A Man Called Destruction: The Life and Music of Alex Chilton, From Box Tops to Big Star to Backdoor Man

by George-Warren, Holly

  A few weeks after recording at Ardent, the trio was ready for its first lengthy tour, beginning with the Southeast, East Coast, and Midwest, stopping in cities as well as college towns like Columbia, Missouri. At Washington, D.C.’s 9:30 Club, Alex reconnected with writer Joe Sasfy, who’d not chatted with him since the Cramps sessions in 1979. Sasfy reviewed the show for The Washington Post and had penned a preview for City Paper. “There wasn’t a big crowd for him,” says Sasfy. “It wasn’t a band that raised the rafters—that wasn’t what they were all about. It was charming, but you had to know what Alex was up to to get it.” In his City Paper piece, he called Alex “one of the most persistent footnotes in new wave history. The nervy twists and emotional strain he has inflicted on pop music’s canon are as responsible for what’s good in new wave as the Velvet Underground or Captain Beefheart or Iggy Stooge.”

  That summer Alex and Rene drove the Buick to Los Angeles; Doug flew in from Memphis. Alex had a gig at the punk club Al’s Bar, but he was also there for a meeting at the offices of Big Time, a new label cofounded by Australian Fred Bestall, who’d made a killing managing ’70s mega-band Air Supply. Bestall was signing U.S. acts with indie credibility, including California’s Redd Kross, Boston’s Dumptruck, and Steve Wynn’s band, Dream Syndicate. “Big Time was a cool label,” says Wynn. “They had not too many people but a great roster, and the staff were all really good people. . . . They provided tour support, ran ads, got your music to radio stations. They had a nice office in a historic old Hollywood building.”

  Alex inked a licensing deal with Big Time to release in the U.S. his newly recorded Feudalist Tarts, plus another EP in a few months, followed by a full-length album the following year, maintaining New Rose as his European licensor. He celebrated the deal by purchasing a Telecaster at a guitar shop in Los Angeles.

  Still, as Alex told Don Snowden of the Los Angeles Times, he was dubious of record labels in general, due to his past experiences:

  I plan to continue playing music and making records as long as I can. If a major label wants something to do with me, that’s fine, but I don’t mind if I’m never on one again. At the moment, I’m making records for myself, which could make me a lot more money in the long run.

  I have licensing agreements with different companies here and there, but they will expire after certain periods of time and the records will be mine again. If I still owned the rights to some of the things I had done in the past, I could probably be making a pretty fair amount of money from them. I think something really ought to be done about the way artists are ripped off for their works by corporate entities.

  Alex was in effect spelling out the DIY philosophy that would become the credo for indie bands in the ’90s and ’00s.

  For Feudalist Tarts’ cover Alex posed in his thrift shop clothes, looking wraithlike and dour, in his New Orleans neighborhood. As for the title, “the album is kind of a soul album,” Alex explained, “and in the case of white people in the South, soul is the music of a lot of rich, frat college kids who were the sons and daughters of landowners in the South, who can be regarded as Feudalists, I believe. . . . Their daughters can be regarded as tarts quite often.” Alex told another reporter that the disc’s songs were the “tarts.” He had been reading about feudalism, as well as Marxist theory, borrowing from his brother Howard’s library of political and philosophical volumes.

  In early September the band played Irving Plaza again, winning high praise from Robert Palmer in his New York Times “Pop Life” column:

  Chilton played a tightly astringent brand of “blue-eyed soul” . . . much of it material from Feudalist Tarts. A generation of fans practically worships Mr. Chilton as the progenitor of the kind of music the dB’s, R.E.M., [Mitch Easter’s] Let’s Active, and other leading “new-wave” bands play today, and the New Chilton has taken many of them by surprise. They have admired his frequently intricate pop-rock songs, without realizing that his roots are in the soul music of his hometown, Memphis. The Box Tops were steeped in 1960’s soul; Mr. Chilton is doing something many other pop artists are doing just now: he’s re-examining his roots. In the process, he is making today’s soul pretenders—the British soul boys with their silly haircuts, the white soul singers fronting American rock bands—sound tame. Mr. Chilton doesn’t have to strain or push his voice. The sensual vibrato and slurred inflections, the subtlety and innuendo, are natural and unforced.

