Hot and loud and vulgar music, non-stop for five hours

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To the older generation rock 'n' roll came to mean Teds and violence. There was a riot in Berlin. Some countries banned rock 'n' roll altogether. In Singapore police were called in to stop British soldiers jiving in a cinema foyer after a midnight premiere of Rock Around The Clock. The Rev. Albert Carter of Nottingham denounced rock 'n' roll from his pulpit: 'The effect of rock 'n' roll on young people is to turn them into devil-worshippers; to stimulate self-expression through sex; to provoke lawlessness, impair nervous stability, and destroy the sanctity of marriage.' In Miami, Florida, the head of the local censorship board described rock 'n' roll dancing as 'nothing more than shoving boys and girls around' and 'vile gyrations'! Racialist Asa Carter of the North Alabama White Citizens' Council was scared too: 'Rock 'n' roll is a means of pulling down the white man to the level of the 'Negro'. It is part of a plot to undermine the morals of the youth of our nation. It is sexualistic, unmoralistic, and the best way to bring people of both races together.' Many older musicians hated rock 'n' roll: 'Viewed as a social phenomenon, the current craze for rock 'n' roll material is one of the most terrifying things ever to have happened to popular music ... Musically speaking of course, the whole thing is laughable ... Let us oppose it to the end.'

Vince Taylor was black leather and chains, the final rocker.

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From the start, Pepsi has been based on a single age-old precept: it's fun to be a freak. And it is, of course. It's fun to get stoned and float on giant cushions, to stay up past your bedtime. And it's fun to visit Hair, to go up on stage and dance with the kids, belonging, and believe that you've had access to secret knowledge, revelations that the straight world doesn't even suspect. It is even fun to be misunderstood, to feel yourself martyred, a rebel and outsider. What isn't much fun, though, is to be punched in the face and thrown into jail. Not at all, it isn't and, therefore, the political and philosophical basis of the movement has been more or less forgotten. In the heart of the Pepsi Rock fan, there lurks a secret shame at the blatancy and vulgarity of the music's past, Elvis in his gold lame suit, Little Richard jumping on the piano and Jerry Lee Lewis so greasy, all those wild and orgiastic exhibitions. Just like the jazz fans of 1960, who preferred Dave Brubeck to John Coltrane, they want it both ways: they want to be hip, to be in the game and yet, in the end, they don't want to get their feet wet.

the dirtiest sound you could ever imagine

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“Sputnik” Rock Monroe was a professional wrestler of considerable renown who had gone through a number of names (“Pretty Boy Rock” “Elvis ‘Rock’ Monroe”) and territories before finally arriving in Memphis as “Sputnik.” He was prone to describing himself in a voice several decibels above the normal range as “220 pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal with the body that women love and men fear.” In looking for a way to distinguish himself that was consonant with both character and commerciality, Sputnik hit upon race. He was a hero to the black man, a villain to the white—he liked to boast that he practically desegregated Memphis’ Ellis Auditorium single-handed, calling up to his colored fans in the “crow’s nest,” with a seating capacity of less than one hundred, “Let my people go.” Every time he threw an opponent down, he would raise up his hands to his fans, and they would just call back, “Sweet man!” When the promoters objected, he said, “Hey, if their money’s no good, just give it to me, and I’ll give it back to them,” and gradually “colored” seating capacity was expanded until the auditorium was de facto integrated. He and Dewey walked a goose down Beale Street on a leash—“Dewey came up with the goose, I came up with the Chihuahua collar and the leash. The people would holler and hug me and jump up and down. I knocked a white guy out on the corner of Third and Beale one time for calling me a nigger-lover, and a little black guy says, ‘Sputnik Monroe, you a mean motherfucker when you drinking, and I believe you drinking a little bit all the damn time.’”

