In Print

THE LATE GREAT JOHNNY ACE AND THE
TRANSITION FROM R&B TO ROCK'N'ROLL
By James M. Salem
University of Illinois Press
$29.95; 274 pages
> Since his death by a self-inflicted gunshot wound backstage at a 1954 Christmas night show in Houston, Johnny Ace has been a mysterious and romantic figure, one central to the adoption of R&B by white teenagers and to the subsequent birth (and commercial success) of rock'n'roll.
"Pledging My Love," which would prove to be Ace's enduring hit, had just been released when he and Duke Records labelmate and touring partner Willie Mae "Big Mama" Thornton and various friends and hangers-on gathered in a dressing room during intermission at their show at Houston's City Auditorium.
Ace, with his girlfriend on his knee, was sipping vodka and playing with a .22-caliber revolver. According to Thornton's police deposition, his girlfriend told him to quit pointing it at people and clicking the trigger. In response, Ace first pulled the trigger with the gun pointed at his girlfriend's head. Then, said Thornton, "he held the pistol up and looked at it first and then put it to his head . . . I heard the pistol go off. I turned around and saw Johnny falling to the floor."
With that, John Marshall Alexander Jr., aka Johnny Ace, passed into rock'n'roll mythology at the age of 25. And despite the best efforts of this first serious biography of Ace, he may well remain embedded in that mythology. Biographer James Salem works at several themes here, but even with extensive research, not all of them shed much light on Ace the artist or Alexander the man.
The context: the bustling Memphis music scene of the late '40s/early '50s, with the birth of recording there and the jousting between black and white interests; Ace's early work with B.B. King; the early R&B touring packages; the black/white tension throughout the Southern music industry; the inherent corruption and even criminality of the music scene; and, overwhelmingly, the overriding presence of Ace's final mentor, Houston music czar Don Robey.
Robey emerges as the man behind the curtain for much of the South's R&B history-he formed Peacock Records in Houston and took Duke Records from its founder in Memphis, among many other fascinating career achievements. Robey, who claimed co-authorship of "Pledging My Love," ran a tight ship, controlling his acts' songwriting, publishing, and booking. He was also known as a gun-on-the-desk record executive, according to anecdotes by the likes of Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown. The real Duke/Peacock story, as well as the whole Robey saga, has yet to be written.
At times, Ace's own life pales beside the other elements of this would-be big-screen epic: Consider that "Transition" is 275 pages long and the central character dies on page 133. Thus, long asides on the history of the six-shooter, Russian roulette, and other such minutiae eat up space. Ace/Alexander-insofar as the vignettes Salem elicits from the musician's friends, family, and acquaintances convey-seemed not to be a very interesting person.
Son of a Memphis laborer turned lay preacher, young Alexander was a layabout turned musician who took the stage name Ace to avoid embarrassing his family. Salem claims Alexander enlisted in the U.S. Navy and was supposedly drummed out for reasons of racism, then admits that he did not find Navy records for Alexander.
Salem, out of character for a serious biographer, says Alexander "successfully evaded the massive bureaucracy of the United States Navy and its penchant for accurate record keeping. A military personnel record does not appear to exist for John Marshall Alexander Jr. in the Navy archives. As a measure of how free-spirited Ace was, it is also quite possible that he never had a Social Security number." Salem either couldn't find these records or didn't try to find them.
Ace/Alexander comes across as an easygoing pianist/singer who greatly enjoyed the touring life; he married and had children but then abandoned them. His last days, acquaintances say, were spent drinking, driving cars at high speeds, firing off guns, and flirting with Russian roulette. Brown, who apparently spent much time with him, describes Ace in this book as "very ignorant."
Musically, with the guidance of Duke Records' founder David James Mattis, Ace had begun a string of R&B hits-"My Song," "Cross My Heart," "The Clock," and "Saving My Love For You"-that the trades then called "heart ballads." Johnny Ace the legend endured. Ace the man apparently couldn't last.