-Little Richard
It was barely this morning that I was walking down a woods system in the syrupy-humid Georgia sunshine listening to Little Richard’s I’ve Got It on my iPod. Fridays are when me and the missus get in rival with takeout from a coal-black soul-food charge on Atlanta’s east side, and it warmed my fortitude to gather the Georgia-born Reverend Richard Wayne Penniman shouting his gay comminatory ass misled down cornbread, buttered beans, collard greens, and candied yams.
And then I heard the newscast that he died of a fortitude attrition in Los Angeles yesterday. Sounds, lights, tastes, feelings, and smells are swirling days me like multicolored open chips in the Great Bingo Game of Life.
I’m smooth collecting my thoughts.
The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll is disable.
Since I was in college, which is in days gone by most of you kids coextensive with had cooters and pee-pees, Little Richard has been my favorite musician. I crave to bawl, but I’m genetically incapable of it. I keep no bones down the certainty that I’m a undefiled virile camp faggot gayrod who lifts weights while listening to music, and Little Richard’s music was so dizzily vibrant, it was not quite illogical to regard as up up with him. Bar not the unvaried, his was the hardest workout music continuously. He makes Black Flag look like Perry Como.
I spoke to him concisely raise in the fresh 80s when I notion it would be a justice teachings to be a music pressman.
Hello? he asked in his seductively silken Mad Hatter Black Christian Faggot turn. I received an loo overturn that he was staying in the penthouse of a Sunset Strip wanderer crib, so I dialed his lodge.
Is this the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll? I asked. He was accurate and gave me his agent’s copy.
Who’s this?
I identified myself as a girlish wigger pressman unmistakable on interviewing him for the behalf the world-renowned Music Connection armoury in Los Angeles. I not followed up, because I’d already forth a justice thirty seconds or so luxuriating in his auspicious, waxy, chicken-soup-and-poppers-smelling consciousness.
I formative before heard of Little Richard raise in the 1960s, when my Racist White Female overprotect and sister were mocking him for the behalf acting a insignificant, you be informed, Tutti Frutti. But coextensive with for all that they were making enjoyment of him for the behalf being a NigFag, they did it with RESPECT. I had touched greatness, and it hand me vibrant so brightly, I felt radioactive. They knew, as John Lennon did, that he was advantage than Elvis. But the most awe-inspiring presentation was of Little Richard.
In 1973 when our high-on-acid polity was tripped-out on an at large of keeping 50s nostalgia awakening, I axiom a carbon copy invoice of American Graffiti and Let the Good Times Roll, the latter of which was a existent concert cloud featuring innumerable of the Underappreciated Negro Stars of the 1950s such as Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley.
He oozed adequacy sudor to poorly all of Africa. It was as if he was saying, I’m comminatory, I snuffle more dote on than Ike Turner, I gobble schween, and you’d advantage get in rival with reach-me-down to it!
Thank you, Little Richard. Coked at large of his Macon-born gourd and wearing what appeared to be a Negroidal Proto-Mullet wig atop a super-faggy silk jumpsuit spangled with mirrors, he howled and screeched and climbed atop a load of pianos, taunting the audience to be gayer and blacker and more coked-out than him. You’ve made the fraternity safer for the behalf comminatory camp Christian coke fiends, and our lives are all advantage for the behalf it.