Backstage & Beyond Vol. 1

Backstage & Beyond Volume 1:

45 Years of Classic Rock Chats & Rants

By Jim Sullivan

Trouser Press Books

Backstage & Beyond Volume 1 © 2023 Jim Sullivan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise — without the express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 979-8-9856589-9-6

Published by Trouser Press Books, Brooklyn, New York

www.trouserpressbooks.com

facebook.com/trouserpressbooks

[email protected]

Cover images (from top): Ray Davies and JS: photographer unknown, Nico and JS: photograph by Susan Wilson, JS and Iggy Pop: photograph by Roza Yarchun (sub-Roza), Jerry Lee Lewis: photograph by Johnboy Franklin, Alice Cooper: photograph by Hunter Desportes, used under CC Attribution 2.0 Generic license.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Ira Robbins, editor and publisher, for meeting with me in the summer of 2022 and adding fuel to the fire Roza had lit, and then doing a bang-up job of editing. And to photographers Michael Grecco, Ebet Roberts, Linda D. Robbins, Ron Pownall, Roza Yarchun (sub-Roza), Susan Wilson, Doug Quintal, Lisa Tanner, Tony Levin, Johnboy Franklin, Leo Gozbekian, Paul Robicheau, Al Cocorochio, Sven Mandel, Bryan Ledgard, Jim Neill and Rocco S. Coviello. Thanks also to David Bieber and the David Bieber Archives (Chuck White and Joe Packard) for photos and memorabilia research.

Thanks especially to people in the way-back years, when I was pretty much an absolute beginner at this writing game: Christine Palmer, arts editor at the Bangor Daily News; the late David Wright and Ryan Wright at Sweet Potato magazine; the late Ernie Santosuosso, Steve Morse, Cindy Smith, John Koch and, later, Scott Powers and Michael Larkin at the Boston Globe. To Michael Howell, a former Boston Phoenix music critic — a longtime friend and occasional colleague. And, for getting me in through the backstage doors — no passes, just his vouching for me — in Maine concert halls early on, promoter Andrew Govatsos, who later became an ace radio promo man for Warner Bros. in Boston.

Thanks also to the innumerable publicists throughout the ages who helped set things up, and, of course, all the artists, most of whom seemed to enjoy the time we spent, especially Bryan Ferry, David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Richard Thompson, Warren Zevon, Peter Wolf, Joe Perry, Alice Cooper, Ian Hunter and those loving/battling Davies brothers, Ray and Dave. To the late Jerry Lee Lewis for, shall we say, his candor or attempts thereof, and the late Roy Orbison, whose warmth and genuineness carried over from the stage to dressing room. And even to the irascible late Ginger Baker, who clearly did not enjoy the time but gave me an excruciating half-hour that led to one of the most entertaining and unintentionally humorous — to readers, at least — interviews of my life.

To the high school teacher who got me into writing, Mary Helen Georgitis, and, at the college level, professors who encouraged me: the late Brooks Hamilton at the University of Maine as an undergrad and the late Jon Klarfeld at Boston University as a grad student.

And finally, family-wise, a deep bow to the late Maxine and Kent for life itself (and a splendid later-in-life connection) and my late parents, Paula and Frank, for the love, upbringing and encouragement.

Dedication

To my wife, Roza, without whom … well, let’s just say her encouragement and urging me to get all the gears in sync and the writing process rolling was instrumental in putting this book together. It could not have been done without her input and insight. Together since 2003, married since 2007, I love you truly, madly and deeply.

