By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
Turner insists she's a rock singer, not a soul diva. But Wildest Dreams isn't rock or soul. The album is crammed with smooth, banal disco-pop that's sporadically enlivened by Trevor Horn's production tricks. Thirty minutes with it is like being battered senseless with foam bats. The gimmicks -- a full orchestra, a guest performance by Barry White -- are in the service of corny bravado. The legend of Tina as Survivor has consumed all available ink.
It's disconcerting to think that Turner now has fans who know only her recent work, and who don't realize what she veered away from artistically when she finally walked out on Ike after twenty years of physical and mental torture. Let's be clear here: No one should have to endure the abuse Tina recounted so vividly in her autobiography. But no one should have to listen to Wildest Dreams, either, especially with What You Hear finally in the CD racks. From the mid-Sixties to the mid-Seventies, the Ike and Tina Turner Revue constituted one of the hottest live acts on any stage, rivaled only by James Brown. The Carnegie Hall disc captures them in their glory.
Live albums usually suck because musicians either try to reproduce their recordings -- if not impossible, then dull -- or inflate them with vain frippery. But for the Turners in their heyday, the show was the whole point; the records, which rarely charted, were the novelties. In concert Ike led his band through covers that left the originals bleeding. The Carnegie set starts with back-up singers the Ikettes ripping through "Piece of My Heart," a minor hit for Aretha Franklin's sister Erma, followed by Sly Stone's "Everyday People." When Tina emerges, she hammers three Otis Redding compositions, Jesse Hill's "Ooh Poo Pah Doo" and the Rolling Stones' "Honky Tonk Women."
The Revue had just come off a tour opening for the Stones, and the double LP What You Hear would be its first gold album, to be followed by its first million-selling single, a cover of John Fogerty's Creedence Clearwater Revival song "Proud Mary." Creedence never imagined the sass and sex Tina could ladle over its choogling hit. Her introduction to the song, on the single and at Carnegie Hall, was itself an achievement: "Right about now I think you might like to hear something from us nice and easy," she purrs from the Carnegie stage. "But now -- I'd like to do that for you, there's, there's, there's just one thing: We never ever do nothin' nice and easy. We always do it nice -- and rough." What follows is a delicious vamp, replete with Ike's strumming, that suddenly explodes into throttling, horn-driven release. You can taste the sweat flying from Tina's fringe.
To understand what made the Ike and Tina collaboration great, you have to start with Ike, who brought history and chops to the party. Born Izear Luster Turner in Clarksdale, Mississippi, in 1931, he was gigging with an R&B combo by the time he was in high school. Not long after that, he and his Kings of Rhythm hit Memphis and the legendary Sun studio to lay down "Rocket 88," which many would argue is the first rock and roll song.
After "Rocket 88" hit on Chess in 1951, Ike was in demand as a session guitarist, thanks to his shattering tone, and as a talent scout and producer, cutting sides with B.B. King, Otis Rush, Junior Parker, Howlin' Wolf, Little Milton, and Bobby "Blue" Bland. In 1956 he moved his Kings of Rhythm to St. Louis. It was there, during a local nightclub stint, that he met Bullock sisters Annie Mae and Ailene. Sixteen-year-old Annie wanted to sing with the band, and she pestered Ike until he gave her a shot.
Ike was always a low-rent entrepreneur who resembled nothing so much as the emperor of a tiny island-nation. He changed Annie's name to Tina, to rhyme with Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, his favorite TV character. Then, when a scheduled singer failed to show for a 1960 recording session, he put Tina in front of the mike on "A Fool in Love."
For people who associate her principally with Private Dancer, Tina's voice on that first single is startlingly rough. Her early style was neither church nor country, but a sandpapery amalgamation of both that remains instantly identifiable and thrilling. Most listeners, especially white ones, associated it with carnal pleasures. It was raspy. It lacked polish. But it was indisputably authentic, the essence of roots music.