You were nobody in Memphis till Dewey Phillips played your records

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The applause was still slapping, people even stomping the floor, when the guitar man lit into some stomping blues and snatched the people still sitting out of their seats. “Them cats could dance,” Jerry Lee says. Men leaped into the air, impossibly high, like they were flying. Women shook things he had believed were bolted down; some jumped onto the tables and danced up there. “They was throwin’ each other over their shoulders, throwin’ each other over their heads. And I was in seventh heaven.” This, he knew, was what had been missing. This was the spice, the soul he’d been looking for. Please, God, don’t let Haney catch me now, he thought—and just then a big hand closed around the nape of his neck and lifted him like a doll from under the table and then high, high up off the floor, till he was looking Will Haney in one red, angry eye.

“Jerry Lee?”

He just dangled. Everyone in Ferriday knew the boy. Most little boys, born to overalls, did not strut around like him, like they owned every mile of dirt they walked. But Haney also knew his Uncle Lee and his Aunt Stella, and had business with them.

“What you doin’ in here, white boy?” Haney asked.

Crazed intensity marked his appearances in the early and mid 60s

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Charlie Fach, the head of Smash Records, later asserted that Mercury had not been coerced into signing Linda Gail. "It wasn't a 'buy the rum to get the bourbon' deal. I thought she was a good country singer – as good as any girl in country music. Radio wouldn't accept her, though. She lived the same veil-of-tears life that every country girl sings about and she was especially big in Texas. She did well in all the pisspots down there - Panther Hall and so on. What amazed me, though, was the way she married everyone in the damn band - sometimes more than once, I think. One time she just moved across the hall to her new husband. It seemed as though everything to do with Jerry Lee Lewis was unbelievable. One time I remember I persuaded Gene Shepherd, who was a top writer for Playboy, to follow Jerry Lee around for a while and write a story. He called me later and told me that Playboy had turned the piece down. The only piece of his they'd ever rejected. They thought he was making it up."

with me, teenagers get pure talent, no gimmicks like sex or long hair

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Paul Anka, not being a drinking man, had come along to be with the boys.

"I never hadda beer before, I'll just have a Coke."

"No Cokes," said Jerry. "They ain't been invented here yet. Alls they serve here is beer."

"How about milk?"

"Sure, if you can stomach the stuff. It comes from kangaroos."

The boys cracked up over that one. Warming to the occasion, Paul decided to join them in just one beer.

"Go on now, Paul," Jerry prompted. "Ain't nothin' in it to hurt ya. They give it to babies." ....

"Come on, Paul," Jerry said, "I'll drive you around a spell so you can sober up. You boys go on back to the hotel an' I'll look after Anchor here."

Jerry poured Paul into the rental car and took off into the Australian countryside. Paul clutched his stomach and doubled over. When next he opened his eyes, he found himself in the middle of nowhere. There was no recognizable landmark, only dense brush and few open spaces.

"What're we stoppin' for?" Paul asked dizzily.

"We're stoppin' here 'cause I'm gonna kill you," Jerry joked with a straight face. "No one will ever know what happened to Paul Anchor. They'll never find you, there'll be no one to blame. They'll jus' think you've run off with the kangaroos."

Paul began to cry. "Lemme go, please. I haven't done nothin'."

"Don't matter, Paul, it's the perfect crime. No body, no witnesses. I've always wanted to do it. Now's my chance. Didn't you know about headliners, Paul? I've always hated headliners," Jerry said quietly.

"We just decided to go as wild as we could"

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“I had a very serious talk with Jerry about his image. We went to the restaurant next door to the studio and sat down in a booth. Jerry had one of his pickers with him. He always had someone with him. You could rarely get him one-on-one. I told him what I thought we should do, in as much detail as I thought he could absorb in one sitting. I wanted to get him out of typical rock ’n’ roll regalia. Ivy League was in. I wanted him to get a crewcut. I wanted to hold a press conference where Jerry would announce that he was somewhat remorseful. He would take on an adult image. We discussed it for over an hour. Jerry was very polite and listened. He would nod every once in a while, but he kept looking at his watch. Finally, he shook it like it wasn’t working and he looked at his buddy across the table and said, ‘What time is it?’ The guy said, ‘It’s five before one.’ Jerry said, ‘Oh! The double feature at the Strand starts in five minutes. It’s Return of the Werewolf and The Bride of Frankenstein Meets Godzilla. Then he jumped up and left the table. That was the last time we discussed Jerry’s image.”