I am not proud of the fact that I’m from Saint Louis, nor am I proud of the fact that my ancestors are from Ireland. I’m not proud of those facts because I had no say in either matter and therefore cannot take the credit pride implies. But if I were the sort of person who throws the word “proud” around haphazardly, I would say that I’m very proud of the fact that Tina Turner and I came of age in the same city. For reasons I cannot explain, I have always been completely enthralled by Tina Turner. I don’t know if it’s the voice, or the story, or the fact that even though she was born into abject poverty as a sharecropper’s daughter, she appears to have more class than the most aristocratic. Even though I recoil at the tell-all books that are routinely pimped on the talkies, when it comes to Tina Turner I make an exception. She came out with her life story long before releasing a book was an item on the to-do list of celebrityhood. In 1985, when I was 19, I saw Tina Turner for the first time and it’s an experience I’ll never forget. There was plenty of flash, of course. The hair was intriguing, the costumes, the rawness of a performance delivered by a woman rumored to be in her late 40s, which at that time seemed impossibly old. But nothing compared to her voice, and I don’t mean her singing voice: the way she speaks, or growls, even though she lives in Europe, is so North Saint Louis that to my ears it’s very much a love song. If you ever hear Tina Turner speak pay attention to the way she says “everything.” To hear her say that word is to find yourself somewhere on a road called Natural Bridge, or Lucas and Hunt, or McPherson, or hundreds of others. When she speaks, her voice conjures forth yellowish street lights and broken brick sidewalks and smoky railroad yards. I was appalled that Tina Turner felt compelled to perform with one of the foulest entertainers of our time a couple of years ago, but I suppose that when you’re in the business you have to yield to reality. On the other hand, I thought the “statement” she issued after Ike died was exemplary: We haven’t spoken since our separation. That was it. I wasn’t invited to help Tina Turner celebrate her birthday, which is tomorrow, but that’s a party there’s not much I wouldn’t do to attend. I really wonder what she looks like when she’s not on stage. I picture her with a head that’s all but shaved. Most of all, I wonder about her name. Ike is the one who came up with Tina, which I think is one of the trashiest names possible (apologies to anyone named Tina). She had the last laugh on that one, of course, but I wonder if her friends and relatives – she has a sister, and grandchildren – know her by her real name. I wonder if Tina Turner is something she puts on, along with the outfits and the hair, and if the woman who sits down for coffee in the morning goes by the name she was given 70 years ago tomorrow, which is Anna Mae.
