Rock and roll lost one of its principle architects when Ike Turner died Wednesday, December 12, at his home in San Marcos, California.
Notwithstanding his stigmatization as the poster person for spousal abuse, Turner’s contributions to music were monumental, earning him a 1991 induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Schooled on piano by the legendary Pinetop Perkins, and later becoming a formidable guitarist, Turner was a prime player in the milieu that included Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Boy Williamson, and Elmore James.
Of course, it was his tumultuous relationship―both professional and personal―with ex-wife Tina Turner for which he’ll always be best known. Influencing then-young bands like the Animals and the Rolling Stones, the couple injected a sexual energy into their live act that had a profound impact on artists from Mick Jagger to Janis Joplin.
Following Tina Turner’s departure in 1976, Ike spiraled into a cocaine-fueled haze that culminated in an 18-month prison term in the early ’90s. The backlash triggered by the feature film What’s Love Got to Do With It brought him to his lowest point. By the late ’90s, however, Turner had begun to repair his tarnished image. Encouraged by a handful of friends, he stepped into the role of frontman for the first time, performing live dates and reviving the electric blues and gritty R&B style of his earliest days.
The year 2001 proved especially pivotal for Turner. A performance at Austin’s South By Southwest Conference that spring has since attained legendary proportions. More importantly, that fall he released an acclaimed comeback album―titled Here and Now―that earned him a Grammy nomination.
The following interview with Gibson Lifestyle’s Russell Hall, conducted that same year, found Turner ruminating with one foot in the future and one foot in the past. He talked about his return to music, his place in rock history, and the pain he endured from having his reputation sullied.
Your strengths in the past have been as a behind-the-scenes player—not as a frontman. Did you have any anxieties about stepping out front with your new album?
Yes. It’s something I didn’t really want to do. I’m real bashful and I’ve always been afraid of rejection, so that’s why I’ve always done what I do through somebody else. I would write a song, and then I would sing it to someone else, who would then sing it. That’s been my style. But two of my friends―[record label owner] Robert Johnson and Cilla Huggins―kept telling me I should step out front, and do some stuff like I used to do in the early ’50s. They told me I should do some things like “Rocket 88,” and play some piano and some guitar, using the whammy bar. I told Cilla that seemed to me like going backwards. I’m used to keeping up with whatever the current style of music is, going back to Ike and Tina, or Billy Gales or Jackie Brenston when they were the vocalists. We used to copy Louis Jordan, Ray Charles, Chuck Berry, Aretha Franklin, right on down the line.
So you would take whatever was popular at the time, and then put your stamp on it?
Yes, exactly. When you do something the public is familiar with, they respond immediately. I never had the nerve to do the things people like Elton John or the Rolling Stones did. I was always afraid to do original material, even with Ike and Tina. I never did “Nutbush City Limits” on-stage until the public had heard it on the radio, and had gotten used to it. I was afraid to, because I always want to keep the crowd excited. Whenever you go on-stage and do original songs, the crowd just listens, because it’s something they haven’t heard before. They applaud only afterwards. So that was the only part of live performance that I really dreaded, doing a song the crowd wasn’t familiar with.
How did Cilla Huggins and Robert Johnson convince you to return to your old style?
Well, at first the things they said went through one ear and out the other. But a couple of weeks later along comes Joe Louis Walker. He offered me the chance to go on the road with him. He wanted me to play three or four songs a night on piano, and three or four songs on the guitar―but he too wanted me to do stuff like I did in the early ’50s. I told him okay, that I’d do it. So I went home and tried to learn to play some of that stuff I played in the ’50s, and it was almost impossible. I had trouble playing my own style, because I had gotten so far away from myself. But as I began to learn to recreate my style, the more I did it, the more I liked it. I learned to love what I was doing, and that’s where this album came from.
Your comeback show at South By Southwest [on March 18, 2001] was a real turning point, wasn’t it?
Man, that was amazing. That’s the first time I ever went on-stage as the guy out front. My heart was pumping, especially because all the songs we did were original songs from this new album. I was completely shocked that the audience accepted me, for me. I had no idea. If I had known I would be accepted like that, I don’t think there would ever have been a “Tina.” And then after that we played Chicago. There were 125,000 people in the park. The first night it was just me and the band, and then the next evening Pinetop Perkins played with us. Pinetop was the guy who taught me to play piano. He was playing one piano, and I was playing another, with the band backing us. That was really emotional. The audience just went crazy.
