REMEMBERING ALEX CHILTON

Big Star When I walked in the door the other night my roommate was already blasting Big Star. He had heard, as I had, of the death of Alex Chilton by a heart-attack on March 17th, aged 59. We had all heard. Late into the night I was trading text messages and e-mails with all sorts of friends, sharing the news, sharing our sadness. The band never achieved the legendary status they aspired to (the "unluckiest band in the America," according to Ed Ward on NPR), but for some of us that made them even more important. Chilton was at the centre of it all.

Big Star is today acknowledged as one of the most important rock'n'roll bands of all time. The music remains stellar, a perfect template of all power pop to follow. Yet it is a wonder why their sound, which evolved from crystalline pop perfection to morphine-dazed pop darkness, remains so meaningful nearly 40 years later. I once had a theory that the best music, whether blues, jazz, rock or soul, had to be either scary or crazy. I've since added "holy" to that mix, which is where Big Star seems to fit in.

Chilton got his start with the Box Tops, a charming if uneventful blue-eyed soul outfit that had a big hit with "The Letter". He then recorded "1970", an all-over-the-place LP that mixed this earnest soul sound with a bit of country. Big Star came next. Though "#1 Record", the band's debut, embraced a triumphal rock stance (more was cribbed from the Beatles than from Stax), a soulful, spiritual feel rises out of its most ecstatic moments. Their pop wasn't just about youthful introspection and brightness; it yearned for something almost lofty.

After Hurricane Katrina in 2005, Chilton was among the big names in New Orleans who were, for a time, unaccounted for. But while he was mentioned alongside such city luminaries as Fats Domino and Irma Thomas, he was never really a part of the city's ornate, profane jazz-funk gumbo. Chilton's connection was always with Memphis, where Big Star recorded and where he was based for much of his career. Memphis had gospel, blues and country bumping against each other all the time.

I keep listening to "My Life is Right" and thinking about this gospel impulse. The song begins "Once I walked a lonely road / Had no one to share my love / But then you came and showed the way" – a typical hymn. It then becomes a love song with one line: "And now I long to see you smile." Chilton didn't write the song, but the version on "#1 Record" reveals his influence. Previous demos lacked the spiritual swooning of the final cut, a spark of faith that ultimately touched every Big Star song. "The gospel music around the South is probably what invented rock n' roll music," Chilton once said in an interview. "Its the most spirited and innovative music there is, and to me it's the freshest stuff there is on the radio."

The question is transgressive: What if a love song could feel holy? Ray Charles and Sam Cooke answered it first by turning their gospel hyms about salvation into dance hits about love and lust. There was always something spiritual in the sound and feel of their songs. Alex Chilton, son of Memphis, provided another, similar answer with Big Star. This once obscure but otherwise beloved band from the 1970s proved that rock'n'roll could also be holy.

~ J. GABRIEL BOYLAN