Great Balls of Fiery Rage!

The night Jerry Lee Lewis berated me backstage

As we approach the one-year anniversary of JLL’s death next month, one memory keeps bubbling up for me. Here it is:

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My saxophone was locked in the dressing room.

There was absolutely no way to retrieve my instrument and head home. The skyscraper-shaped American bouncers bookending either side of the door made that very, very clear.

“You ain’t gettin’ in, son. I won’t tell you again, boy.”

Son. Boy. Such paternal words delivered by such unbending brutes. They weren’t words meant for a loved child—they were words to incite liquid to leak down my pant legs.

But my sax was stuck in the room. Dammit.

What was our band’s very same dressing room only a couple of hours ago was now cleared for Jerry Lee Lewis and his entourage. They were taking their time, doing who-knows-what, after a four-hour delay over the border to get to this special Edmonton performance.

They did not give two shits.

But we sure did. It was the mid-90s, and our band, The Dino Martinis, was chosen to open for the pioneer of rock ‘n roll and rebel boogie piano player. It was the height of the swing revival, and this was the biggest feather in our vintage fedoras.

We played a decent, short set to a packed room of rockabilly-disciples and old-timers. They clapped politely. And we quickly packed up our gear, as opening acts always must.

But I forgot to get my stinkin’ sax. I was either at the bar celebrating…or more likely, meeting James-Fucking-Burton - Elvis Presley’s guitarist!, who Lewis brought on tour. Either way, my sax was now locked in the legend’s dressing room after his show. (Which still killed with energy, by the way, even at his age).

After what seemed like an hour, I slipped the security gatekeeper a cool Canadian twenty, which he looked at like a Parker Brothers bill. But, he did finally let me in. Just for “a second.”

And there in the corner was the man himself.

Jerry Lee Lewis was standing rIght next to my saxophone case. I think he even had a highball balancing on top of it.

Here was the original biblical-badass. The Killer himself. The guy who married his 13-year-old cousin. The man who destroyed countless pianos while still making melodies and hits on them. And even at his older age, he still exuded levels of musical hoodlum ease—making today’s rock renegades seem way more Rachel Ray than Rolling Stones.

He happened to be devouring an oversized silver meat and cheese platter, one can only assume was meant for the entire room. Beside him, on a table, lay a stack of souvenir photos to be signed at some point, when he felt like it.

I grabbed one.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lewis,” I mumbled. “I’m just here to get my horn where you’re standing, and I’ll be on my way.”

He grunted, a bit inconvenienced, and ate another cold cut.

Then I took one more chance before grabbing my sax, as the bouncers eyed me.

“Thank you Mr. Lewis for all you’ve done for music,” I said. “Would you be so kind as to sign this picture for me?”

He put down the meat platter and slightly grinned, letting his guard down an iota. Then he removed a sharpie from his Nashville-cut blazer pocket and spoke to me.

“Tell me. What’s your name, son?” he asked me.

“My name is Jordan, sir.”

He looked me up and down. Then signed the photo, as if he approved, and handed it to me.

“NOW. That’s a good biblical name, son,” he said.

I beamed.

Then he paused. Looked at me again. Up and down. And added:

“Now get the fuck out of my fucking face and fuck off, Jordan.”