Praise for Backstage & Beyond:

Sullivan has been really successful at getting a huge list of artists to share what makes them come up with the music we’ve been loving for decades. He has a knack for peeking under the blanket and finding out what makes musicians human — and sometimes inhuman. That’s what makes the book so much fun to read. —Tom Hamilton of Aerosmith

These are wonderful stories across the whole range of popular music, by one of rock’s finest journalists. As history lengthens and some of these legends move on, these become increasingly precious fragments of lives lived at the sharp edge of music. —Richard Thompson

"Sullivan is an expert interviewer with an uncanny ability to connect with his subjects. In Backstage & Beyond, he brings out the humanity in a host of rock and roll icons who are too often portrayed as godlike figures. This is an intimate and revealing look at many of the major personalities of the classic rock era." —author Tom Perrotta (Election, The Leftovers, Mrs. Fletcher)

You can’t beat Jim Sullivan’s writing for insightful, intelligent glimpses into this rock world we inhabit. And his new book, in addition to inviting us behind the scenes to get to know the artists, ties together the various personalities, and their music, to further enlighten. Notably, the people he interviews really like him. That matters. —Tony Levin of King Crimson

These chats and rants go beyond the surface bromides we already know about these larger-than-life personalities and unlock the deeper stories they rarely share — by turns triumphant, tragic and never less than illuminating. —writer and Sound Opinions co-host Greg Kot

"The marquee names first draw you in, but it’s what’s behind the storefront that’s really the main attraction here. Sullivan fashions a kind of extended narrative from interviews, performance reviews, and his own thoughts and rethoughts on the music and the musicians who make it. The Jerry Lee Lewis chapter (itself worth the price of admission) segues to one on Mott’s Ian Hunter, whose hero was Lewis, which leads to Bowie, who made hitmakers of Mott, then to Bowie, Iggy, and Lou Reed, and… His informed commentary and the professional and personal revelations he elicits from his subjects place Backstage & Beyond several leagues above the average rock read. At this late date, that’s saying something." —writer and broadcaster Gene Sculatti (The Catalog of Cool, For the Records)

Sullivan penetrates the minds of the artists. With candor and intimacy, these musicians reveal themselves to him. He takes us beyond the revelatory to the very creative process itself. —Boston DJ and program director Oedipus

A buncha fuckin' lies! I never said I killed Elvis! And, if I did, I wuz drunk! —the ghost of Jerry Lee Lewis

Table of Contents

Preface (or, How I Came to Feel the Noize … and Then Write About It)

Jerry Lee Lewis

Ian Hunter & Mott the Hoople

David Bowie

Iggy Pop

Lou Reed

Nico

Brian Eno

Bryan Ferry & Roxy Music

Robert Fripp & King Crimson

Peter Gabriel

Ginger Baker

Warren Zevon

Pete Townshend

Ray Davies & the Kinks

Dave Davies

Leonard Cohen

Marianne Faithfull

John Fogerty

Tina Turner

Neil Young

Richard Thompson

Darlene Love

Alice Cooper

Peter Wolf & the J. Geils Band

Joe Perry & Aerosmith

Lemmy & Motörhead

George Clinton & P-Funk

Edgar Froese & Tangerine Dream

Joan Baez

k.d. lang

Roy Orbison

Preface (or, How I Came to Feel the Noize … and Then Write About It)

In 1975, Ray Davies wrote a song called No More Looking Back for the Kinks' Schoolboys in Disgrace album. It's a wistful tune, mostly about the singer spotting an ex-girlfriend every time he turns around. He sees her in every bar and in every cafe. Her memory haunts him. In the chorus, he has to remind himself that the past is the past. She's gone. It's not easy, but all we've got is what's in front of us in the here and now.

And it's so true. We’ve got today and, hopefully, what may lie ahead. I’m a firm believer in the idea that you’ve got to live in the moment — you can’t change yesterday or predict tomorrow, so, as the Grass Roots put it, Let’s Live for Today. La-la-la-la. And yet this book is unquestionably a look back at various moments in time. Moments that mattered and time to take stock of those moments. It’s an anthology of sorts, a personal greatest hits of music writing, remade and remodeled for the 21st century.

Tom Waits co-wrote and sang I Don’t Wanna Grow Up. In Rock 'n' Roll High School, Joey Ramone announced that he didn't care about history. (The Ramones covered Waits’ and his wife Kathleen Brennan’s song as well.) I was right with ’em. Waits is still with us, croaking and emoting, but all the original Ramones are deceased: Joey in 2001, Dee Dee in 2002, Johnny 2004 and Tommy in 2014.

