IN the straight-laced 1950s there were only two rock ‘n’ rollers: Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis. Bill Haley was too old, Tommy Steele and Cliff too clean-cut.
Only The King and The Killer caused boycott, riot and scandal. These were the boys parents warned their daughters about, Lewis particularly.
Long before Led Zep and The Who were driving Rollers into swimming pools or tossing tellys from hotel rooms, he was the epitome of a rock god, even to almost being arrested in the UK for bringing his 13-year-old wife on tour.
Six decades on, The Killer still sounds as menacing, vital and visceral. It’s as if the intervening years of A&R that diluted rock didn’t really happen.
This is raw, thrilling music, perfectly executed and full of exuberance. Most bands mums and dads would do their offspring a favour by slipping a copy of this album into their Christmas stockings, because this is how you play rock ‘n’ roll.
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