or better or worse, we here at Stylus, in all of our autocratic consumer-crit greed, are slaves to timeliness. A record over six months old is often discarded, deemed too old for publication, a relic in the internet age. That's why each week at Stylus, one writer takes a look at an album with the benefit of time. Whether it has been unjustly ignored, unfairly lauded, or misunderstood in some fundamental way, we aim with On Second Thought to provide a fresh look at albums that need it.

If the Beatles had returned to the Star-Club in Hamburg on April 5, 1964 and performed after The Killer’s set, they would have been forever punked—hell, anyone would have been. At the height of the British Invasion, Jerry Lee Lewis was invading Old Europe with a literal vengeance: he was encroaching 30, somewhat chunky and had been beaten down by the press and low record sales for several years. A lesser rocker would have lost his edge, but not The Killer—he became edgier, his teeth sharper, his callused fingers tougher—this wild man was wilder and meaner than ever before and he wasn’t exactly a bunny rabbit before. Oh, he was taking some mutha fuckas out that night! The Killer sings “When Jerry does something, I do it mighty good!” and it’s impossible not to agree. This album owns your body; there’s much of The Devil in it and not that pseudo-Heavy Metal, cornball kind of Devil, but the kind of Devil Southern Baptists feared were seducing their daughters in the sweat drenched summer of screened-in porch land where pigtailed girls shook, shook, shook to the white nigger beat sounding from AM radio and rock ‘n’ roll damnation ensued.

You know you’re in for some straight up, righteous shit right off the bat. We hear the inebriated German audience cheer and we’re in the crowd with ‘em; what a transcendental moment it is when Jerry Lee goes to work on them keys on the opening number, “Mean Woman Blues”—wow, man listen to that sound! Most live albums sound sub par to studio recordings, but not this one. This sounds fuller, better, phatter than any of Jerry Lee’s early Sun records (and that’s saying a great deal). The sound is even superior to James Brown Live At The Apollo… for fuck’s sake, even the energy is higher (James had a few too many slow jams on his famous set; not the case with The Killer’s). Of course, this set isn’t nearly as famous as it should be; it wasn’t even released in the States until 1992. That’s bullshit and you know what else is bullshit? Peter Frampton. What kind of middle-of-the-road, pussy willow, drag ass society do we live in where “Jerry Lee Lewis At The Star Club” isn’t the number one top-selling live album of all time!? Often Europeans know good America from shitty America; and Jerry Lee is good, good, good America! Neo-cons and modern rock can suck my cock; give me the real rock and the real rock is located in this glorious edifice—this grand crack house—this towering inferno of rock ‘n’ roll.

Jerry Lee verbally whoops it up like a madcap redneck at a hooker ranch (which was essentially the case here); from making twirling crazyass sounds to emitting the occasional “whooh, whooh, whooh!” And Jerry Lee gives himself more props during these songs than Ol’ Dirty Bastard gives to himself; oh yes, The Killer loooves being Jerry Lee, especially when he’s pounding them keys; my favorite mention of his own name is during “Matchbox”: “If you don’t like Jerry Lee’s peaches, honey, don’t pull around on my tree.” Damn straight. With all due respect to the ladies, I don’t want to know the broad who thinks she can get away with pulling around on Jerry Lee’s tree and leaving his peaches unloved—she’s beggin’ for a slap, ‘cause The Killer ain’t be havin’ none of that! You’re either down with him or you’re going down! But most girlies will want to get down, especially to the boogie-woogie, pants on fire performances of “Mean Woman Blues”, “What’d I Say” and “High School Confidential”. When Jerry Lee tells us—yes, it’s all of us—to “get on your boppin’ shoes” and explodes into “High School Confidential” like a boppin’ speedfreak, we can imagine him turning a 1950s High School Hop into a crime scene of utter debauchery. Yeah, you all dog the man ‘cause he married his 13 year old cousin, but Junior High School Hops need boppin’ too. Back in the day, kings made a practice of marrying their 13 year-old cousins and Jerry Lee is indeed a king—the true King of Rock ‘N’ Roll—and he exists outside your world, outside your arbitrary morals.

All I need is this album (and Charles Mingus’s Oh Yeah), some booze, a couple reefer-headed strippers, a motel room off an Inter State and I can shoot myself back to the early 1960s for a blast like kitty kitty bang bang! Jerry Lee Lewis Live At The Star-Club Hamburg can snap time back—just listen—hells yeah!