Remembering Jerry Lee Lewis. —Ed.
When it comes to the strange and ornery case of Jerry Lee Lewis, it’s illustrative to look to genetics. And the fact that it could be claimed that Jerry Lee got his contrary and bellicose genes from his great grandfather, of whom it was said he could knock a horse to its knees with a single punch. But it doesn’t really matter where he got his meanness; all that matter is he’s a volatile menace with a police record longer than a king cobra, and is every bit as venomous.
Exhibit one: following a dispute between The Killer and Chuck Berry over who would open a show, Jerry lost. He proceeded to drive the audience mad, set the piano on fire, and continued playing despite the flames before finally stalking off stage and saying to Berry, “Follow that, n____.” Exhibit two: At a birthday party for Lewis, he produced a .357 magnum, pointed it in the general direction of his bass player Norman “Butch” Owens, announced, “I’m gonna shoot that Coca-Cola bottle over there or my name isn’t Jerry Lee Lewis,” and proceeded to shoot Owens twice in the chest. Guess he wasn’t Jerry Lee Lewis that day. And to add insult to injury, Lewis’ current girlfriend’s only response to what amounted to near homicide was to holler at Owens for bleeding on her carpet.
Why, the Killer doesn’t even give a flying fuck about you or me. A fervent believer in the firebrand form of Christianity purveyed by his televangelist cousin Jimmy Lee Swaggart, he is dead certain that playing rock’n’roll buys you a one-way ticket to Hell, and has been quoted as saying, “I’m dragging the audience to Hell with me.” Dress for warm weather, people.
Over the course of his long and checkered career Lewis has gone from playing rock’n’roll to playing country and back, but he has always believed he’s destined for Hellfire, as if predestined not for Heaven but for fire and brimstone. He makes all those satanic metal guys look like pussies; how many of them, if pressed, really believe they’re going to Hell because of the music they play?
And none of Lewis’ countless recordings capture that satanic whiff of sulfur better than his live performance at Hamburg’s Star Club in 1964. Backed by British beat band The Nashville Teens, Lewis turns in what is probably the wildest and most incendiary performance ever committed to record. Possessed—and if not by Satan, then who?—Lewis screams, shouts, laughs, purrs like a big cat, speaks in tongues, and does everything with his piano but commit sodomy with it. The tempos are fast, as if Lewis can’t get to Hell quick enough, and to quote the title of one of his numerous compilation records, this is 40 minutes of “all Killer, no filler.” On which he provides convincing proof that, at least in my humble opinion, he is the greatest rocker of them all—better than Berry, Presley, Perkins—better, hell, than anybody.
From the full-tilt boogie of “I Got a Woman,” which includes an extended piano workout as well as one of the wildest song endings I’ve ever heard, he bebops his way through the great “High School Confidential” at triple time, pounding the hell out of the 88s (how come they don’t explode?), then amongst shouts of “Jerry, Jerry” goes into “Money,” with its great piano riff and callow lyrics. Compared to the first two cuts this one’s practically a slow dance, but Lewis still makes the song swing, slowing things down to repeat “gimme” numerous times before cranking things up again.
“Matchbox” is a bellowed blues, with Jerry going pneumatic on the keys and singing, “If you don’t like Jerry Lee’s peaches, please don’t pull at my tree.” As for “What’d I Say-Part 1,” what can I say? He doesn’t so much kill it as murder it in cold blood, speed-singing the lyrics like he just swallowed a handful of amphetamines, then shouting at the top of his lungs before the song stops only to go into “What’d I Say-Part II,” on which he wants you to shake that thing before slowing things down (“Easy now”) to express his smoldering erotic desires, after which things slowly speed up again, Lewis repeating the title over and over while The Nashville Teens do an admirable job of keeping up.
“Great Balls of Fire” is a heart-stopper and foot-stomper, complete with lots of piano runs and repeated notes, while his take on “Good Golly, Miss Molly” may be the best ever, what with its fiery tempo and Lewis’ commanding vocals. When he sings, “You sure do like to ball” it’s with a vocal leer, and the victorious “Ha ha!” with which he ends the tune says it all. “Lewis’ Boogie” includes some cool guitar from The Nashville Teens’ John Allen and is over before you know it, and then Lewis slows things down to play “Your Cheating Heart,” a portent of a country career to come that comes complete with great honky-tonk piano.
“Hound Dog” is a conflagration, played at well past the speed limit with Lewis (figuratively this time) setting the piano keys alight while giving it everything he’s got on vocals. Why, even the guitar solo by Allen is great. But it pales next to the Killer’s take on “Long, Tall Sally,” one of the most frenetic songs ever recorded. As for “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On,” it’s got a big beat and makes up for what it lacks in tempo with what amounts to a case of felonious piano abuse and another cool guitar solo by Allen. Lee slows things down, says, “All you’ve got to do baby/Is stand in one little spot,” and then, “Wiggle it around a little bit” before he finally cuts loose. And he closes the show by taking the audience to Hell with him by long, black speeding train in the rollicking form of “Down the Line.”
“Rock’n’roll’s first great wild man” has more than lived up to the title over the years, and perhaps his greatest performance, besides this album, is that he still draws breath. Imagine Keith Richards with a gun fetish and a knack for unpredictable violence, and you don’t even come close to the Killer and the wake of inexplicable destruction he has left in his path over his miraculously long life. He believes in God, and maybe God, a forgiving guy on occasion, is looking out for him, even if Jerry Lee doesn’t think so.
A Rolling Stone reviewer gave us what may be the best description of this remarkable testament to the Killer’s greatness when he said “Live” at the Star Club “is not an album, it’s a crime scene: Jerry Lee Lewis slaughters his rivals in a thirteen-song set that feels like one long convulsion.” Crime scene indeed; Lewis’ whole mean and convoluted existence has been one long crime scene, and if he weren’t such a great artist, it would probably be advisable to put him down like a wild dog.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A+
