At 83 years old, Tina Turner leads a placid retired life in Switzerland with a man named Erwin Bach since 1994. And it is a pity that the news that reaches us of her has nothing to do with her brilliant musical career: four years ago, his son Craig, 59, blew his head off with a pistol (he had, at eighteen, with saxophonist Raymond Hill), and a couple of days ago his son Ronnie died, at 62, half-manufactured from the animal of Ike Turnerwith whom Tina formed an artistic partnership for years (their most accomplished album is probably the one produced for them by Phil Spector, River deep, mountain high), in circumstances that are not very clear, but that could have something to do with the cancer that he suffered. It is true that, at 83 years old, no one expects great creative novelties from any artist, but it is very sad to hear about Tina from news such as the premature deaths of her children.
I admit that her solo work never seemed as interesting to me as the one she did with the violent Ike, whom she had to leave in the middle of the night a lot of years ago to avoid the new beating that was coming her way (according to her , the mistreatment was witnessed by little Craig and scarred him for life), but the two times I came across her left me with the conviction that she was a charming person and a professional as the crown of a pine. The first time it was in the form of an interview, although I no longer remember for what medium. I only know that we were talking cordially in the armchairs of a luxurious hotel in Barcelona and that the good woman had an easy laugh and fluent conversation, which has its merits if we take into account the hell she had been through: we had a few drinks, which the record company paid for, and we smoked a few cigarettes, which we paid for, and I left the hotel delighted with the meeting. Years later, we met again at an awards ceremony for the Spanish recording industry, whose script was entrusted to us Guillem Martinez and a servant of you. There I ran into her in the corridor that led to the stage and she seemed to me to be a very old lady who watched each step so as not to fall from some very high stiletto heels while she leaned on an assistant who looked at the floor in anticipation of a possible morron. But when she got on stage and began to sing and dance, she seemed different; specifically, the same one she was talking about Nik Cohen in his mythical book Awop bop alooba, alop bam boom (Those who have read it will remember the description of her prodigious butt in motion). Finished the performance, return to the corridor, to the arm of the assistant and to the cautious glances to the ground on the part of both.
Tina never had an easy life. She came from the bad side of the road, as the Americans say, got into a disastrous marriage with psychopath Ike (which, for one thing, produced memorable records), started a solo career that took a while to get off the ground and she has more than earned the quiet existence she leads in Switzerland with Herr Bach (younger than her, if I’m not mistaken). It is not necessary for him to continue acting or to release more records, but fate, or whatever, could save him such unpleasant surprises as the disappearance of his own children and logic asks why there is a word for those who lose their parents, but there is none for those who see their offspring die.