every dialect of the underground: showman, jazzman, hipster, whore

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Next morning, the Sydney papers went after Lenny like a pack of baying hounds. DISGUSTED BY SICK JOKES - FOUR WOMEN WALK OUT, blared the headline in the Sun, with an elongated picture of Lenny, getting off the plane in his Levis and white boots, clutching his pharmaceutical briefcase and looking completely bombed. SICK JOKES MAKE AUDIENCE ILL, quipped the Daily Mirror, with an onstage picture of Lenny in his black Nehru, thrusting his arm out in what appears to be (but isn’t) a Nazi salute. The horrified Mirror writer noted that Lenny gave a blasphemous account of the crucifixion and used a "steady stream of dirty words." It also reported that the vice squad would attend the next show. The Sun intoned, "Sydney has never seen a public performance of such blasphemy and obscenity." Both papers made much of the fact that Lenny had used repeatedly "the Lady Chatterley word," and concluded that "it will be astonishing if the Chief Secretary’s Department allows the shows to continue." The shows were not to continue, in fact, because the manager of Aaron's, Nicholas Devery - announcing himself "shocked and disgusted" - had hastily informed Gordon that the engagement was canceled.

"Hipsters are the parasites on the body of jazz"

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He wanted his own world, one in which the problem of mixing with the squares would be non-existent. 'To be called a square in those days was to be square in music only; which, in a strange sense, was much worse than being generally square.' Of course it was. Often he didn't even bother to use the word 'square'; a shrug of the shoulders, and a weary 'oh, man ', would be sufficient to dismiss the opposition. The hipster language was laconic at best, and one step removed from inarticulacy at worst: 'There were no neutral words in this vocabulary; it was put up or shut up, a purely polemical language in which every word had a job of evaluation as well as designation. These evaluations were absolute; the hipster banished all comparatives, qualifiers, and other syntactical uncertainties. Everything was dichotomously solid, gone, out of this world, or nowhere, sad, beat, a drag'.

This was definitely "kinky," but it fascinated me.

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"Now, watch your sister, silly. Grind your hips, real slow and sexy, in a circular motion. Then bump to one side of the audience and then to the other side, got it? Now, for a guaranteed super finale, close your act with a couple of 'full-face squat-bumps.' I can tell you from experience, Honey, it's guaranteed to get the men begging for more, the gorgeous animals! You've got to spread your legs wide and then, squat down until your fanny is practically caressing the floor and your shmuskie is facing them, blowing kisses! Now! Now, you bump - just a teeny bump, more like a shiver. First, you shiver to the right, then you shiver to the middle, and then to the left. Then back again to the right, only this time it's not a shiver, it's a sloooow grind up, then back down and then, with a vicious little bump, right at them! Do it nasty and you'll have them standing on their chairs for more!"

suck up a little juice, and hear a little wax, and go a little CRAZY!

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He was that rare breed of quixotic non-conformist who tolerates nothing short of a full-tilt charge at life - no shrinking beatnik mumbling poetry in a corner, but a heads-up, belly-in, screaming blaster in a red-faced rage, who never took "no" for an answer. His windmills were all marked "you can't" and he demolished a lot more than the dictators of social behavior would like to admit. He marched sixteen nude people through the lobby of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, organized his own brand of religion (The Church of the Living Swing, America's first Jazz church) starring himself and a pair of belly-dancers on a split bill, which had the distinction of being the only church performance ever raided by the vice squad. 

the chicks were jumpin and the juice was flyin

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