The disastrous magnitude of Hurricane Katrina’s impact on the Gulf Coast is almost inconceivable. I’ll hardly bother with a political commentary on the government’s woefully inadequate response to, and preparation for, this utterly predictable storm. I don’t think that we, as a society, are going to learn the lessons we need from this.
Global climate change is real, and it’s magnifying the size and impact of storms like Katrina, but don’t expect Bush to sign the Kyoto treaty. The National Guard belongs here, protecting the nation, not occupying foreign nations, but don’t expect our governors to demand the immediate return of their states’ troops. Natural disasters are much more likely, and predictable threats than fantastic terrorist threats, but don’t expect the Department of Homeland Security to focus on coastal evacuation. We’ll learn nothing, and this will happen again. Perhaps next time it will be Long Island.
I haven’t been near a television this week, so it’s hard to comprehend reports of dead bodies floating in the water and the thousands who are feared dead. And so, paradoxically, I am focused on one man.
Alex Chilton is missing.
Chilton is not a celebrity, or even a rock star really. He’s kinda the ultimate cult figure. The invisible man who can sing in a visible voice.
He first hit the top of the pop charts as a 16-year-old in the late 60’s with the band the Box Tops. His deep growl, which powered hits “The Letter” and “Cry Like a Baby,” was produced by the amphetamines he was force-fed by his producers (the same svengalies who likely pocketed all the dough).
He resurfaced a few years later with the first significant power pop band, Big Star. Their first two records undersold, although, like the Velvet Underground, it seems as though everyone who bought those records formed a band. (A cover of one of their songs, “In the Street,” served as the theme song to the sitcom, “That 70’s Show” and probably provided Chilton with the biggest paycheck of his life.)
Big Star’s unfinished third record is the stuff of legend. The band, their relationships and even their record label were disintegrating during the recording of “Sister Lovers.” The result is haunting. Some songs are pissed off and defiant. Others are sad and resigned. Some trail off into nothingness. The record finally saw the light of day a decade later when Chilton became a cult figure.
He produced the Cramps and became a hero of the punk movement, touring London on a legendary bender. REM praised him. The Bangles covered him. The Replacements recorded a tribute to him, simply called “Alex Chilton.”
Chilton, meanwhile, continued to be a legendary fuck-up. He left plenty of unfinished records, his own and even half of a never-completed Replacements record. Finally, he sobered up and frustrated his new young fans by recording R&B covers instead of new paeans to young love and angst.
I saw Alex Chilton play live twice. The first time was at the old Bottom Line club, when he delivered a set of those R&B covers. The club is intimate enough that you could whisper your requests to him. Every plea for “September Gurls” or “I’m In Love With a Girl” would be met with a sly smile, a promise that that was the next song on the set list and another R&B cover. I loved him for it.
The last time I saw Alex Chilton was at the World Trade Center, which hosted a free lunchtime oldies concert every Tuesday during the summer of 2001. Chilton played with a reunited Box Tops for an audience of grey-haired old-time fans and pink-haired new fans. I remember looking up during the show to watch a few seagulls fly in between those two towers, scraping the sky. Two weeks later, that image, and the sound of Alex Chilton’s voice, haunted me as I watched images on teevee of seagulls flying out of the thick plumes of smoke and debris that rose from the collapsing towers.
And, now, there’s another national disaster and I’m thinking about Alex Chilton again.
According to his record label, Alex Chilton remained behind at his home in New Orleans as Hurricane Katrina approached. He hasn’t been heard from since, and his name is listed among the missing on the New Orleans Times-Picayune’s website.
In his old tribute, “Alex Chilton,” Replacements singer-songwriter Paul Westerberg concludes “If he died in Memphis, then that’d be cool,” but he was probably imagining a death of old age after a long life and career of writing and recording beautiful, sad, frustrating, awe-inspiring songs. At 54, Chilton is hardly old. He deserves the chance to make it back to Memphis. This is not cool.
(Thanks to Tommy for bringing this to my attention.)
