One night in Lexington with Jerry Lee Lewis, the most dangerous man in rock ‘n’ roll

His music, his playing, his entire artistic persona – wrap them all together, light a match and you had one of those great balls of fire Jerry Lee Lewis famously sang about.

Throughout his career, especially in the mid-1950s when rock ‘n’ roll was still largely uncharted territory, Lewis was the pop equivalent of a trapeze artist working without a net. He embraced a musical form that was reinventing popular music and then let his own bravado electrify it even further.

Lewis didn’t do so with a guitar, either. He didn’t do it with a swing of the hips. He did it with a piano, turning a decidedly stationary instrument into an atomic barrelhouse weapon that produced an unrelenting sound reflecting the emotional investment of gospel. But this was anything but church music.

That Lewis lived the life his songs suggested was an understatement. How he made it to age 87 before taking leave us is miraculous. But the recklessness he lived with constantly was also the key to his lasting prominence as a key rock ‘n’ roll architect.

I only got to see Lewis perform once. He played at the long-since-demolished Breeding’s on Main Street, then located across the street from Rupp Arena. The time was November 1987. Tickets were $20, which was considered a fortune at the time. His show barely clocked in at a half-hour.

Still, it was Lewis. The Killer, as he had long been called. That night, Lewis was not for a second going to let anyone walk away thinking he was a walking museum piece. After two numbers where he fingers pounded the piano like jackhammers, creating the kind of unfettered rock ‘n’ roll exuberance artists half his age couldn’t muster, he addressed his audience. Musical credentials re-established, Lewis briefly wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and beamed. At first, he said nothing, glancing instead confidentially with an “Any Questions?” smile. Then he took the microphone and proudly introduced himself – not as Jerry Lee Lewis, but with a title only an artist of his swaggering and unapologetic extreme could get away with.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am the original (expletive).” Suffice to say, the taboo word was 12 letters long and the first six rhymed with “brother.”

“He’ll get no argument from me,” I thought to myself.

Sure, what made Lewis’ music rock was the concise construction his best best-known hits (“Great Balls of Fire,” “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” and my favorite, 1958’s “Breathless”) and the volcanic musicality surrounding them. But let’s face it. What sold Lewis was attitude. His persona was perhaps even more combustible than what we were presented with in Elvis Presley. It was more in line with what Little Richard was selling. Lewis’ music was packed with raw, dangerous nerve, a quality that likely made him an intense threat to parents around America.

But just try imagining rock and pop music without him. Artists as seemingly far afield of Lewis’ music as Neil Young openly championed him while others – Elton John being the most obvious – made no secret of co-opting some of Lewis’ piano-pounding hijinks into their own performance personas.

It hasn’t stopped either. On the day of Lewis’ death came the release of “Million Dollar Quartet Christmas.” The holiday album has members of the long-touring, Tony-nominated musical “Million Dollar Quartet” — based on the short-lived ensemble of Lewis, Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley and Carl Perkins — singing seasonal tunes. Jared Freiburg is featured as Lewis. BR549 co-founder Chuck Mead produced.

Yep, The Killer even made to Broadway.

But aside from a concert stage, it was on a movie screen that Lewis’ uncompromising personality was perhaps best put on display. Around the time of his Breeding’s show, Lewis was portrayed by Dennis Quaid in the 1989 film “Great Balls of Fire.” One of its most engaging scenes involved a discussion between Lewis and evangelist/double first cousin Jimmy Swaggart, played by Alec Baldwin. The talk centered around salvation and whether or not Lewis was going to keep faith with the heathen rock ‘n’ music that had made him a star.

“The time has come for you to choose,” Swaggart said. “Will you choose the gold-paved road of the devil? Or the rocky path of the Lord?”

“Cousin,” Lewis replied, “my road was paved a long time ago and there ain’t nothing I can do about that.”

This story was originally published October 28, 2022 at 3:52 PM.