On Jerry Lee Lewis' 'complicated' legacy

It's tempting when I write a column to try to find some positives about the subject to balance the story, or to at least provide a sense of even-handed writing. But in reading about Jerry Lee Lewis in the week since his death, I'm convinced the man's only worthwhile attribute was the music he created. In rock 'n roll, there isn't just a portion of misbehavers; when you look back at the genre, and the men and women who played it, it seems like the majority were, well, bad. And I don't think there's anyone — perhaps in the history of rock — as bad as Jerry Lee Lewis. Now, understand, I don't mean that as a compliment. Lewis was a brilliant singer, player and songwriter. It's tempting to say that Lewis was — more than Elvis Presley, more than Tina Turner, more than Chuck Berry — the personification of rock 'n roll. I could write about all of the horrible things Jerry Lee Lewis did, or was accused of doing. But I'm not sure the newspaper you're reading is big enough for a complete list. Lewis is a man who married his 13-year-old cousin at the height of his fame and then wondered what the big deal was. He was reckless, scary. He was accused of abuse by her. He once shot his bass player (I think by mistake). His life was full of tragedies, some he created. Two of his wives died. He lost a pair of children to accidents. He abused alcohol, and had problems with pills, to the point that one would believe he had some kind of early death wish. The fact that he died last week at 87 is a testament to something, though I confess to not being sure what it is. Even Keith Richards had to be in awe of his longevity. Lewis' music itself — and its impact — shouldn't be downplayed. John Lennon, for one, is said to have thought that he never wrote a song as good as "Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On." Listening to the track last night, I must confess Lennon may have been right. Lennon, in fact, was so taken with Lewis that upon meeting him in the 1970s, the former Beatle dropped to his knees and kissed Lewis' shoes. Lewis, startled, told him to get up. Bob Dylan wanted to record with Lewis, but was rebuffed. Still, Dylan paid tribute to Lewis at a recent concert in England, performing a cover of Lewis' "I Can't Seem to Say Goodbye." My own feelings of Lewis' music are complicated. A friend once told me to "love the art, not the artist." That works for plenty of people. For Lewis? I'm not sure. It's impossible — even nearly 70 years after his early recordings — to not be in awe of Jerry Lee Lewis' abilities. And some of his songs, "Great Balls of Fire," "Breathless" and others will go down as some of the best songs ever recorded by an American artist. Some might argue that Lewis' legacy is complicated, but I'm not sure it is. The music was great. The man wasn't.