Alex Chilton – In Memoriam

I’m going to keep this short. A corpse doesn’t value words – he doesn’t need ‘em. But we, the living, have gotta say something. Alex Chilton, at 59 years, is dead. And at this point, I’m not even sure what that means. I’ve spent a lifetime falling in and out of love to the sound of his voice, as so many weird souls and weary rock refugees have. But I’m not going to pretend that I know what his death means.

It’s not the end of an era – because no era could contain what he did. He was the white boy with the voice of a Motown crooner in The Box Tops. He was the man who, with the help of Jody Stephens and Chris Bell, essentially invented what we now call power pop. He was the voice that whimpered “Thirteen” and the animal that snarled “Rock Hard”.  He was insane, he was sublime, he was beautiful, and he was bigger than a time stamp or a record. So we can’t say the day is done.

It’s not the beginning of a legend – because the substance of Chilton’s work is too heartfelt and personal to be something called a legend. Legends have big dicks and bigger egos. Chilton was just the man with the guitar and the strange, nonchalant voice. He was the man whose perfectly chosen notes outdid Paul Westerberg and Freedy Johnston in a Twin Cities basement – and that’s lore straight from my old man. He was the dour, shy guy from Live in London, bashfully announcing a little song called “The Letter”. He wasn’t a legend, he was more than that. He was a real human being.

And it’s not a massive passing like Strummer’s or Cash’s or whatever. I’ve been pouring my heart out in bars for the past couple days to punk rockers and others of all stripes, and they look at me blankly when I say the name. You won’t see kids with “R.I.P. Alex Chilton” as their Facebook status. Maybe a couple ‘Mats fans remember the name from Pleased to Meet Me. Maybe. Old hands and the young minds they molded have a bit of Chilton tattooed on their brains, but there ain’t gonna be no fanfare. So don’t look for it.

So like I said, I don’t know what this means. I don’t know why he died at a relatively young age. I don’t know what “our generation” has to learn from Alex Chilton, other than how to write a song. I don’t know shit about rock n’ roll and I don’t think he would claim to know a damn thing either. What I do know is that I’m listening to “Hey, Little Child” and I’m crying. Because I’m running out of heroes.

That’s all I’ve got. God bless a good man.


-Lou W
Big Wheel Contributor