O.C. Pop Music Review : Alex Chilton Topsy-Turvy in Good Way

SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO —  Going into Alex Chilton’s concert Monday night at the Coach House, I didn’t know quite what to expect.

I had fond childhood memories of Chilton as lead singer of the Box Tops, whose blue-eyed soul hits “The Letter,” “Cry Like a Baby,” “Sweet Cream Ladies, Forward March” and “Soul Deep” were staples of mid-’60s AM radio in upstate New York, where I grew up.

I remembered that husky, mournful voice--hip and worldly beyond its tender, mid-teen years--and I remembered Chilton looking sharp in his mod duds and long, auburn hair (past shoulder length in 1967!) on such music shows of the day as “Upbeat” and “Hullabaloo.”

Post-Box Tops, Chilton had become a bona-fide cult favorite, first with his band Big Star in the early ‘70s and later as a solo act. He was never a mainstream, hit-making artist again, but his name always popped up in the right places. Heavies such as the Replacements and R.E.M. cited him as a major influence.

He got great record reviews, and anyone I knew who was familiar with his later output seemed to sing his praises with ferocious devotion. I made myself a promise to investigate further, to pick up some of his albums. But for some reason, I never did.

And so, come Monday night, I figured this mysterious, childhood favorite would leave a strong impression. Well, Chilton impressed all right, but not for the reasons I expected.

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Taking the stage in a rumpled blue sports coat, black jeans and a shirt with a turned up collar, he looked much younger than his now 45 years. He also looked nothing like I remembered him: Gone was the baby fat I recalled that had fleshed out his face and build. Instead there were strong, sharp cheekbones and a fighting-lean body.

More to the point, he sounded nothing like the Alex Chilton who’d sung with the Box Tops. When he was 16, his pipes sounded like he was 45; now, middle-aged, he sounds childlike, like a strange hybrid between Chet Baker and Gene Vincent.

And where I expected finally to experience a set of originals that had turned some of the most intelligent voices in rock on their collective ear, Chilton concentrated on a positively bizarre but inspired array of cover tunes, among them Slim Harpo’s “Te-Na-Ne-Na-Nu,” Otis Rush’s “Homework,” Billy Boy Arnold’s “I Wish You Would” (in a version closer to the Yardbirds’ hit rendition) plus such pop, jazz and show-tune standards as “Volare,” “Got a Lot of Living to Do” and “There Will Never Be Another You.”

Even more curiously, Chilton proved a rather pedestrian rock guitarist, but his playing of the jazzier fare was most impressive, as he flashed a dazzling knowledge of chords and scales that would have made Joe Pass smile. He was abetted by the cadaverous-looking and competent Richard Dworkin on drums and by bassist Ron Easley, a fine player who looks and dresses like a member of the Dave Clark Five gone to seed.

Chilton’s stage demeanor was subdued but quite pleasant: He is a warm and witty, apparently sincere performer who engages his audience in playful banter and flirtatious innuendo. When one female fan exhorted him to “take it off,” he unbuttoned his pants and let them drop just low enough to make one wonder if he in fact was going to indulge her. When another exclaimed, “Tie me up and make me like it!” he retorted, “That wouldn’t be hard!” and flashed an amusingly lecherous grin. He does seem quite popular with his fans, particularly the women, although the turnout for the concert was embarrassingly small.

All in all, it turned out to be a heckuva fun way to spend an evening, even if I feel no more enlightened as to his skills as a songwriter than I did going in. But this time, I will pick up some of those albums, if for no other reason than to see if they could possibly be as peculiarly endearing as Chilton is in person.