R.I.P., The Killer

He sang like there was nothing to it. Like the songs were inside the whole time, and they just effortlessly poured from his lips. Whether it was an incendiary rocker like “Great Balls of Fire”, a thinly-veiled sensual come-on like “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On”, or a country standard such as “Crazy Arms” or “Another Place, Another Time”, Jerry Lee Lewis not only made them his own, but made damn sure when he sung it, it had been sung and all other versions would be measured against it.

He was the last man standing, the final surviving member of the fabled “Class of ‘55” (Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Roy Orbison) and the “Million Dollar Quarter” (same lineup sans Orbison). He was also the last living inductee of the very first Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame ceremony. And just this month, he was (finally) inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. Although he couldn’t made the ceremony, his longtime friend Kris Kristofferson accepted on his behalf and then drove it out to his home to present it to the Killer in person.

There’s not really much to say that hasn’t been written far better over the years (I suggest Hellfire, the daddy of all rock’n’roll biographies from Nick Tosches, or Rick Bragg’s more personal account, with the Killer’s consent and participation, in Jerry Lee Lewis: His Own Story for starters.)

He embodied rock’n’roll in all its joy, madness, controversy, and rebellion. A deeply conflicted, complex individual who spent a lifetime fighting in his head, heart, and loins between the sacred and the profane, as illustrated in the below now-infamous exchange between him, Sam Phillips, and Billy Riley:

(Interesting that Jimmy Swaggart is the only one of the three ivory-pounding cousins still alive and kicking.)

There’s never been another like him, and nor will there ever be. Here’s to the Killer. He now joins his cousin, Mickey Gilley, in the great beyond for another piano duet.

Kick his ass, Killer.