I’m not as young as I used to be. As Mick Jagger put it, Time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me. I’ve been doing this — writing about pop and rock music and all their subgenres — for four-plus decades. The stars and not-the-stars. Bands I’ve loved, bands I haven’t. It’s time to collect the better pieces.

It's inevitable, as we realize that we’re closer to the end than the beginning, to look back and see where we’ve been. And hope it’s been fruitful.

Well, it has. Here’s how it began.

If you like what you read here — or, for that matter, don’t like what you read here — credit or blame Slade: Noddy Holder, Dave Hill, Jim Lea and Don Powell. The mid- ’70s kings of foot-stomping English glam rock, the fellas who gave us loads of great rock songs with weird spellings and one of their homeland’s most popular Christmas songs ever, Merry Xmas Everybody. That was after my time with them. They started me on this sprawl of a career path about a half-century ago.

Why Slade?

For that, blame rock magazines of the day, like Rock Scene, Circus and Creem, for turning me on to them. Slade was a tarted-up four-on-the-floor bunch of former skinheads from Wolverhampton who thought they could conquer the wide expanse that was America in 1975. They sorta miscalculated.

I got back in touch with guitarist Dave Hill after all those years and asked him about it. "There’s always afterthoughts of what went with us and reasons we didn’t crack it big. I remember Elton John watched us play Australia and said, ‘I cannot understand why you have not been big in the States.’

My answer is not simple. We were a great band with great songs at the wrong time. Other [British] bands [playing] in the States learned from us and made it later. Still, on a good note, we made some good friends there and had some great shows. Not all was lost.

I was one of those good friends. Temporary, of course, but very good for a night. (I’d repeat this sort of exchange many times over my career.) They played Gudbuy t’ Jane, Cum on Feel the Noize and Mama Weer All Crazee Now as part of a half-hour opening set on a ZZ Top tour, September 26, 1975 at the Bangor Auditorium, smack dab in the center of the state of Maine, the closest city to my college town of Orono, or the last outpost of civilization in the state, as I used to (and still) call it.

The guys in Slade became my first rock interview, and I couldn’t have asked for a better entry to the world I’d inhabit — from the outer circle, mind you, the writer’s perch — for all these years. It was the warm welcome they gave me, an unscheduled post-show backstage visitor, an interviewer who was not yet a writer per se, just someone en route to that end, a college DJ toting a reel-to-reel tape deck with the idea to do an hour-long special program on the band, interspersing music with interviews.

Not that they really knew this (or cared) when they said hello and offered that embrace. I think they were just happy to have a Yank who knew who they were. Or not only knew who they were but was a real fan of the band. That four-man welcoming committee set me on course for a life reviewing hundreds upon hundreds of concerts and doing hundreds upon hundreds of interviews with rockers of all stripes, moving from the penthouse to the pavement (as Heaven 17 put it).

It didn’t hurt that I shared the name of a famous English session guitarist, of whom I’d yet to hear. So, although I was of average height and build, they greeted me with a chorus of ‘Big’ Jim Sullivan! Well, okay then, thanks dudes. Sure.

Would I like a beer? Why, certainly. And, in fact, another. So, a whole lotta backstage yak ensued. It was a tad bawdy, but not particularly decadent. Just lads being lads. It was to Slade’s immense bonhomie that I was treated as one of those lads. A younger outsider — by roughly ten years — but an outsider who knew the band, the songs, the attitude.

I remember asking Noddy if he still got excited every night. He said he very much did: My jeans are as stiff as a board! And that loud burp in the middle of a vamp during John Sebastian’s Darlin’ Be Home Soon on Slade Alive!, was that planned? It was not! It happened, they left it in. My Slade special aired on WMEB-FM sometime later that fall, and was heard, I’m sure, by a handful of students as well as many moose and squirrels.

I learned two things that night: (1) that I was pretty comfortable talking to rock stars (Slade weren’t stars in the U.S., but certainly were in England and in my Anglophilic head) and (2) if you were able to get on someone’s wavelength, knew something more than skin-deep about them and didn’t plunge into cliché-land, they would likely engage with you with a level of respect for what you do. I hesitate to invoke that trope of Stars! They’re just like us, but in a way it’s true. I have rarely encountered musicians who courted adulation or wanted only softball suckup interview questions.