You mentioned “Rocket 88.” That song is widely regarded as the very first rock and roll song. Have you ever found out why Sam Phillips didn’t credit you as the writer, back when you recorded it in 1951?
Man, I had no idea that that song was going to be what it became. But maybe Sam Phillips did. I had the honor of inducting Sam Phillips into the Engineering Hall of Fame two years ago. People have been asking me for ages why they didn’t put my name on “Rocket 88.” After we recorded it, after he put Jackie Brenston’s name on there, I didn’t really think about it any more. Originally, it was supposed to have been credited to Ike Turner and the Kings of Rhythm, featuring Jackie Brenston on vocal. I asked Sam Phillips about it, on the night of the induction. I said, “Man, a lot of people have asked why you didn’t put my name on ‘Rocket 88.’” He said his reasoning was that he had intended to put out a solo record by me. And at the time he didn’t think it would be wise to put out two Ike Turner records. It’s just in the last 10 years or so that everybody’s learned who the writer really was. The public has set the record straight, on their own.
Which means more to you―to be held in high regard by your fellow musicians, or by the public at large?
I get more from just the plain John Doe, off the street. As a rule, professional people follow trends, or follow what’s happening at any given moment. I mean, just look at this new album. There’s nothing else out that’s like it. We need more music like this. I think the music on this CD is part of America’s culture―for whites and blacks. It’s not just for black culture. And I think this music has disappeared. Where is a group like the Coasters, today? Where’s the next Ray Charles, or Jackie Wilson, or Sam Cooke? Where are people like Jerry Wexler and Ahmet Ertegun and Tom Dowd, or Leonard Chess and Phil Chess―people who kept this kind of music alive? No one has stepped in to take their place. We gained hip-hop and rap, but we also lost what we had. Kids today know nothing about the type of music that’s on my CD, but when they hear it, they love it.
So you’re on a mission?
I think so. I would love to get this type of music back on the air. Most people who talk to me say, “Thanks for making an album like this one.” This CD is the closest I’ve ever come to realizing what I want to get across to the world. I love this CD, and it’s what I am inside. If this CD is nothing, then I’m nothing.
Have all the troubles you’ve been through made you a better person or a better songwriter?
The troubles I’ve gone through have made my life hell. Those of you who haven’t done any wrongs, or haven’t done anything you regret, go ahead and throw stones at me. I don’t think there are many people who can throw one.
What impact did the film [What’s Love Got to Do With It] have on you?
If the movie had portrayed real life, instead of being “based on” real life, then I wouldn’t care. I did nothing that I’m ashamed of, absolutely nothing. There are lots of fictional parts in that film. The mistake I made was signing this thing with Walt Disney. I thought I was giving them the rights for someone to play me in a movie. Only after I got clean and sober did I find that I had signed away my rights to sue them, which gave them the means to portray me in any way they wanted. They had to have a villain. They took that little piece of paper and they sabotaged my career. I never saw the movie until about a year and a half ago. It’s terrible.
What did you find most objectionable?
There’s a scene where they have the Laurence Fishburne [character] raping Tina. That’s so screwed-up, it’s unreal. Anybody who would rape somebody, or who could sell a little kid drugs, that sort of thing runs against my total existence. What hurt me even more is that Ann—and here I’m talking about Tina—she knows they were wrong. But instead of putting them in check, and telling them to do the right thing—I don’t know. If I was dead and they did something like that, it would be bad enough. But I’m alive, and I have a living to make. It’s made my life really hard.
On a happier note, do you feel this CD offers a newbeginning?
It would’ve been so much easier if they hadn’t done what they did to me. But yes, it does have that feel. It’s like that song on the disc, “You Can’t Winnum’ All.” God don’t put on nobody more than they can take. I’m not crying when I’m talking with you about these things.
What's your favorite quote?
Anything you weren’t born with, you can do without. That’s the truth.
Click here to check out Gibson Lifestyle's tribute to Ike Turner.