Welcome Back, Wanda

First it was Loretta Lynn. Now Jack White is bringing out singer Wanda Jackson for another bow. The rockabilly queen has a new album out, The Party Ain’t Over—which was produced by White and released this week on his Third Man label. And the record is actually quite good, a hillbilly hootenanny of country, rockabilly and gospel, energized by Jackson’s signature voice and matchless spirit. She’s still got it, all right. (Check out an interview with Jackson and listen to the album at NPR).

I interviewed Jackson nine years ago in advance of a Seattle appearance at the Tractor Tavern. It was indeed a career highlight for me. We talked by phone for about 45 minutes. She was awesome, and I was pretty pleased with the resulting story I wrote for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer (though I might have gotten her age wrong). So in celebration of her return to the fore, I give you my short feature on Wanda Jackson.

March 15, 2002

Club Beat: Jackson Still Blazing a Rockabilly Trail

By JOE EHRBAR
SPECIAL TO THE POST-INTELLIGENCER

In his book The Unsung Heroes of Rock 'n' Roll, author Nick Tosches declares rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson to be "simply and without contest, the greatest menstruating rock 'n' roll singer whom the world has ever known."

No truer words have been put so eloquently, if crassly. Jackson is a rock pioneer. She is living, screaming, guitar-strumming history who turned country on its head and broke new ground in the 1950s with a feisty growl and signature songs like "Fujiyama Mama," "Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad," "Mean Mean Man" and "Let's Have a Party." The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame may snub her, but the historical and cultural weight of her music cannot be denied.

At 62, Jackson is still at it, performing with a vigor and abandon that betray her age. Whether preaching to the faithful in concert halls in Sweden or reaching out to young converts in American clubs such as Seattle's Tractor Tavern, where she's set to appear on Wednesday along with the Donettes (9 p.m.; $12), Jackson is all too eager to share the raunchy gospel of rockabilly.

Jackson exudes just as much enthusiasm when telling her story. Speaking to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer by phone last week, Jackson recounted what it was like to be a teen star, to work with Elvis Presley, to pave the way for rock 'n' roll as a woman before later being paved over, to be rediscovered in Europe and finally recognized in her own country.

"It's been a heady trip for this old lady," summed up Jackson with a chuckle.

Jackson's trip began in Oklahoma City in the 1950s. Just in high school, she was discovered on a radio show by country star Hank Thompson, who got her signed to Decca Records. Jackson soon charted her first hit, in 1954, a duet with Thompson's bandleader, Billy Gray, titled "You Can't Have My Love." Upon graduation, the budding star, chaperoned by her father, piled into the family car and motored onto the concert trail, never to look back.

Jackson logged thousands of miles with her father in those early days, performing on one multiact caravan after another. While it was exciting, her life was anything but glamorous. "It was harder in those days when you' re just starting out," Jackson said. "We had to travel by car mostly. I didn't make enough money to fly.

"I used to have to put on my stage clothes in service station restrooms," she continued. "Some of them were so bad, I'd have to stand up on the toilet stool lids."

It was on one of those tours that Jackson met Presley, himself a newcomer, recording rockabilly songs for tiny Sun Records. The two became friends, and later dated. "Elvis was always an exciting person to be around. He had charisma. I always looked forward to working with him. We dated when we could on the road. He asked me to be his girl and wear his ring, and I did."

Jackson's relationship with Presley marked a turning point in her career. At Presley's urging, Wanda went rockabilly. "My dad and Elvis just lit in on me that I needed to be doing this music," she said. "Elvis kept saying it was gonna be the next big thing. I could tell that by working with him, with all the girls screaming."

"It took me a while to get the nerve to do it," said Jackson, "but I found some songs." She also found her voice, well described by Tosches as "a wild fluttering thing of sexy subtleties and sudden harshness, feral feline purrings and raving banshee shriekings." In 1956, Jackson and her wicked set of pipes helped usher in rock's golden age by cooking up a spicy number called "Hot Dog! That Made Him Mad." "Fujiyama Mama" and "Mean, Mean Man" followed in 1957 and 1958.