  Robert Christgau awarded Feudalist Tarts an A– and noted that “after ten years of falling-down flakedom only a cultist could love or even appreciate, Chilton looks around and straightens up.” Feudalist Tarts would win top honors in the 1985 Village Voice Pazz & Jop poll. Rolling Stone weighed in with a lengthy review by Parke Puterbaugh, giving the record national attention: “Chilton has rarely sounded so relaxed. Known formerly for an eccentricity that could lapse into sloppiness, Chilton has cleaned up his act considerably and is singing and playing guitar with a care that is commensurate with his talent. . . . It’s about time that Alex Chilton graduated from cult hero to acclaimed artist.”

  To help promote the New Rose disc, the trio flew to Europe in early October for a brisk six-cities-in-six-days tour to Paris, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, Hamburg, Munich, and London. During his first-ever visit to Paris, Alex bonded with Patrick Mathé, who offered him another deal on his Fan Club imprint, to issue Alex’s early solo recordings on a two-disc set called Lost Decade. One would comprise Alex’s favorite productions of that era, including tracks he produced for Grady Whitebread and Danny Jones’s combo Toe Jam. Alex filled the other disc with his punk-era tunes, “Bangkok,” “Can’t Seem to Make You Mine,” “The Walking Dead,” and “Take Me Home and Make Me Like It.” The flip side featured unreleased tracks from the 1969–70 Ardent recordings with Terry Manning, “Free Again” (for which he recut the vocals) and three bluesy tracks, “I Can Dig It,” “Just to See You,” and “Come On Honey,” the last of which he’d add to the trio’s set list.

  In Paris the band played a smoking set at the punky Rex Club, which Mathé recorded, later releasing a high-spirited version of “September Gurls” and a cover of Lou Christie’s “I’m Gonna Make You Mine.” In Rotterdam the band’s show was broadcast on the radio, and Alex told an interviewer that he’d been on a songwriting “hot streak. I played two new songs tonight which I wrote last week, ‘Mercy Upon You’ . . . and ‘No Sex,’ which is the rockingest thing that I’ve written for a long time.” The latter was a topical statement on the AIDS crisis, a sort of black humor pop-rocker.

  The press lined up to interview Alex in London, where the trio arrived after a grueling twenty-two-hour trip from Munich. Journalist Martin Aston asked Alex if he missed drinking. “‘No! It only makes things harder. I just don’t like the way it makes me feel anymore, I guess. I’m still going, I’ve got a lot to learn and a lot of things I wanna do from here.’” Aston’s rave review of Feudalist Tarts in Melody Maker concluded with kudos for the disc’s last cut: “The real surprise is the closing ‘Paradise.’ It’s the happiest Chilton’s ever sounded, a celebration of life that’s probably a tad ironic, but the melody is purest summer and the ’50s guitar and Chilton’s coy vocal is pure joy. It’s two minutes and 23 seconds and it’s perfect.” (Three years later, Alex would disparage “Paradise.”)

  On October 16 the band did a show at London’s Mean Fiddler, which Simon Witter critiqued for NME: “Chilton’s relationship with his Telecaster . . . made tonight one of ’85’s musical delights. Chilton made his guitar speak a language I’ve heard nowhere else. Not dexterously revamped Southern state musical clichés, but an awesomely fluid fusion of rock’s heritage. Chilton comes from so many angles, and makes it look so easy, that you can’t help laughing. His fingers fly about, precisely bending stray notes, tremeloing chords and dancing rings around the given rhythms. Joyous genius.”

  Following the gig Alex gave a comprehensive interview to Epic Soundtracks, a drummer, singer, songwriter,
and pianist who, at fifteen, started the punk band Swell Maps with his brother Nikki Sudden. A longtime and very knowledgeable Big Star fan, Epic spoke to Alex at length for U.K. fanzine What a Nice Way to Turn Seventeen, covering his childhood, the Box Tops, Big Star, and his musical endeavors since. Epic observed, “Seeing you play, you seem to really love to be onstage, singing for people.” Alex agreed, saying, “Well, it sure beats workin’! That’s what we’re doin’—travelin’ around and playin’ and makin’ records. I just hope one catches on and sells pretty well, and we make some money, and then retire!” Alex basically spelled out the next twenty-five years of his life—though he didn’t realize his one that “sells pretty well” would be recorded by others.