I have always operated on that premise. You may recall Lester Bangs’ famous line about musicians not being your friends. Mostly true, just as most people you talk with don’t become close friends. And for some artists, you’re just a necessary, if sometimes bothersome, part of their job — self-promotion. But some you really do connect with, becoming friends of a sort. At least for a time. Some relationships last, others don’t. We all have strengths and weaknesses, and one strength I think I developed and maintained over the years of writing is being able to strike a knowledgeable, inquisitive but conversational tone. Some of these interviews have been therapeutic — for them and for me.

Ian Hunter and the author

Photograph by Roza Yarchun (sub-Roza)

I have served as both critic and feature writer, the line sometimes agreeably blurring. There’s a tendency among some chest-puffing rock critics to take a position of I AM RIGHT after penning some pro or con take about an artist. In the early ’80s, I sat in with a group of well-known rock crits who argued these things voraciously; I remember one prominent member of the group was appalled by Magazine’s Permafrost because the character in the song said, I will drug you and fuck you on the permafrost. Sure, that was creepy. Wrong. Evil. But it was the character in the song, not songwriter/singer Howard Devoto. Like some of the bogeymen Stephen King has conjured up since time immemorial. In this circle, everyone deferred to Bigfoot. He was right because ... well, because of who he was. I disagreed, but kept my mouth shut. (I was a new kid on that block and, really, where would arguing have gotten me?)

I’ve never claimed my subjective opinions to be absolute truth; at best, I’ve tried to offer well-argued pieces that explore the strengths or weaknesses of an artist, generally ignoring the audience loved ’em fan base factor. Chances are pretty good that if someone paid good money to see a band, they’re going to like what they see. Except that time a semi-wasted Johnny Thunders played a Cambridge club one night in the early ’80s. Some people hooted and hollered at him for the sloppiness and junkiedom, while others hoped he’d die onstage in front of them. (I guess, in a way, that group did like what they paid for, though he did not die that night.)

While I believe what I’ve written to be right — that is, true to my beliefs and interpretations — there’s no absolutism in this job. Criticism is subjective by definition. I’ve usually enjoyed a good verbal tussle with someone on the opposite side. I’ve been surprised how many on the inside (critics) and how many on the outside (readers) don’t grasp that concept. Opinion. Hopefully, informed opinion. Opinion backed up with rational and descriptive thought. The English critic Paul Morley wrote a brilliant essay about that once.

I did have a great vantage point, being that I interviewed and reviewed many of these artists multiple times. While some of these chapters are, indeed, snapshots in prose, rooted to one time and place, more are like EPs — extended plays lending a sense of deeper perspective.

David Bowie greets the author

Courtesy of Jim Neill

For me, the writing part came shortly after the DJ part, and both jockeyed for prime position at the University of Maine for three years. I was the main rock writer for the student paper, The Maine Campus, taking a job that Stephen King (yes, him again) held in the late ’60s, penning the crazy-ass music and pop culture column King’s Garbage Truck. Over at Maine’s largest paper, The Bangor Daily News, arts and features editor Christine Palmer liked what she saw in my writing and made me a regular freelance feature writer and weekly columnist. Column name: Rock Garden. (Coulda been worse, and I did choose it.) I got paid (!) and also got college credit for it. The A she gave me in my last semester just pushed me over the 3.0 line. I also started writing for a new Portland, Maine-based music magazine called Sweet Potato — more opportunity, more access and more opportunities to take metaphorical leaps off bridges. That is, I could be a little more free-from than the newspaper columns and features.

The best part about the job? The constant change. Writing about one artist and then moving on to another. Sure, there have been certain routines — and I’m sure I certainly over-use certain words — but as repetitive as striking the keyboard might be (and I began doing it in the pre-Internet age), every story had its own rhythm, its own shape. There was pleasure in being out there, taking it all in, seeing the show, sometimes engaging with the artist one-on-one later. The fun factor came into play most every day.