As groundbreaking as they were, these bombshells fell on deaf ears. "I couldn't get any airplay," Jackson said. "No one seemed to recognize what I was doing. America wasn't ready for a girl hollering, singing this raunchy, soulful and exciting music." Ironically, Japan was. "Fujiyama Mama" went No. 1 there in 1958, despite its politically incorrect lyrics: "I been to Nagasaki/Hiroshima too/The things I did to them, baby/I can do to you."

Jackson's big moment in the States came in 1960, when "Let's Have a Party" screamed up the charts with all the unbridled glee of a party blower on New Year's Eve. Its successors "Right or Wrong" and "Riot on Cell Block #9" kept up the front, though by this point, Jackson had all but abandoned rockabilly. "I gave it a run, and then had to kind of back down into country to get airplay and keep my name out there so that I could work."

Jackson rode out the 1960s as a commercially successful country singer. But when she felt a tug to do gospel music after converting to Christianity, her label, Capitol, wouldn't hear of it, so ending their relationship and Jackson's days on the charts.

Then in the 1985, spurred on by a rockabilly revival in Europe, Jackson made a comeback and started touring and recording again. America, late to the party as ever, rediscovered Jackson in the mid-1990s as the rise of insurgent country and reissues of her work (such as Capitol's 1996 anthology Vintage Collections) increased awareness of the singer. Jackson has since been in hot demand and she spends many of her days as she did when she was just starting out — on the road. This time, however, she's usually flying first class.

"I'm always coming and going," Jackson said. "That's my life and I love it. It's the only life I know. It has probably taken its toll. I tell people, 'When you look at me, just remember, maybe it's not the age but the mileage.'"

Case of the Half-Written Blues

I've got a bunch of new posts in the hopper for the new year. Sadly, this is not one of them. No, the new stuff just isn't quite there yet. So while I agonize over the nascent posts, I thought I'd tide you over with the covers of two uncommonly awful recent thrift store acquisitions. Dig in.

James Lockridge Sings Joy in My Heart (1974)

James' love interest on this record is ... Jesus. But of course.

The Wheeler Family City of Gold (197?)

Looks like a perfectly innocent album of Christian gospel hymns sung by a pleasantly homely and inept quartet of siblings, until ...


... you take a gander at the back cover. This is the Wheeler Family's "Dad" as he appears on the back cover. Kind of makes Murry Wilson or that puppeteer father of the sisters Shagg seem almost rational, reasonable, loving even.

In Death Gerry Rafferty Gets Last Laugh

Gerry Rafferty's pickled liver finally walked off the job this week, so denying any further comeback attempt or call for one last round by its owner. While this might be seen as tragic (how can death deny a very thirsty man a final drink ... or two dozen?), few of us are shedding tears about Gerry's slightly premature checkout. Some of us are even laughing -- because the accidental prankster hit the road toward the great gig in the sky and left us with the master tapes to "Baker Street," whose distinctive porno sax solo, with its stained sheets of sound, is sure to ooze into the sleazy motels of our minds for many years to come. Damn you, Gerry! What a kidder.

Thrift Store Scores

Ninety percent of all music I've purchased this year has come from thrift stores. It was one of my New Year's resolutions -- to acquire any and all music from the junk store. Had it not been for Record Store Day or new albums from Refused, Melvins and Sun City Girls, I might have kept my resolution. But nine out of ten ain't bad.

In my quest for new, moldy tunes and the discovery of vinyl gold, I haunted thrift stores like a hunter stalks his prey. My searches were often frustrating and fruitless, but in eleven months I managed to acquire almost 200 records -- some good, some rare, most mildewy and awful, and all cheap. As for what I'll buy, sometimes it just comes down to the cover. So for this post, I give you some of the best/worst album covers I temporarily spared from their inevitable date with the dumpster.


Hmm ... why is Brother looking at Sister that way?


I love Jesus people. Their records never disappoint.