  Back in the States, Big Time applied marketing muscle, hoping to build on the momentum spurred by the good press. The label began pushing the record to college and alternative radio stations, as well as a spot on The Cutting Edge, a Sunday-night program on the still-new MTV, hosted by Peter Zaremba, lead singer of longtime New York City band the Fleshtones.

  Filmed on location in New Orleans, in his neighborhood and at a cemetery, Alex looked thin but healthy, sporting Ray-Bans and very short hair, as he laconically spoke into the camera:

  I used to live upriver in Memphis, and Memphis . . . hasn’t got a lot of the things that New Orleans has. I feel . . . freer here. . . . There’s . . . great music here in New Orleans and . . . great musicians, and I’ve learned . . . from a lot of the jazz players that I’ve met here, and learned . . . about the history of rock and roll music. There’s a lot of music here that I’ve never heard before.

  The four-minute segment featured Alex strolling and playing acoustic guitar, borrowed from his friend Melinda Pendleton, since he didn’t own one.

  The Cutting Edge, sponsored by I.R.S. Records (the Fleshtones’ label), primarily featured U.S. indie bands—many of whom had been inspired by Big Star to start playing music. In fact, 3rd had just been reissued by PVC and retitled Sister Lovers. Big Star remained a frequent topic during the increasing number of interviews Alex gave in support of Feudalist Tarts. “It’s hard for me to figure out what that album’s supposed to be,” he told a journalist for Option magazine. “I was still groping for a style, trying to find the thing I really wanted to do. I was kind of a lost young adult. . . . I was into heavy melodrama at the time.”

  Melodrama resurfaced in Alex’s life when he reconnected with Annabelle Lenderink. She and George Reinecke had returned from England to New Orleans, where they split up for good. By Alex’s thirty-fifth birthday, he had reunited with Annabelle. It was a highly charged relationship, though, filled with dramatic fights, breakups, and reconciliations. Annabelle had moved into a small place with a courtyard in the French Quarter, which she artistically transformed into a charming abode. Alex spent much of his time there. But with the new year came an arduous touring schedule, though Annabelle occasionally joined him on the road. He also returned to Ardent in February 1986 to cut an EP, this time with three original songs: the catchy but dark “No Sex” (“junky blood is gonna get ya . . . fuck me and die”), the autobiographical, sardonic blues “Underclass” (which name checks his ’73 Buick), and “Wild Kingdom,” a jazzy paean to nature. In addition to the core trio, Alex again hired Jim Spake on both tenor and baritone sax, with Rene contributing horn arrangements. Out of his $3,000 advance, Alex paid $2,600 for the studio and musicians, pocketing only $400.

  For the cover Annabelle (using the pen name Anna Lee Van Cleef) photographed Alex, rakishly handsome and scowling, leaning on a car. The twelve-inch EP came out soon after, receiving fewer notices than the mini-LP but for the most part positive reviews—again chosen by the Village Voice’s Pazz & Jop poll as best single of the year. In the Los Angeles Times Kristine McKenna said, “In modest increments cult-pop legend Alex Chilton is edging his way back into the music business. After years of silence, this is his second release in less than 12 months, and a strange one it is—but then, Chilton’s raging eccentricity always has been one of his central charms. . . . Great songs, Alex, so when you gonna do a full-length album?”

  If he’d answered, he would have said, “When the record company pays for it.” His next recording was a single track, cut at the Nightshade studio in New Orleans, where he played all the instruments and sang a favorite Troggs number, “A Girl Like You,” for a promotional release in Europe. This time he had a $500 budget, and after studio costs, he netted $130.

  As booking fees increased somewhat from the previous year, touring provided Alex’s primary income in 1986. (He would gross about $25,000 performing with the trio in America.) Beginning on February 12, they played seventy one-nighters, logging more than 27,000 miles around the country. Gigs paid anywhere from $200 to $1,500, with most shows in the $400–$500 range. No matter how small the income, he paid Doug a minimum of $100 per performance, with Alex and Rene splitting the remainder. His performance earnings had increased to the point where the trio could sometimes afford motels rather than crashing at friends’. On the road Alex tried to eat as healthily as he could, seeking out health-food stores where he could buy carrot juice and the like. “Alex smoked like crazy,” Rene recalls, “but he was always taking vitamins and worried about what he was eating.”

