When last seen, at the Cubby Bear in 1996, Jerry Lee Lewis looked like Robert DeNiro’s menacing greaser in “Cape Fear,” as he leaned into a microphone stand jutting suggestively between his legs, his fingers driving unseen nails into his keyboard, his voice breaking into purrs, growls and yodels.
It was a reaffirmation of what Lewis once represented: a threat to Eisenhower-era civility, a predator masquerading as a piano player, and one heck of a singer. He was a performer who brought an almost ruthless ease, a knowing swagger to everything from the wildest rock ‘n’ roll to the most sanctified gospel, as much at home with country ballads as he was with old show tunes and pounding rhythm and blues.
At the House of Blues on Thursday, Lewis returned to Chicago and gave a packed house a 40-minute dose of the Killer on autopilot. Lewis going through the motions is vastly more entertaining than 90 percent of rock bands today, but the 62-year-old Lewis was clearly in Vegas lounge mode.
Though little more than a distraction at the Cubby Bear, Lewis’ decision to use an electric piano at the House of Blues was downright annoying, in part because of a sound mix that reduced each note to a tinny vibration, if it could be heard at all. Next time, somebody rent the Killer a grand piano.
Dressed with gangsterish aplomb in what appeared to be a shark-skin suit and tie, Lewis offered no surprises in his 13-song set. He played with a half-smile that suggested both contempt and amusement, and he occasionally let out a “Whew!” that packed all the sincerity of a talk-show emcee pretending he was having a good time for the benefit of the paying customers. When he leaned back while playing “Roll Over Beethoven,” his eyes stared vacantly into space even as he recited the well-worn verse.
Yet there were moments that glimmered with the old audacity: He luxuriated in Little Richard’s “Lucille” by cutting the tempo in half, he once again claimed “Over the Rainbow” as his own life story, and he didn’t miss an opportunity to pack a gesture or a lyric with ribald suggestiveness. “Wiggle it around for me,” he purred during “Whole Lot of Shakin’ Going On,” lifting a finger from the keyboard to rotate it lasciviously. In the midst of Big Bopper Richardson’s “Chantilly Lace,” he broke off the chorus to shout, “Nekked, nekked, nekked!”–not as celebration but more as a demand.
Throughout, Lewis’ four-piece backing band studied his every move as though ready for anything, but their job on this night consisted of running through the songs in order with a minimum of fuss. James Burton dazzled with dexterous solos and a guitar tone that often suggested a pedal steel, but longtime sidekick Kenny Lovelace barely had a chance to banter with his boss, who seemed more interested in getting off the stage as quickly as possible. He kicked his piano seat half-heartedly and walked off with all the lack of ceremony one might use to walk away from a thoroughly mediocre meal.