I know what it looks like, but the guy on this record is not Will Ferrell. As far as I can tell, this was the only Peters and Lee album. At least these lounge losers had the good sense to make their first album their last. Or maybe there are other Peters and Lee recordings. I'll keep looking.


More like Bobbin' for Crapples. Who thought a photo of this goober would sell records? Presumably the goober himself.


A reflective "Frankie Chop" looks back on his career. Despite his violent-sounding handle, Frankie was not a hit man but a polka twat. By the way, there's something so masculine about posing with your hands under your chin.

The Cave Man Cometh

I've forsaken this page for too long. To the three or four of you who read this thing, I apologize for the dearth of updates in recent months. Life, again, has gotten in the way--which is no excuse, I know. And though I have dozens of ideas for posts floating around in the ether of my mind, I have failed to make any real progress in committing them to virtual paper. But good stuff is coming. Really. Soonish, I think.

For now, allow me (or my former self) to wax ecstatic on the subject of Nick Cave. It would seem with Halloween looming on the horizon, Cave, his Bad Seeds, and his latest invention, Grinderman, provide the right kind of thunder, lightning, and dark clouds to your haunted days and lives. The following is a concert review I wrote nine years ago. On that night long ago, Nick Cave and company were every bit as good as I said they were.

Nick Cave with Warren Ellis, Jim White and Susan Stenger at the Paramount Theatre, March 29, 2001

“Intensity Never Flags in Spare Cave Concert”

By Joe Ehrbar

Pasty-faced London singer Nick Cave, long and lanky and dressed in a jet-black suit that matched his slicked-back hair, emerged from the shadows of the Paramount Theatre's backstage Thursday night, moving forward beneath the red lights with a purposeful gait, acknowledging his applauding audience with a simple wave, before situating himself behind a black grand piano.

Seated, he took a long draw from his cigarette, placed it carefully in an ashtray and, without warning, banged his hands on the keys and wailed with his deep voice a furious, welt-licked rendition of "West Country Girl," a song that was supposed to be about love, but was instead swollen with unbridled rage.

His haunting presence and monstrous baritone cast an ominous pall over the evening, to the delight of a transfixed sold-out crowd. Cave was soon joined by the three members of his band, violinist Warren Ellis and drummer Jim White, both of the Dirty Three, and bassist Susan Stenger.

Indeed, it was a scaled-down Cave show, in stark contrast to his 1999 Seattle appearance with the Bad Seeds. Some songs, such as “Henry’s Dream” and “Do You Love Me? (Part 2),” had to be reworked to fit the sparse setting. Even so, Cave and company rendered an astoundingly intense and theatrical 90-minute performance, with the climaxes more pronounced and the subtleties more fragile.

At the piano, Cave faced his dark, tempestuous material—consisting primarily of his four most recent albums, including the forthcoming No More Shall We Part—with all the cruel enthusiasm of a night stalker lurking in the shadows, hunting his prey, his band co-conspirators urged him onward with a roots-tinged clamor.

Highlights abounded. “Stagger Lee,” about the "baddest man who ever lived," said Cave, hit with as much psychotic force as the crazed original from 1996's Murder Ballads.

“The Mercy Seat,” a Cave original which he introduced as a Johnny Cash song (Cash recorded it for his latest album, Solitary Man), simmered to a boil as desperately and dreadfully as its studio sibling, with Ellis, back to the crowd and silhouetted by the golden lights above him, tugging and tearing his bow across the violin, echoing the cries of Cave’s protagonist, who’s being cooked by the “mercy seat”—the electric chair.

The Johnny Cash reference was hardly coincidental. Like those of the other Man in Black, Cave's songs are populated by cold-blooded killers, lovelorn misfits and God-fearing innocents, most of whom are searching for some sort of redemption for their cursed existence.

Many find deliverance in love. And it's the love song that is at the very core of Cave's music. However, as emphasized Thursday, Cave's idea of love isn't the trite pap heard on the radio. His songs embraced a gothic romanticism steeped in sorrow (“People Ain't No Good,” “Sad Waters”), longing (“Darker with the Day”), obsession (“Love Letters”), lust (“Do You Love Me? Part 2”) and crimes of passion (“Henry Lee”).