The author with Darlene Love

Photograph by Rocco S. Coviello

I won’t say there wasn’t some nervousness now and again in talking with the famous rock set, but not that much. What helped was to establish that I knew what I was talking about, conveyed some depth of knowledge in the queries and used humor when appropriate. Granted, it wasn’t investigative journalism, and I didn’t ask too many hard questions. (Of course, hard is in the ear of the beholder, and it doesn’t take a lot to put thin-skinned artists on the defensive. For instance, if you’d tried asking a Judas Priest guitarist about their singer’s sexual preferences — so blatant on album covers and in song content — you’d get a fuck off or a quick hangup. This was before Rob Halford went public about being gay and the hard rock world said, Yeah, cool, whatever or We kinda knew and don’t care.)

Bob Geldof and I were talking before a club tour in 1990. I came through immigration, he said. "I gave them my passport, and they looked at me, and then the picture — put the Irish passport into the computer to see if I was a terrorist — and just as I was going away, the guy said, ‘Mr. Geldof, can you sign this picture of me beside your statue in Madame Tussaud's?’ ‘Yeah, sure.’ Then he goes, ‘I loved you in The Wall.’ ‘Thanks very much.’ I move on, and another guy says, ‘Hey, Bob, Live Aid, fuckin’ great!’ And there's this woman who stopped me, clutching my book, saying, ‘Oh, my God, this is the best book I ever read!’ ‘Thanks very much.’ I go through customs and not one person mentioned a fucking song!"

I laughed, and said, Geldof: The Unheard Musician. Or, a superstar without portfolio. Another musician might have been insulted. Not Geldof.

That's a very good expression, he said, with a rueful laugh. Geldof was well aware of his ironic position, one where fame and acclaim haven't crossed over to his prime field of endeavor: pop music. He's not got the hits. The cult of personality had reached outrageous proportions, which, at best, was limiting, he said, and at worst was foolish and sickening.

Actually, I did have to ask two people if they had ever killed anyone. One account you’ll read about in the first chapter: Jerry Lee Lewis. The other time wasn’t with a rock person, but with a man very much associated with a tragic event in rock festival history. I was having lunch in Boston’s Back Bay with the Altamont-infamous Hells Angel Sonny Barger. He’d written a memoir and was on a book tour. I was doing a story. After two doses of liquid courage, I asked if he’d ever killed anyone. He had throat cancer and spoke in a gravelly voice-box monotone. He fixed me with a (benevolent?) glare and croaked: There’s no statute of limitations on murder.

Somewhere in the process of writing this, we decided to split the book into two volumes. Call it Fear of the Doorstop Syndrome. My original idea was to borrow the technique Kurt Vonnegut employed in Slaughterhouse-Five, where he had his protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, jumping from one life experience to another, zipping between past and present. In a single volume, you might be reading about what Roy Orbison was doing in 1958 and then what Joe Strummer thought in 1979. The better idea was to make it two slightly more compact packages, broken up, somewhat imperfectly, into those who began or thrived in the classic rock area (this book, Volume 1) and those who came to life in the punk/post-punk/new wave era (Volume 2).

None of these chapters are intended as definitive biographical portraits of the artists — there are plenty of available bios about and memoirs from many of the people you’ll encounter here. Yes, there’s some backstory, but it’s mainly those extended moments with people I interviewed and reviewed at various junctures of their artistic pursuits and personal lives. Maybe spent some hang time with. The concerns an artist expressed then could have mutated over time. Lost the importance they once had. Or gained. Or changed. Twelve of the artists featured in this book have died. Twenty-one are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I realize many of my generation think we hit the sweet spot when it comes to rock and roll. I certainly do. I was a wide-eyed kid during the early days of Beatlemania. I listened to She Loves You and I Wanna Hold Your Hand repeatedly through my dad’s mono speaker in the corner of the living room. My first concert was Johnny Cash, the Statler Brothers and the Tennessee Three at the Bangor Auditorium, November 13, 1969. I was a fan of Top 40 when Top 40 was good; I was a young teen as psychedelia took hold, a bit older when glam rock and hard rock/metal crashed into the picture. I couldn’t get enough of Black Sabbath’s Masters of Reality and Blue Öyster Cult’s Tyranny and Mutation.