  On those lengthy drives from state to state, a sort of protocol was established, according to Rene. “There would be long periods of silence and then a few minutes of scintillating conversation,” he recalls. “Everybody would be talking about something, and then silence again.” Rene saved the day when he replaced the speaker of the broken car radio so that they could tune in to tiny local stations—a favorite pastime of Alex’s—as they drove through various regions of the country. (Alex loved listening to the car radio, and Memphis painter Lamas Sorrento recalls the time his vehicle was next to Alex’s at a light, where he heard Alex singing along with the radio through the open window.)

  “Man, that car was something else,” says Rene. “I remember playing gigs, and other bands would be in their tour bus, and we’d pull up in that thing. My amp and the guitars and the trap case for the drums and a couple of the drums would fit in the trunk. For a long time Alex’s guitar didn’t have a case, and he would stick it in the trunk loose. We’d have the bass drum and Alex’s amp in half of the backseat, next to the passenger. We’d take it all inside wherever we spent the night, because we didn’t have a lock on the trunk—the lock had been popped out.”

  Alex almost always avoided doing sound checks, and if the soundman was unqualified, he might get cursed out in front of a packed house. At other times Alex politely requested “more reverb on the vocals.” Fans would yell for Big Star songs, and occasionally Alex would accept—or even ask for—requests. He favored songs from the new recordings but almost always played a few from his past. He taught Doug and Rene a handful of Big Star songs, including “September Gurls,” “When My Baby’s Beside Me,” and “In the Street,” but urged them not to listen to the original recordings to duplicate what they heard.

  Alex knew people all over the country, who would show up backstage. Frequently someone gushing or acting pretentious, or even an old friend who’d fallen out of favor, would get the Alex “treatment.” His mood was capricious. “That’s an aspect of Alex that’s the not fun part,” says Rene. “It could be hilarious to be on the inside with Alex when he would dress somebody down or he’d abuse somebody who he perceived as invading his little trip, or was worthy of his contempt. We’d travel around and I’d meet all these people who used to be on the inside and weren’t any longer, and I’d see the way he dealt with them—but what I didn’t realize was that one day it would be me.”

  During nonstop touring in 1986, Alex made two discoveries: that he could make quick cash as the Box Tops vocalist on an oldies package tour, and that traipsing through Europe could be grueling. The easy money—$5,000—came from five U.S. dates, singing five Box Tops hits, backed by a pickup band. “Anytime I can make more m
oney than Ronald Reagan, just by playing five songs a day, I will!” he quipped.

  The two-month tour in Europe was organized by an English booking agency that assigned Alex a road manager from Newcastle. The trio traveled through “every country that wasn’t behind the Iron Curtain,” says Rene. Near the end of the tour, the road manager lost his briefcase holding all the band’s earnings and passports. Then he fled, leaving the band stranded without equipment or a van. The trio managed to get replacement passports and finish the last week in Holland by traveling on trains and renting equipment. After sixty days abroad, they returned home with hardly any money.

  The worst fallout from the tour was a breach in Alex and Rene’s four-year friendship. “We had been playing forever, and we were on the road for a month and a half in the U.S. and then went straight, without a break, to Europe,” says Rene. “On the tour Alex and I had had it out a couple of times. He was just kind of sick of me, I guess. He was capable of a fair amount of paranoia, or just having been burned in the past, he thinks it’s happening again. He was a sensitive person who didn’t like being hurt, and he felt like he’d been hurt a lot, and he wasn’t interested in exposing himself to that again. If he thought you were going to do that, it would really bother him. The more he would think about it, the more it would bother him. Because once you’re on the inside, it’s just a matter of time before you’re on the outside. [A mutual friend] would say that Alex was a guy who was so good at finding the cool thing about you—and drinking it in. Then he’d want to get to know everything about you until he identified the one thing that was wrong with you, and then he would focus on that—and that would become the total representation of you. So that he could then cut you off. I think it’s a certain kind of defense mechanism, that if he felt people were getting too close, then he would shut them out.”