Sure, he surrendered to the chirping birds of love's sweet melody with the ballad "Into My Arms," but for him to accept love’s warm embrace, he had to plumb its colder, murkier, even macabre depths.

The night wasn’t all dank and dour, though. Cave allowed his devilish sense of humor to play for a bit and even bantered with the crowd. “How old are you, Nick,” a female fan called out between songs. “I’m very old ... too old for you,” returned the 42-year-old singer. With that he played the opening notes to a new song titled “God Is in the House,” a seemingly earnest hymn, with a big ironic grin.

And at the end of his set, when dozens in the audience blurted song requests, even requesting one another to shut up, Cave drew the curtains on the evening with “People Ain't No Good.”

And the Dark Man disappeared, as quickly as he had arrived.

Originally published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, March 31, 2001.

Help Me Out Here...

Do people actually enjoy the music of Todd Rundgren? Really, do people park their butts on the couch and say, "Phyllis, fetch my slippers--tonight, I'm gonna re-cline and bathe in the bittersweet melodies of the Todd." Is there some joke that I'm not getting?

I've tried to listen to this clown for years, and every time I'm left to wonder, "What am I doing this for?" Honestly, I don't know. Perhaps it's because people (friends, writers, connoisseurs) whom I respect mention his name from time to time--and not as a punchline, either! (What do you get when you cut cocaine with hairspray, VD and the eyebrows of George Harrison? Todd Rundgren. Or: What's the difference between a bucket of poop and Todd Rundgren? Todd Rundgren plays keyboards. Not very funny, I know, but I'm not getting paid for this.)

Anyway, last night I gave this so-called pop music genius/studio whiz another shot, dropping the needle on his 1978 opus, The Hermit of Mink Hollow. Three songs into this slick-as-shit, pop-goes-the-fart crap fest, I yanked the LP off the turntable, returned it to its jacket, and tossed it in the box of castoffs about to make the final leg of their round-trip journey from the thrift store.

Maybe I'll have better luck with the Alan Parsons Project.

Sing Along No More

On Saturday, July 31, Mitch Miller finally died. After 99 years! As I write, his corpse is being reunited with his music career.

Sadly, I'm sure to be haunted by Mitch's stupid smirk and goober goatee for years to come, for every time I treasure hunt for vinyl gold at the thrift shop, while flipping past cat-urine-scented classical LPs and mildew-stained Art Garfunkel albums, I'm greeted by a glut of "Sing Along with Mitch" records. And there are dozens of them. I haven't been to every thrift store in this fine country, but every thrift store I've been to, from Jacksonville to Spokane, Seattle to Santa Barbara, has had a stash of Mitch Miller records. Which isn't all that surprising since he was said to have sold 17 million albums by 1966!

And, really, the thrift store is where his music belongs--gathering dust and mold along with the rest of the consumer detritus and cast-offs we so charitably donate. It's justice for the sing-songy gimmicky crap "the maestro" shoved down America's throat in the 1950s and '60s. Back then, when rock 'n' roll was king, Miller, in his vain yet futile attempt to conform America's impressionable ears to his own bad taste, said famously, "[rock 'n' roll] is not music. It's a disease." Which wouldn't have been a big deal, had ol' Tin Ear not been running the show at Columbia Records. For the record, it wasn't Mitch who signed Bob Dylan; it was John Hammond.

Mitch made a brief comeback in 1993, when his music was taken out of mothballs and applied in a new, more suitable context when it was played at ear-splitting volumes to drive out David Koresh from his compound. Sadly, Mitch's music wasn't an effective enough irritant and ended up becoming background music for a pretty spectacular barbecue. Anyway, should you happen upon a Mitch Miller LP at the thrift store, leave it. Don't listen to it; don't even trash it--our dumps are already overflowing with Andy Williams records.

Besides the millions of pounds of toxic waste generated from the polyvinyl chloride used in the manufacture of his foul-tasting pop music confections, Mitch Miller is survived by his ridiculous goatee.