I was right on time for punk and post-punk. The guys in the latter groups were my peers, my age group, making this kind of noise. Many had the we’re-not-rock-stars! manifesto embedded in their DNA, at least initially. I was never happier than when singing along to the Ramones’ Glad to See You Go or We’re a Happy Family. When Buzzcocks’ Ever Fallen in Love ... came out, Hillery, the woman I moved from Maine to Boston with — my intended wife-to-be — and I sang that song loudly and, yes, joyfully to each other in the car along with the ’cocks as we were, indeed, breaking up.

Between freelance and staff, I was at the Boston Globe for 26 years, many of them during a heyday for rock journalism in daily papers. Many of my features, I found out later, had been widely circulated via the Globe’s wire service and picked up by dailies from Chicago to Greensboro, North Carolina. And beyond. One early-’80s story reached France in Le Monde. I was on vacation once, visiting family in Sarasota, picked up the Sarasota Herald-Tribune and started reading a rock story. It read well, looked good, the prose seemed familiar. Checked byline: Me. Oh, OK then.

Space was bountiful in the Globe: ads were plentiful and print acreage was generous. I had an editor who didn’t for a moment question my pitch to do a 1,500-word piece on Robert Wyatt. Who? I’m sure most readers wondered. If it was, indeed, read by dozens, man, those people dug it.

Freelance gigs along the way have included USA Today, The Boston Phoenix, The Boston Herald, Trouser Press, Record, Creem, Music-Sound Output, Where magazine, The Cape Cod Times, The Bangor Daily News, Sweet Potato, City Limits, The Christian Science Monitor, New Musical Express, Rock’s Back Pages, The Guardian, The Hard Noise, Music Aficionado, Best Classic Bands, WBUR’s ARTery, Rock and Roll Globe, Northeastern University’s Experience, The LA Weekly, Time Out Boston, Newsweek, Playgirl and The Forward. I’m sure I’ve forgotten a few.

Bryan Ferry and the author

Photograph by Leo Gotzbekian

There was an advantage to being a generalist. I don’t mean generalist in the sense that my coverage was so broad I liked or accepted everything. Far from it. (I did a year-end wrap-up piece for the Boston Globe, where I operated under the published motto: Vicious, but fair, nicking that from an old Streetwalkers album title. I could be a tad judgmental.)

And by generalist, I don’t mean that I knew everything about everything going on. All of us have gaps in our knowledge or expertise, whatever the specialty. I was a hard rock and prog kid, but I learned about rockabilly, reggae, folk, R&B, soul, country music, early rap and more. A daily newspaper rock critic and feature writer is not limited to a single type of music, so I was forced (willingly, I must say) to explore genres outside my immediate comfort zone. More people should do that kind of thing.

Aside from covering acts you thought or knew would be huge and those that already were, there were the discoveries in clubland, where you spotted something and it all clicked. You got in on the ground floor. Some of those acts made it, but many didn’t, and that’s OK. To have given us one song, one album, something that made our lives better for a brief while, that’s all we ask.

My hope is that the recollections contained here do some of that. Trigger some memories, bring you back to where you wanted to be — backstage and beyond, as it were. And if you weren’t around then, I hope this transports you back to several golden ages of rock and roll.

Jim Sullivan

March 2023

Jerry Lee Lewis

Carl Perkins, drummer Tom Hambridge and Jerry Lee Lewis backstage at Sullivan Stadium in Foxboro, MA 1986

Photograph by Al Cocorochio

I first met Jerry Lee Lewis in 1982. He was playing the Club Casino in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire, and I was reviewing/writing a feature for the Boston Globe. It was a great set, brimming with full-tilt rockers yet strewn with pensive country pearls. Near the end, he played one of those reflective country songs, 39 and Holding, adding, 45 and holding? 46 and holding? I’m just thankful to be alive. You’re here today and gone tomorrow.

