The Post-Rockist

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Jackie Brenston and His Delta Cats - Rocket 88
(from The Legendary Sounds of Sun Studios)

Ike and Tina Turner - I Can’t Believe What You Say
Ike and Tina Turner - I’ve Been Loving You Too Long
(from The Ike & Tina Turner Story: 1960-1975)

Ike Turner and The Kings of Rhythm - Funky Mule
(from A Black Man’s Soul)

Ike Wister Turner — rock & roll icon, funk pioneer, St. Louis legend, and notorious drug-addicted abuser of former spouse Tina Turner — passed away earlier this week in his home in suburban San Diego at the age of 76. After the deluge of even-handed obits left in the wake of his passing on Wednesday, what’s left to touch on that hasn’t already been discussed and hotly debated these past few days? Born in Clarksdale, Mississippi, home of the legendary crossroads where Robert Johnson allegedly sold his soul to the devil in exchange for blues guitar-playing prowess, young Ike witnessed the lynching of his father Izear Luster by a white mob in the 1930s and was later abused by subsequent stepfathers. Growing up he devoted his life to music, spinning records for WROX, carrying amplifiers for blues singer Robert Nighthawk, learning boogie woogie piano from Pinetop Perkins, and forming his own rhythm and blues group, the Kings of Rhythm, by the time he was just a teenager.

At age 19, as his band was driving up Highway 61 from Mississippi to Memphis to record in Sam Phillips’ recording studio, the guitarist’s amplifier was damaged en route and ended up producing one of the first examples of a distorted, fuzzy guitar on record. “Rocket 88,” which many consider to be the very first rock & roll record, was released by Chess but mistakenly credited to the singer and sax player Jackie Brenston instead of Ike, who wrote the song. Although “Rocket 88″ was the biggest R&B hit of 1951, it was re-recorded by Bill Haley and popularized to a larger, whiter audience, and Ike’s boogie woogie piano intro was later reproduced note-for-note by Little Richard on “Good Golly Miss Molly.” Ike made a grand total of $60 off the song, the first in a long series of snubs he would have to endure for his contributions to popular music, most notably in 1991 when he was jailed for drug charges during his induction to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and was mailed a broken statue, and most recently when the mayor of St. Louis publicly considered naming an honorary day after Ike and then withdrew the offer in the summer of 2007 due to Ike’s unapologetic past about his abusive treatment of ex-wife Tina.

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I recently listened to Nellie McKay’s November 21 interview with Terri Gross on Fresh Air and was awestruck by her talent, humor, and charm. I’ve listened to this interview more than I’ve listened to many new albums this year.

McKay is a bit flighty, which adds to her charm, and spunky, which adds to her strength. Her style is imbued with musical theater, a form that makes most rockists shudder from relapses of when their moms made them go see Cats or The Phantom of the Opera, but she delivers her lines with all of the ironic charge of a Stephin Merritt (who, by the way, is also a big fan of music theater classics). But McKay’s irony is stronger, less “woe is me” and more “woe is you.” Her performance is often pleasant, completely catchy, and very ballsy. And I can best describe her voice as Karen Allen with Bing Crosby-esque inflections. She is becoming popular among Indie music fans in spite of her musical style because she is what Indie music fans appreciate most: she is a nonconformist.

The interview made me go out and buy two of her albums. You know what? I don’t really dig them. They’re too much. Over-orchestrated. Too many players. All of the music drowns her natural charm and weirdness, as if she’s hiding behind it.

And perhaps it’s because she really is timid. A friend of mine saw her at SXSW. After the show, he walked up to her and said “Hi Nellie” and she took off running–literally running–in the other direction.

Check out the interview. The last song is fantastic!

–Posted by Scotter

(Photo courtesy ishootshows.com)

Standing in front of a wall of lights, spindly legs and stoic painted face, Kevin Barnes looked like a man of the ages. Like an icon of 21st century music. Well, as iconic as a man can look when decked out like a sexually ambiguous Ken doll.

“The jacket I stole from The Golden Girls, the boots are Liza Minnelli’s, and the fishnets are from Elton John,” he explained. “That’s how you know I’m hot.”

The cucumber in his Daisy Dukes was, presumably, taken from Derek Smalls.

There were multiple video screens flashing hypnotic images of burning eyes and dripping tongues, horribly disfigured animal-people and amorous cartoon teenagers. There were four other musicians who looked like stand-ins for the costumed bandmembers in Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” music video. There were occasional cameos by men in tiger masks and half-naked vikings playing trumpet. But it was the comically accentuated appendage bulging out of the Of Montreal’s vocalist’s tight jean shorts that became the metaphorical and literal center of attention for the latter part of the evening, not that anyone would dare mention it. It was the elephant in the room, so to speak.

It’s not as if Of Montreal’s music is “sexual,” in any strict manner of speaking. Sure, the band’s latest album Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer? packs a pantsful of rump-rumbling bass if all you need is a rhythm, but the lyrics are loaded with existential panic and spiritual self-doubt, which isn’t exactly a turn-on for most. I mean, whoever scored after quoting Kierkegaard? This is music for the mind as much as it is music for the body.

Case in point: the very next song the band was about the play, signalled by the octave bass pattern and the roar of crowd approval, “Gronlandic Edit,” toys with themes of nihilism and religious alienation, but yet it also manages to send the near-capacity venue into dancing hysterics: clapping, thrusting, and singing along. Have the introverted tales of a nervous singer-songwriter ever been so club-friendly? Barnes himself coyly acknowledges this dilemma he’s created for us as he sings our bodies electric, “Guess it would be nice to help in your escape from patterns your parents designed / [cue drums and crowd handclaps] All the party people dancing for the indie star, but he’s the worst faker by fa-a-a-a-a-ar, and in the se-e-e-e-e-et I forget (forget/forget/forget/forget) all the beauty’s waaaaaaaasted.”

And it’s as simple as that: we danced ourselves into oblivion. I could go on and detail the show from a critic’s perspective — taking notes on how the setlist didn’t delve any further into the band’s archives than Satanic Panic in the Attic, commending the band for having the balls (on display, as previously noted) to open their show with not one but two Prince covers (”I Would Die 4 U”/”Baby I’m A Star”), or bemoaning the infrequent use of real drums — but those details would be beside the point. This was all about being taken outside one’s self for a night and experiencing ecstasy through the sights and sounds of indie rock’s soulful, psychedelic apex.

And Kevin’s package.

After the show I felt so famished that I bought a hot dog from a street vendor. It was a foot long. The humor of the situation was not lost on me.

-Posted by Todd