A friend shared this link and it reminded me of a night long ago. Cecile, some friends and I were at a restaurant in Hollywood--after the clubs had closed. We were eating breakfast when in walks Ike Turner with his grown son. When they sat down next to us--my blood ran cold. Before I go any further, I should point out that to young band guys, back in the 60s, Ike Turner was the boogeyman. He always looked pissed off. Not grumpy or simply angry--evil demon pissed off. I once made the mistake of making eye contact with him and he shot devil daggers at me. Rumors abounded: he carried a gun--probably true, he had murdered a succession of Tinas--not so much. Anyway, back at the restaurant, Ike strikes up a friendly conversation--about music and such. He’s being nice--funny. I’m enjoying his company, but I’m still a bit nervous. Tina’s book had come out just days before. I hadn’t read it, but everybody was talking about it. One thing was certain. The friendly guy chatting us up at 3 am was indeed the maniacal monster of legend. As we tossed back out umpteenth cup of coffee, Ike suggested that we all cruise around with him for a while. Everyone agreed before I had a chance to point out the similarity of our current situation to the beginning of a horror movie. We all piled in the back of his big Cadillac and cruised the Strip. Before long, he brought up Tina’s book--the elephant in the Caddy. It seemed oddly important to him that we believe his side of the story. Somewhere near La Cienega, the caffeine, adrenalin and what ever else kicked in and the rant began. When he insisted that it was Tina who beat him up, I simply nodded like a bobble-head in the backseat--hoping he wouldn’t crash the car--or worse. The more he insisted he wasn’t a monster, the more he looked like one. In my entire life, I’ve only had two boogeymen: my childhood closet monster and Ike Turner. And there I was, crammed in the back seat of the Turner monster’s Caddy--destination unknown. I’m not sure if it was some animal survival instinct or just common sense, but my fellow travelers were able to convince Ike that they believed his absurd rebuttal to Tina’s book. Eventually, he calmed down and dropped us off at the restaurant. Before he drove off, he handed me his card and invited us to stay with him at his house in Del Mar and play music. I never took him up on his offer. Ike Turner was a great and terrible, terrible man, a musical genius and, some say, the true father of rock and roll. Now that he’s gone, I realize that a good boogeyman is hard to find.
Posted on: Tue, 02 Dec 2014 13:06:34 +0000
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