My funny Jerry Lee Lewis story

When I was Editor-in-Chief of The Province, I had the privilege of going to the Merritt Mountain Music Festival every year and introducing one of the headliners. The organizer of the festival was a lovely fellow named Don Adams (not Maxell Smart). I asked Don about the most difficult act he ever booked. Without hesitation, he said “Jerry Lee Lewis.”

As Don told me the story, the year Lewis was booked, he insisted on a private jet picking him up in Florida and flying him as close as possible to the site. This was an uncommon request for a festival of this size, but hardly a deal-breaker, especially if you are the Saturday night closer.

On the night of his performance, the band arrived backstage right on time, but without Jerry, who, it seems, had gone missing.

As a man mastered in the virtue of grace under pressure, Don Adams calmly radioed for a driver to go pick Jerry up and bring him to the festival. An hour passed, and when the driver returned without Jerry, he told Don, “Mr. Lewis isn’t answering the door knock.”

With showtime fast approaching, the veneer of Don’s grace started to crack, so he got in a ride with the driver and the two men headed to the hotel to find Jerry. After a bunch of pounding, Jerry opened the door and slurred he’s “not going to perform.” The man was smashed. Undeterred, Don convinced Jerry to get dressed, get in the car and head to the festival.

Backstage, and more than an hour late, Jerry again told Don he’s not going to perform. It was check, but not mate. Don made his move: “Jerry, we have a contract.”

Jerry looked at Don, then looked at a spot on the floor just off stage and out of sight from the crowd. “Okay, I’ll go on,” he said, “but only if you stand right on that spot and stay there without moving until we’re done.”

Don shot back that he had a festival to run, but Jerry dug in.

“Right there,” the drunk rocker said, pointing to the spot on the floor.

Don, being a man who understood the expedience of concession in a moment of crisis, agreed to the demand.

Jerry, being a man of his most recent word, hit the stage and played for all of 15 minutes before calling it a night and walking off.

Don, shocked by the sudden exit, left his spot on the floor and rushed over to Jerry and bewailed: “What are you doing? You can’t just play for 15 minutes then pack it in. The set is supposed to be an hour.”

Jerry belligerently mumbled back “mmfmghemghtrmenem,” or something like that.

Don responded with, “Jerry, you didn’t even play Great Balls of Fire.”

Jerry paused. It was a long pause. He looked at Don and said: “I hate that fucking song.”

RIP JLL