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"When
I go, I don't want to be buried. I've been in too many damn
coffins already."
--Screamin'
Jay Hawkins
Director
Jim Jarmusch considered Hawkins a national treasure, using
his music in his films and casting him as a hotel clerk
in Mystery Train.
Hawkins
briefly played in Fats Domino's band but was fired because
his outfits upstaged the boss.
"I Put
a Spell on You" has been covered by Creedence Clearwater
Revival, Nina Simone and Keith Richards, among others. His
song "Heartattack and Vine" was featured in a 1991 Levi's
commercial.
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Screamin' Jay Hawkins died Saturday, Feb. 12, of post-surgical
complications in a clinic in Paris. The Reaper came for the
former Jalacy Hawkins exactly 44 years after he recorded his
hit "I Put a Spell on You," ending the career of one of the
finest rock and blues destructionists of all time.
Maybe the only one.
Screamin' Jay himself said, "I don't sing 'em, I destroy
'em." Indeed, every black and blue note from his lips and
fingertips secured his spot at No. 1 on the great voodoo
rock chart in the sky.
Until a few weeks ago, death was just part of his stage
act. Hawkins would scare the bejeezus out of crowds, leaping
out of coffins, cane in hand, eyes aglow and teeth chattering,
like a Gilligan's Island headhunter. His mascot Henry,
a smoking human skull, presided over a hoodoo congregation
of rubber snakes and spiders. Jay strutted through his act
like a pimp in a funeral parlor, one bone in his nose and
another in his pants. Bragging on his "sex'chal" prowess,
counseling his horny followers, Jay brought both necessary
sentiments to the stage: hot and bothered.
While I always wanted rock and roll to scare my parents,
I never thought it would scare me right along with 'em.
With Jay, that was the case.
In Los Angeles in 1984, I determined to make Jay's acquaintance
before a gig at Club Lingerie, a place usually occupied
by pineapple-headed New Wavers. That night, a whole new
crowd pushed to the door: blues hounds, soul men, crypt-kicking
bonedaddies and mamas who wanted to dance as close to the
volcano as possible.
A little research should have kept me far away from Jay.
Alcoholism, misogyny and violence accompanied his otherwise-noble
station in the world of R&B. But what's a freckled white
chick to do? His sordid résumé only drew me
closer. One phone call to his manager later, I was sipping
iced tea with an old man on a dilapidated "landlord special"
sofa. Nothing too remarkable, except for a mahogany coffin
propped up in the kitchen and the ever-present skull, Henry,
on an end table.
As I recall, we hit it off on the subject of good Southern
cooking. Fine, as long as it wouldn't be me.
Such was my introduction to the man born Jalacy in Cleveland
back in '29 and thereafter gifted with a couple of other
personalities rooted in his given name. Jalacy Hawkins,
Jay Hawkins and Screamin' Jay Hawkins were different
entities, in his book. Jalacy would prepare a set list;
on stage, Screamin' Jay would rearrange the plan. His mood
swings were the playground equipment of the devil himself.
He spent time in an institution in 1946, only to outwit
the psychiatric staff by picking locks with long fingernails
and fashioning keys from bedsprings. Denied a Valium prescription
in later decades, he confronted his doc in a purple fright
wig, an African ceremonial robe and bright red lipstick,
holding one of his back-up skulls. He got the Valium.
His wife, Cassie, used to line up bottles of pills on the
coffee table. Hawkins described each prescription and its
side effects, washing it all down with a tumbler of cold
milk and a few cigarettes. During my friendship with Jay,
I developed pharmaceutical knowledge that would have rivaled
Judy Garland's. What can I say? I was a fan.
Beyond the madness, there was the music. With a revolving
cast of brave, often frustrated musicians, Jay laid down
unforgettable rave-up arias. There was "Constipation Blues,"
and the cannibalism homage "Feast of the Mau Maus." Most
of all, there was "I Put a Spell on You," a song that sparked
countless imitations, despite the fact that most of the
original record's moans and howls had to be edited for radio.
Rolling Stone scribe Dave Marsh surmised, "The track
was so often anthologized, it's hard to say whether anything
else he did was really necessary."
I last saw Jay in 1990 amid the uppity neon of Melrose
Avenue, shopping for a new skull ring. He was dandy to behold,
in his scarves, jewels and a freakish blend of polyester,
silk and wool. I doubt he arrived in the hereafter wearing
anything we'd recognize. Jay asked to be cremated and spread
all over L.A., to irritate everyone one last time.
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Willamette Week | originally
published March 8,
2000
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