It wasn’t shtick.

Lewis, at 45, had just come back from another brush with death: two operations for a perforated ulcer. Longtime road manager J.W. Whitten told me that doctors gave him a less-than-50-percent chance of surviving the first one and just five percent for the second. Five holes in his stomach, one the size of a teacup, J.W. said.

What did that mean to a post-op Jerry Lee?

I changed, he tells me backstage after the show. I think a lot more. I've settled down a lot. I'm more positive on what I wanna do. I'm thinking about it before I jump. Jerry Lee is sitting quietly, tightly clutching the hand of his fifth wife, Shawn Michelle Williams: young, blonde, pretty and silent.

Nick Tosches, in his great biography Hellfire: The Jerry Lee Lewis Story, quoted Lewis as stating that he was dragging his audience to hell with him. I ask if he is still dragging them there?

No, I wouldn't say that, Jerry Lee says. I hope not. He pauses. That's a hard question to answer. It's up to the individual; everybody knows right from wrong. He pauses again. I don't think I'm draggin’ anybody to hell. Another pause. I don't know. I'll leave that open.

Three years later, Jerry Lee Lewis threatened to kill me. I don’t flatter myself to think I’m unique in this regard — although there may be a couple of ex-wives/ghosts who might say, Yeah, well at least he didn’t follow through ... You never know.

We were backstage again after a concert at the long-defunct Channel Club in Boston. Jerry Lee was on fire. He had just ripped the joint up and he was feeling good. Sippin’ whisky.

I thought [that] was the best damn show you ever seen in your whole life, Jerry Lee said. If you give me a bad write-up, you dead. Which I’m pretty certain was a joke-threat. He seemed pretty jocular and I’m sure I smiled. He was nicknamed Killer, but he also called me (and other male pals) Killer, which I took as a badge of camaraderie. And, fact is, there was a period — 1982 to 1987 — where we had some sort of odd, almost endearing, rocker-writer bond. I can’t explain why we hit it off or why he trusted me, but he did, and we did. I was in my mid-late-twenties and grew up in central Maine; he was in his early fifties and hailed from Ferriday, Louisiana. Generations, locales, religious beliefs, accents and upbringing miles apart, but we somehow connected. All for the love of rock and roll. Maybe.

Jerry Lee fingered his left hand with the right. Those were his money-makers, mind you. Precious. His critical digits. It seems that, three weeks earlier, he had broken his left hand punching out an Eldorado. Moved it four inches, he said, not without pride. He was angry because J.W. wouldn't let him drive.

Was he drunk?

"We was all drunk!" exclaimed Jerry Lee.

His body was thin, his muscles taught, his eyes piercing. He was getting old, sure, but at least I don't look as ugly as the Everly Brothers. He punctuated his comments with karate stabs and scattered barbs, plunging into redneck humor and employing frequent profanity. Raving about ...

Getting arrested after shooting a gun off outside Elvis Presley's Graceland mansion: I shot the hell out of that! If I could have made it in ... I run out of bullets.

Class of '55, the reunion album recorded with Sun vets Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison and Carl Perkins: Worst album I ever heard, 'cept for my parts. Johnny Cash is the worst singer in the world. Roy Orbison is the ugliest sonofabitch I ever seen. Carl Perkins is a one-hit wonder. And of the missing member? Elvis Presley — they laid him out in blue suede hip boots.

His charter membership in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: Bullshit. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame means ... no royalty checks. I was indicted, I mean inducted, into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame by threat. I told Chuck Berry I'd kill him. I killed Elvis Presley anyway — got rid of him, finally. It took a long time. I got him! I got rid of Ricky Nelson. Everybody around me dies.

Booze: I drank enough whisky to lift any ship off the ground. Drank enough beer for a whole damn town.

And yet, amid this juggernaut of crude wit, braggadocio and (good-natured?) peer disembowelment, Jerry Lee Lewis turned serious and said, Son, if you and I don't go to heaven, what have we gained? We have missed it all. Everything.

