Tuesday, March 30, 2010

If You Didn't See It...Paul Westerberg's Thoughts on the Passing of Alex Chilton

The work of Paul Westerberg and the Replacements is responsible for much regarding my musical proclivities, as well as the main structure of the site that you are reading. (If you're confused by this, Google all but one of its segment titles. Then get thee to Amazon and buy every last Westerberg solo and Replacements record right now heathen.) I learned a lot of new things from the various mentions that Westerberg namechecked in his songs, one of which being the pop-laden beauty that was Alex Chilton's musical catalogue. Thanks to Westerberg penning that perennial song about Chilton for the Replacements' 1985 masterpiece Tim, I'm certain this experience happened to a lot of us.

If you've been living in a cave without newspaper delivery or internet service, Chilton died on St. Patrick's Day at the age of 59. So it seemed utterly appropriate to me when I heard that Westerberg wrote a piece about Chilton in a publication that reached far and wide like the Sunday NY Times. I was at SXSW when the article published, but if you haven't read it, it's a wonderful ode of acknowledgement and gratitude from one musical curmudgeon to another. And given the gratitude I have for Westerberg for introducing me to things like Chilton, I'd be remiss if we didn't publish it here.

Beyond The Box Tops-by Paul Westerberg

HOW does one react to the death of one’s mentor? My mind instantly slammed down the inner trouble-door that guards against all thought, emotion, sadness. Survival mode. Rock guitar players are all dead men walking. It’s only a matter of time, I tell myself as I finger my calluses. Those who fail to click with the world and society at large find safe haven in music — to sing, write songs, create, perform. Each an active art in itself that offers no promise of success, let alone happiness.

Yet success shone early on Alex Chilton, as the 16-year-old soulful singer of the hit-making Box Tops. Possessing more talent than necessary, he tired as a very young man of playing the game — touring, performing at state fairs, etc. So he returned home to Memphis. Focusing on his pop writing and his rock guitar skills, he formed the group Big Star with Chris Bell. Now he had creative control, and his versatility shone bright. Beautiful melodies, heart-wrenching lyrics: “I’m in Love with a Girl,” “September Gurls.”

On Big Star’s masterpiece third album, Alex sang my favorite song of his, “Nighttime” — a haunting and gorgeous ballad that I will forever associate with my floor-sleeping days in New York. Strangely, the desperation in the line “I hate it here, get me out of here” made me, of all things, happy. He went on to produce more artistic, challenging records. One equipped with the take-it-or-leave-it — no, excuse me, with the take-it-like-I-make-it — title “Like Flies on Sherbert.” The man had a sense of humor, believe me.

It was some years back, the last time I saw Alex Chilton. We miraculously bumped into each other one autumn evening in New York, he in a Memphis Minnie T-shirt, with take-out Thai, en route to his hotel. He invited me along to watch the World Series on TV, and I immediately discarded whatever flimsy obligation I may have had. We watched baseball, talked and laughed, especially about his current residence — he was living in, get this, a tent in Tennessee.

Because we were musicians, our talk inevitably turned toward women, and Al, ever the Southern gentleman, was having a hard time between bites communicating to me the difficulty in ... you see, the difficulty in (me taking my last swig that didn’t end up on the wall, as I boldly supplied the punch line) “... in asking a young lady if she’d like to come back to your tent?” We both darn near died there in a fit of laughter.

Yeah, December boys got it bad, as “September Gurls” notes. The great Alex Chilton is gone — folk troubadour, blues shouter, master singer, songwriter and guitarist. Someone should write a tune about him. Then again, nah, that would be impossible. Or just plain stupid.

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