Alex Chilton, R.I.P.

What is it about the holidays? Vic Chesnutt dies on Christmas, and now another one of my fractured heroes, Alex Chilton, dies on St. Patrick's Day. His star-crossed career has been told ad nauseam, and I won't repeat it here; check out a couple links here and here and watch the video below if you need the history. From the Box Tops to Big Star and into a stop-start solo career, more than anything, to me, it was Alex's voice that lingered long after you were finished listening (and often that time had to wait a long time, because once you start listening to his music, you tend to want to listen for hours). From the that-can't-be-a-teenager-singing-like-that gruff glee of the Box Tops' "The Letter," to the snarl ("Don't Lie To Me") the ennui ("Back Of A Car") the aching glory ("September Gurls") the fragility ("Thirteen") and the desperation ("Kanga Roo") of his Big Star music to the decadence ("Bangkok") the darkly humorous ("No Sex") and the empathy ("Come By Here") of his solo work, whatever mood the songs he was singing called for, Alex could master, but always with some kind of distinctive touch. He might be the only singer I can think of who could vocalize a chip on the shoulder. Great songs, great voice.

I saw him once, December of 1987. All I had on me for him to autograph was a paycheck stub. "You want me to sign that?" "Well, yeah, it's just the stub, not the check." "Oh," sounding very disappointed as he scribbled what apparently is his name. I owe him a couple months, at least, of Karmic paychecks for the pleasure his music has afforded me over the years.

Alex Chilton-Come By Here