This comment was delivered almost as an aside, more like the reflective Jerry Lee Lewis I'd talked to previously. Generally speaking, he has been a sinner looking for salvation.

Rock and roll's prototypical bad boy, Jerry Lee wrecked cars, hotel rooms, pianos and marriages. At 22, he married his cousin, Myra Gale, age 13. It's my third wife, but this time it's the real thing, he told the Associated Press at the time, neglecting to mention that he was still legally married to the second one. Two of his sons died in accidents; two of his wives met untimely deaths. He blasted holes through the door of his own office (Memphis, 1975) and shot his own bass player in the chest (Norman Owens, 1976). He's fought the law, the IRS and, at least in 1985, he won. (Stay off my ass! I beat ’em bad!).

Skip forward two years. We’re hanging out backstage after a gig at the Bottom Line in New York. A fair amount of whisky has been consumed, by both of us. Jerry Lee says he wants me to co-write his memoir. Hell, yeah! Head swimming with hard liquor and flooded with ego, I think maybe that’s a swell idea ... ’til I wake up the next day with a hangover and realize what I might be in for. There’d be a lot of mythologizing and mistruths and, moreover, a hell of a lot of time spent in the company of the Killer. Don’t get me wrong, he could be a funny bastard and quite a raconteur. It’s just, well, not everybody who spends time in his orbit comes out the better for it. Neither of us ever mentioned the book again.

OK, we’re backstage at the Channel again, 1985. Jerry Lee is on a roll and in love — make that deeply in lust — with his own myth. Which is only right. The man ain't lacking for ego and the myth ain't lacking for color. The myth, of course, is tattered, torn and at least partially true, full of all the right rock and roll stuff: ups and downs, sin and salvation, heroes and villains, drugs and drink, sex and love, guns and glory, Million Dollar Quartets and more wives than some folks have had girlfriends. He’s even got that sumbitch of a cousin, preacher Jimmy Swaggart, and a better one in Mickey Gilley.

He once shook — and still shakes — the rafters with the most frenetic of rock and roll songs, Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On. He plays the keyboard with his hands and feet. Kick out the jams, motherfucker! He sings the most soulful Georgia on My Mind. And he's always sung Sweet Little Sixteen like he means it, man: ain't nothing in the world he wants more than sweet little sixteen. Still. Forever. Always.

With Jerry Lee, there's more contradictions and convolutions than you can shake a stick at. Tonight, the bottle of whisky stays on the side table, but something's coursing through Jerry Lee's veins. He's primed. He’s pumped. He says he's had 73 number-one hits (actually, while he’s had a handful of country chart-toppers, he's never had a number-one pop hit; Great Balls of Fire reached number-two in 1957) and three of them with a bullet.

Yeah, I ask, setting him up, wiseass style, what kind of bullet?

Hollow point, he says.

Tonight, Jerry Lee's mind is a jukebox. He's scatting from one old song to another, rendering bawdy snippets of rock classics. He's also bantering with Kerrie McCarver Lewis, 23, who became wife number-six 18 months ago, on April 24, 1984. Tonight, she's a surprise guest. Over the past half-year — along with the expected accounts of Jerry Lee's hospitalization and near-death (a regular occurrence) — the wire services have reported severe marital strife. And now it seems Kerrie has filed for divorce.

It's true. We're getting a divorce, says Jerry Lee.

No one is unhappy about this. Kerrie and Jerry Lee sing The Hallelujah Chorus in unison. Finally got it through to her, he says. When you gotta go, you gotta go. It happens. You burn out.

"Burn out bad, says Kerrie. We couldn't make it."

Why?

’Cause I don't eat her! hoots Jerry Lee. Think about it now. I've thought about it: a man [dick] is clean, some of them, but I'm not sticking my tongue in! Kerrie winks at me and sasses him.

I'm gonna pinch your head off, he shoots back, shit in it and screw it back on.

Then, snaps Kerrie, smiling, I'd be full of shit.

My life is like a damn good country song, he growls later. (That’s pretty much the