Part of me feels that I should be preaching to the converted – you know who you are – but, particularly because Alex Chilton died last week, which is why I’m writing this, I wanted to put his legacy in terms that could connect with people who haven’t heard of him; yet have undoubtedly heard him – perhaps find a reference point that might help an outsider tap into his or her inner-Chilton.
If you are familiar with this versatile, sometimes confounding, musician, you probably represent one of the following categories: You’re a rock fan with a voracious appetite for delving into the back of pop music's refrigerator; you grew up in Memphis in the '70s; or it was just an ironic instance of learning that somebody existed by hearing that he died. (For a fame-obsessed society, we are surprisingly respectful of unknown important people -- but usually they have to pass away to get a blurb's worth of attention.)
If you want to familiarize the unconverted with Chilton, just ask them if they remember "The Letter," which was a big radio hit in 1968 and remains a staple of oldies stations. Inevitably they'll respond with an "ah yes," and flash a nostalgic smile - but first you might have to hum a few bars of the grungy bubblegum hit. Chilton was only 16 when he sang "The Letter," for which he affected a deep, bluesy drawl that was one of rock's all-time great impressions. In contrast to that world-weary persona, however, the young Chilton was actually the product of a comfortable suburban existence - his family, like that of so many would-be pop stars, could afford the musical instruments that got him started in the first place.
Another suburban-Memphis musician with pop-star aspirations was Chilton's friend, songwriter Chris Bell. In the early '70s, when acid and progressive rock flooded the radio with song-depleting guitar solos, Chilton and Bell went against the grain by writing and recording music that adhered to the leaner, more melodic style of the British Invasion. The band came to be known as Big Star – whimsically named after the sign on a grocery store - one of a chain of Big Star food markets that ran across the South. Released on Ardent Records (named for the Stax-connected Memphis studio), Big Star's first album, the aptly (or ambitiously?) titled #1 Record, tanked. Actually, it think-tanked, if you will – savvy critics and the intellectual rock cognoscenti loved the album even as it was barely promoted and spottily distributed. It was a classic case of cold-shouldered, apathetic marketing; of "what do we do with this?"
Though it was the definitive cult record from the definitive cult band, Big Star's second release, Radio City, lacked the tear-jerking, almost hymnal quality of #1 Record. It was even moodier - funkier, too; occasionally sounding like a power-pop band forced to perform at a strip-joint. But that was only part of it. Where the debut was poignant and heartfelt, Radio City was dreamy and detached. The lyrics were often elliptical or unintelligible. And on the sparkling “September Gurls," the Byrdsy guitar jangle was wound so tight it positioned Big Star closer to punk than folk-rock.
A few years later, when Big Star was down to Chilton and drummer Jody Stephens (and friends), the group recorded the tracks that would later come to be known as Sister Lovers, or Big Star 3rd. The songs were markedly different from the power-pop coined in the previous releases. Except for the raucous "Kizza Me," "You Can't Have Me" and "Thank You Friends," the mood was mostly languid and minor-keyed. If anything, Sister Lovers was Big Star's White Album. "Kizza Me" and "Nighttime" had the spunk and fragility of, respectively, "Everybody's Got Something to Hide (Except for Me and My Monkey)" and "Julia."
Chilton went on to pursue a solo career, recording, among other tracks, "Bangkok," a sleazy slice of neo-rockabilly that was his best song in years. In the '80s, he assembled a touring band that had jazz chops and played a highly unconfessional mix of bluesy cover tunes and seemingly tossed-off originals. Chilton was clearly happy with his new direction, but he seemed to have lost his artistic ambition. The dated and slight-sounding, if brashly boundary-pushing, single "No Sex" was the culmination of the '80s Alex Chilton.
In recent years, the cachet of Big Star has risen considerably. "In the Street," from #1 Record, has become (with mostly different lyrics and performed by Cheap Trick) the theme from That '70s Show. Big Star has even reformed and played a handful of reunion shows sprinkled over the last 15 years – sans Chris Bell, who died in 1978, and Andy Hummel, who left the band for a "normal" life – shows that were anchored by Chilton and members of the Posies, a group that has steadfastly invoked (and occasionally evoked) Big Star. Chilton died just days before a much-anticipated Big Star performance scheduled for the just-ended South by Southwest music conference. It was said that Hummel would be joining the lineup for the show - but it was never to be.
Chilton had been residing in New Orleans for years. At times he reportedly had trouble making ends meet, seeming, at various points, to be the quintessential struggling musician. Only recently had Chilton begun to fully comprehend the world-wide influence Big Star has had - and continues to have. Though his relationship with his past has largely been ambivalent, a recent box set attests to an ever-expanding cult. If anything, Big Star has dethroned the Velvet Underground as the ultimate really cool influence. And even more than Elvis Presley, they were pure Memphis from head to toe – and therein lies an incredible body of work.
Jordan Oakes is a local journalist who has written for publications such as St. Louis Magazine and the Christian Science Monitor. He has strong opinions that begin to atrophy if he doesn't exercise his right to express them. Tune in every Wednesday for another installment of Mediatribe - and if you missed last week's post, click here.
