggadocio is less fully-realized than on the original issue, the guitar playing is noticeably snakier. So if not preferable, this one’s easily just as necessary. “What You Do When You’re Cryin’?” brings another dip into country waters, this time loaded-up with a large mess of Kesler’s weepy steel guitar, so lovers of the instrument’s tones should be well pleased.
Side one closes with another take of “You Can’t Make Love to Somebody” that shifts country boogie for the trappings of early rock ‘n’ roll, and the adjustment is enlightening. Pop longevity may not have been in the cards, but Perkins was no one-trick pony. As evidence, the second side jumps to 1957 and opens with “Her Love Rubbed Off,” by far Honky Tonk Gal’s strangest number.
Featuring his core band, brothers J.B and Clayton Perkins on rhythm guitar and bass and W.S. Holland on drums with none other than Jerry Lee Lewis added on keys, it finds Perkins’ really striving to craft a follow-up to “Blue Suede Shoes,” though in the process he ends up creating an atmosphere that’s echo-laden, humid, and deliciously off-kilter, very much a seed for the eventual flowering of fellow Memphis stalwart Tav Falco. And the mid-tempo rockabilly of “That’s Right” is just dripping with bluesy swagger, both instrumentally (with Holland’s bass drum a delight), and via the leader’s loose, spirited vocalizing.
A cover of “Caldonia” smells less like Louis Jordan-styled jump blues and far more like Gene Vincent’s sweaty armpits, so you know its fragrance, complete with stinging, frazzled guitar solos, is potent. Next up is an alternate of one of Perkins’ greatest tunes, the exquisite “Dixie Fried.” As detailed in Escott’s notes, the cut is so heavily rural in its tweaked orientation that the idea of it selling many copies outside of the Southeast was absurd. But as a pillar of hillbilly bop it’s downright perfect, and this version, with the expected flurries of splendid soloing, is a chip off the old block.
“Dixie Fried” was the b-side to Perkins’ fourth single “I’m Sorry I’m Not Sorry.” The a-side is frankly not one his more celebrated songs, but as a slice of piano-driven pop country, with no steel guitars or fiddles in earshot, it’s a pleasant curiosity. Closer “Right String Baby, Wrong Yo-yo” derives from Perkins’ final session for Sun, and it’s as confident a slice of rockabilly circa-1957 as you’ll hear, the whole band clicking like a single well-oiled engine.
If Honky Tonk Gal’s high ratio of alternates continues to suggest it as a better fit for the genre specialist than for the casual fan, that’s deceiving. The extended look into Perkins’ country side, the rip-snorting oddness of “Her Love Rubbed Off,” the acrid whiff of “Caldonia” and the two divergent takes of “You Can’t Make Love to Somebody” assist this album in becoming a major chapter in Carl Perkins studies, promoting him as something much more than just a one hit wonder.
These days a listener can access these tracks in a variety of formats, but for the vinyl lover desirous of having more than just one LP’s worth of Carl Perkins’ eternally hep Sun recordings in their collection, Honky Tonk Gal is a wise acquisition. Turning up a copy will probably take a little digging around, but after finding it the contents will bring years of enrichment.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
