On May 3, the "Queen" hit Chicago and pretty much destroyed the place. I'm not talking about Aretha Franklin's high-profile gig at the Chicago Theater that night but Wanda Jackson's intimate, incendiary blowout at Evanstons comfy SPACE.
As for calling Jackson the "Queen of Rock and Roll," that moniker seems appropriate since only Tina Turner comes within inches of her stature. Whereas Turner started her career in 1959 and retired some 50 years later, Jackson started cutting up on vinyl at the age of 15 in 1955 ( opening for some guy named Elvis ), and still tours and records in the company of sprouts like Justin Towne Earle and Jack White.
Age and numbers don't seem to have anything to do with her since she has bounded the borders of country and rockabilly and inadvertently invented female rock 'n' roll ( Stevie, Pat, Madonna—SIT DOWN!!!!!!!! ). And as if to prove the point that, at the age of 76, Jackson remains timeless, she drew a sold-out crowd that included white-haired grandparents, tattooed twentysomething punkers, and more then a few pre-teens who had been home schooled on her recordings and knew all the words. Maybe Jackson has not gotten the hype or sales that Franklin or Turner have enjoyed, but for those who know where the really really "good stuff" came from, this woman is ground zero.
As if to give evidence that her brand of fiery, unfussy, blunt rock is an art form that has shaped and is for the ages, Jackson kicked off the show with the classic rave "Riot in Cellblock # 9." As a beginning point ( and ass-shaker par none ), starting the show with that classic promised a night where history met passion; "Riot in Cellblock 9" is probably the ONLY recording that could give Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock" a run for its bare-knuckled hard money as the bedrock of hip-shaking, foot-stomping, pure rock 'n" roll.
Jackson wisely noted that she couldn't do all of her hits ( "What is this, Saturday...? We'd be here 'til Tuesday..." ) while pouring out a torrent of her hits ( a smoky tremulous "Tunnel of Love," a smart and slightly tart "It's All Over Now," and a dramatic reading of the country classic "I Have to Know" ) but once she got into her more recent material and a scattering of famous covers, the show took on an entirely different dimension.
In her intro to Amy Winehouse's "You Know I'm No Good," Jackson joked about how she was uncomfortable with the songs racy lyric ( "I'm a girl from the 1950s..." ) and White's persuasive approach ( she described him as having the touch of a "velvet brick" ), but once she dug into the words she made it something that I doubt the author could have imagined.
"Right or Wrong" was pure nerve tingling torch, but her reading of Presley's "Heartbreak Hotel" was patient, elegant, and altogether devastating. Her friend and mentor ( Presley toured with her in 1955 and encouraged her to broaden out of country and get into "this new thing called rock 'n' roll" ) would have to have been proud of what she did with his chestnut.
Then Jackson whipped out her ace—her only number-one hit single ( granted, it hit that spot only in Japan because, as Jackson slyly put it, "The United States was not ready for a girl rock 'n' roller..." ), 1962s "Fujiama Mama" and, with the back-up of the Lady Birds ( hard, saucy and blunt honky-tonk players ), the place went apeshit.
By the time she closed out her show with "Let's have a Party," "Rip It Up" and her contemporary Jerry Lee Lewis' "Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On," every man, woman and child was on there feet shaking it with a vengeance. Sorry, it couldn't get any better then this...
In comparison, nothing much about Chicago band The Peekaboos makes sense insofar as sheer bama-lama or rock 'n' roll getting "better." As a bunch of scruffy rockers who delight in dressing in costumes ( clowns, zoot-suited smoothies, and superheroes seem to be their faves ) and kicking out the jams they present themselves like a three-ring circus gone haywire.
Vocalist/guitartist Mr. Muffin stretches his shockingly handsome face into all manner of gravity-defying, hysterical expressions ( think of the young Adolph Green and Mel Brooks ) as Shannon Candy ( guitar and vocals ) runs with the girl-group aesthetic while whipping it into a punked-out femme fatale blender of jolliness and wit. ( Dum Dum Girls could learn an awful lot from her. ) And then there is Koala Rob, who pummels his bass like a geeked-out Gumby fighting with all of his might to take flight. The only sane space on the stage belongs to sweet-natured drummer Michael Sunnycide who calmly bashes his tom-toms like an experienced exorcist spanking some wild-ass demon baby from hell begging for a sanctified smack down.
On May 2, The Peekaboos hit the "big time" by opening for The Flaming Groovies at the House of Blues ( HoB ), and—surprise, surprise—stole the show. Granted, HoB is a long way from Logan Square rave parties in DIY spaces but, as expected ( by their fans anyway ), The Peekaboos ripped through a 30-minute set smacked up on pizazz and nervy joy.
It would be a mistake to assume that all The Peekaboos have to offer is spastic flailing and showmanship and none of that can guarantee how they tend to leave a distinctive yummy taste in the mouth after seeing them for the first time. Without the costumes and saucy bits ( With his clothes on it was impossible to tell if Kaola was wearing pasties this time out ), the show ( and dancing in the audience ) kicked off with a sloppy funked-up rip through "Let's Talk about your Big Butt."
The recent "Heavens Gate" and the over-the-top rave-up "Give Me Liberty" were noisy, messy bama-lama at its finest, but "Rub-A-Dub"—which I've been told is about suicide—was unnervingly catchy, sweet and, on first listen, childishly innocent like a lullaby. Between Candy and Muffin's chirpy, childlike vocals lies a subtle gray space of pain and insanity. This bunch is clearly about something more then what meets the eyes or ears.
The real fun of The Peekaboos is the interplay between and a part of the other members; they seem to be going off in tangents independent of each other while simultaneously meshing into a brilliant, intelligent, infectious whole. They really do seem like nice people, but I suspect that they are from some other planet ... or galaxy.
