March 19, 2010

Alex Chilton, who died suddenly and sadly of a heart attack in New Orleans this past Wednesday, was a rocker who never really managed to connect with the mass audience that, at a certain point, just about seemed his birthright. But he had an extreme impact on the people who stopped long enough to listen closely, and many of them went on to become keepers of the rock & roll flame.

Chilton started his career in the 1960s, with a band called the Box Tops (you’d know their big, Chilton-penned, hit, “The Letter,” if you heard it) then became a founding member of Big Star, who rather unexpectedly became the patron saints of the indie rock movement in the 1980s.

Chilton’s great gift was that he could write a memorable, McCartney-esque melody, and he did so regularly when he was with Big Star. Although I have friends who listen to virtually nothing but the exact sort of post-Beatles jangle-pop that Chilton helped create, I’ve always just dabbled in the genre. But, every now and then, I’ll put on a band like Big Star or Badfinger or Utopia and get obsessed with an individual tune for a days on end, playing it repeatedly. There’s a comfortable place set aside in my brain for this stuff, the hit singles that largely never were.

Chilton was a bit different than most of his cohorts in ringing Rickenbackers. There was a distinct dark streak to his lyrics, a pervading sense of loss that fit in perfectly with the pre-grunge, post-Reagan days of hardcore college radio. Something was often lurking in the shadows in a Chilton song, no matter how pretty the tune.

That’s one reason why pivotal bands like R.E.M. and the Replacements proudly listed Chilton as a key influence. There’s even a song called “Alex Chilton” on the Mats’ 1987 classic, “Pleased to Meet Me,” a record that ends with a blast of the same Memphis-style horns Chilton began to embrace during the middle portion of his solo career. It’s also the work of Big Star’s producer, Jim Dickinson, and was recorded in the same studio where Chilton and his co-horts laid down their first two records.

The Replacements’ open-air obsession is what introduced Chilton to the crowd I hung around with in the college; before that you’d be hard pressed to find a Big Star album at the record store, let alone in a crate in your friend’s living room.

Nevertheless, Chilton, being a rather odd guy, seemed forever surly and even vaguely unhappy with himself, as if he thought a mass audience was beneath his aim so he should just go on making his personalized racket and forget about who is or isn’t listening. He was prone to extremely hard partying, and seldom gave anything more than brief, pissy interviews. Even his uninviting album titles - “Feudalist Tarts,” “Like Flies on Sherbert,” and (ahem) “Loose Shoes and Tight Pussy,” and so on - sound like attempts to scare off weekend hipsters.

                                                ***

For a guy who started a band called Big Star and titled its first album “#1 Record,” Chilton sure didn’t seem interested in aiming for the hits he almost surely could have written, even if some younger guy had to record them to get them heard. When his sound eventually drifted over into a vaguely jazz influenced hybrid that seldom lit raging fires, he managed to marginalize himself even while everyone was suddenly applauding him. Chilton had to work hard to stay under the radar.

One of the regularly addressed topics of debate in used record stores around the country used to be the exact reason why no one bought Big Star’s records when they were originally released. Pearls before swine, apparently. Big Star delivered the goods in a sparkly-sloppy, always catchy manner, and Chilton was their key creative resource. He could rock hard and write delicate little ballads, all of which were infused with almost clinical melancholia. Still, my favorite Chilton track is the one that most people stand at least a little chance of knowing.

"September Gurls"

“September Gurls,” which was originally on 1974's “Radio City,” is a gorgeously commercial single that barely entered the charts until it was revived by the Bangles 12 years later, at which point they had a huge hit with it. But, holy cow, what an intoxicating tune and performance you get with Big Star’s version.

The production is so bright and shiny the melody almost seems to glisten, and the relaxed bass line burbles behind it magnificently— you can feel the summer in these sounds. But, again, the vague bitterness anchoring Chilton’s lyric adds an unexpected punch that pushes the whole thing far beyond the realm of a disposable 45.

This is pure pop for now people, as Nick Lowe later called such creations, and it’s as pure an example of Alex Chilton’s talent as you’re likely to find. He may not have had a huge audience, but I’m taking the stand right now that it was probably because most people simply had never heard him.

It doesn’t seem possible that they could dislike '"September Gurls," does it? Is there any hope for the world if they actually did?

Download: “September Gurls” by Big Star. Album: “Radio City” (1974).