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I took my first trip to Inglewood the following day, but before visiting with the police, I stopped at La Brea and Fairview, site of the infamous Taj Mahal, an anonymously given nickname for Turner’s version of the Pleasuredome: his legendary state-of-the-art studio/party headquarters. No one knew anything else.Ĭalls to former members of Ike’s band, such as Clifford Solomon, Sam Rhodes, and Bobby John, proved futile.īut among the fruitless leads was the story of how Bolic Sound-the “Taj Mahal,” Ike’s studio complex in Inglewood, California-had been torched shortly before he disappeared. I like Ike.”īut Otis, and the dozens of listeners who called in, had only heard rumors about Ike’s present life.

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He defined how to put the Fender bass into that music. “The texture and flavor of R&B owe a lot to him.

“Ike Turner is a very important man in American music,” he said. I went to L.A., where I called R&B legend Johnny Otis, who happened to be doing a tribute to Ike on his weekly radio show that evening and invited me to the station.īetween playing the cuts “Proud Mary” and “River Deep,” Otis gave me some other contacts. Besides, I couldn’t get in touch with him even if I wanted to. “We’ve gotten dozens of offers for interviews- People, 20/20,” he shot back, “but we’ve turned them all down. There wasn’t one word from Ike.”īut Cowan was uncooperative. “You’ve seen the articles and interviews with Tina. “Isn’t it time Ike told his side of the story?” I asked Cowan. A friend gave me the name of Ike’s New York lawyer, Phillip Cowan. “I haven’t heard from Ike in years, and it wouldn’t bother me it a few more years passed.”įinally, I got my first solid lead. “Why do you want to do an Ike story?” he asked, in his stylish, charcoal-toned, 21st-floor Manhattan office. A leper to be kept out of the industry.Įven Paul Krasnow, Elektra’s current chairman of the board, who rose to prominence after producing several Turner albums at Blue Thumb, took a dim view of my search. Their coldness on the telephone spoke volumes: it didn’t matter if Ike was part of the “T’N’T” team that sold millions of records-today he was an outcast, an untouchable. Quick to remind me that Ike had been off their label for years, spokespeople said they knew nothing about royalties. Then I contacted his old record companies-labels like Kent, United Artists, and EMI (formerly Liberty)-to see if Ike was still collecting royalties.

Again, just more mythology, but once again, not implausible: Ike had been arrested and charged five times-for guns, assault, drugs, and most recently, shooting a newsboy in the leg (although the “newsboy” was 49 and had a gun, too)-but he spent only 30 days inside, on the drug rap. county jails, because I heard that’s where he was currently residing. When I started looking for him, I first checked L.A. And not entirely that, either-more like laying very low and trying to be forgotten. If medium-range industry people hadn’t been laughing at him, though, you wouldn’t have noticed even that spark in the fog. King and Little Junior Parker and who once hired a kid he saw a lot of potential in, Jimi Hendrix by name Ike, who designed himself into the perfect backup role after he finished designing what was at the time the perfect incarnation of an R&B rock and roll crossover band, had dissolved into, but was not completely obscured by, murky oblivion. The sweet sweetback of rock, who put the S-E-X into Tina’s swagger, who cut what is arguably the first rock record, “ Rocket 88,” in 1951 who discovered B.B. hotel, here was lke, recent Villain of the Piece in the wide-open book of recollections (sort of a Hubby Dearest)-and no patron saint to the California tax people either-making a comeback, or at least reemerging, sort of. Instead of meeting an unmourned death in some nameless alley or fleabag L.A. A part of me now feels sorry for the guy.”

He didn’t even leave us a phone number, so afterwards we just laughed. “He talked on and on about a national tour, but it didn’t make any sense. “It was to be another Ike and Teena revue,” said Marie’s former manager Allan Mink. Then last December, an item in The Los Angeles Times: Ike Turner contacts Teena Marie about a possible collaboration. Shot-by who? police, dope dealers, a pimp, some dude he owed money who cared?-the devil himself was gone, apparently. No one knew for sure, but word was that Ike Turner had met a Hollywood-bad-guy death. The word on the street was that Ike was dead.

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