Drunks, derelicts, wide-boys on the make, storytellers, argufiers

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I roamed the night city - a leather pub in Gateshead, a boxers' pub in Byker, a tarts' pub off Scotswood Road. Self-conscious myself, I worshipped abandon in others. And Newcastle, against all probabilities, turned out to be full of the stuff. The city's bleak surfaces hid all manner of chameleons and inspired excessives: Eric Burdon transforming himself into a Mississippi sharecropper; a lady named Gala who swallowed flames in the nude; and the raddled old queen, met late one boozy night at Central Station, who claimed to have been raped by Winston Churchill. 'Winnie the Poof,' the old queen called him, and showed me, wrapped up in a white lace handkerchief, the tarnished half-crown he claimed had been his hush money.
For me, this was a secret city. There were the public streets, four-square and massive, aggressively masculine. And then there was the hidden: the jigsaw of chares and alleys and precipice drops that cobwebbed the docks and the hillside above them. Clubs seemed like bunkers then. The Downbeat was a stark room at the top of an abandoned warehouse, the A'Go-Go stuck down a cul-de-sac, the New Orleans a rotting tooth in a razed street. Jazz and the blues were a code, and nightlife an underworld - not criminal, exactly, but seductively outlaw.

They'd think him a punk unless he managed to flash himself up a bit

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Dot. Dot. Dot. Arthur the son of a bitch's poncing on Dot. Dot walks Bond Street and Clifford Street every night. I’ve been to kip with Dot. Dot strips well. STRIPS WELL. That’s what I said. There's plenty of tarts what strips well. Who said they did anything more? You dosey son of a Wardour Street bag, speak to me like that again and I'll kick you straight in the teeth. Know where your teeth are? I won't have to reach above your waist to find them. You may have rumpled up a kip with Dot. Let me lay hands on you, you cheap messer around Lisle Street and I'll show you what women are meant for.

'You dirty little sod ... you want to make it with a dwarf.'

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He was a lovely guy, used to have a queers' club in the Haymarket, before the law changed, and that was where I met [names of famous stars deleted] and Shaky Sheila, who ran three clip-joints. Soho was always dangerous. It was dangerous in those days, when you had the Italian gangs and the Maltese; it was dangerous when the Krays were there, and it's still dangerous now with the Chinese. Soho has always been a dangerous place. There has always been sex and violence, with people disappearing without a trace. Nothing's changed, only the people who run the show. Most of the punters who came to Soho got what they came for. Sometimes you'd get the odd one who was a bit cheeky. Then I'd have to give 'em a backhander and tell 'em to get on their bike. The girls would come down to the pub if a geezer was causing problems. You'd get these guys who were quite happy being silly until they had to pay for it. I'd sort them out. No one asked them to come. ... 

Last time I was in the nick for anything serious was in 1980. The same time another feller comes in called Hugh Cornwell. Said he was lead guitarist with a pop group called The Stranglers. He had been done for drugs offences.

'I'm Hugh Cornwell,' he says.

'Oh,yeah.'

'I'm with The Stranglers.'

'Big deal!' I gave him a bucket and a brush and told him to clean the floor. No mop. Just a scrubbing brush. And he did not like it. I tell you: HE DID NOT LIKE IT!

Dave flipped on the stereo and the Cramps came oozing out

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His band was a well-oiled rock 'n' roll machine: two drummers, two bass players, two guitar players, full horn section, and Little Richard's grand piano front and center. He strolled onto the stage to a hard-pumping vamp, wearing what is best described as a purple chiffon shower curtain. His hair was about three feet high, and he had on more eye makeup than GG Allin and Alice Cooper combined. With the help of a couple of younger, more masculine bandmates he stood on top of the piano and signaled for the music to stop. He had something very important he wanted to share with the audience. "WHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" he squealed. "I AM THE BEE-YOO TEE-FUL LITTLE RICHARD!!!" He gave the band the signal to continue, hopped off the piano, and began banging away at a positively pugilistic version of "Bama Lama Bama Loo." After that he slid through a set of greatest hits, whooping and hollering and only occasionally stopping to proclaim his greatness or make some sort of vital non sequitur. "Look at my hands!" he screamed. "Aren't they bee-yoo-tee-ful?? Can you believe I once had to wash dishes? Me?? The Georgia Peach??!! WHOOOOOOOO!!!"

Mariconda and I had a little powwow before we left: we promised that there were to be no more bags of mystery pills on this jaunt, and no excessive day drinking, either, just our regular short beers for breakfast and however many bottles of Rioja were reasonably needed to wash down some typical Spanish lunch - say, four. Or maybe five, if it was paella day. And then maybe one, but only one, of those kooky coffee-and-brandy concoctions. But that was it until sound check. Unless we were holding some coke, and then perhaps a small line. But only as a digestif. After all, we weren't animals. We made no promises that we'd stay sober, but agreed that we'd try at least to wait until the sun went down before we started to get seriously weird.

chitlins and incest and other southern contributions to culture

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“Dolls. Fucked-up dolls. They got a little blind doll. She come with a walking stick painted red on the bottom and a Seeing Eye puppy. Dig? Got a little boy doll tricked out in running shorts and running shoes, but he got braces on his legs. No, wait. Lemme finish. It’s more dolls. But you got the picture. Now, they got one doll you can buy that ain’t got nothing wrong with him, but you can buy this shit on the side to make him fucked up any way you want. You can buy a blind walking stick and put it in his hand or you can buy a little wheelchair and put him in it or braces for his legs or hearing aids. All kinda shit to fuck him up like you want him. Now, dig this. You oughta buy that little doll that ain’t got nothing wrong with him. The doll that ain’t got nothing wrong with him, see, that’s you. Then you can fix him up like you gone be if you keep on knocking yourself out. Blind? Wheelchair? Mouth won’t talk, legs won’t walk. Truly, one fucked-up boy. What do you think, man?”

Dinah Washington, street cult princess of pathos, wails from a jukebox

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