Farren's trying to turn the clock back to the Sixties underground scene

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

Crowded into beat-up station wagons, covering hundreds of miles a day, eating garbage food and living in cheap motels, the pace was crushing. Although Presley has never been directly associated with drugs, there is no doubt that the majority of musicians playing these backroad circuits depend heavily on amphetamines, Benzedrine and No-Doze. If the speed didn’t get to Presley, certainly the strain of seemingly endless one-nighters did. Nice white boys didn’t wear flash pink suits from the black side of town. They didn’t listen to black radio and learn R&B hits, and they didn’t get involved in brawls with rednecks who took exception to ’nigger lovin’ faggots’ getting the females in an uproar.

“Every day, every night was the same. He chewed his fingernails, drummed his hands against his thighs, tapped his feet and every chance he got he’d start combing his hair.”

"if Leonard didn't call you a motherfucker, it meant he didn't like you."

epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer

Warming up for one of the takes, Williamson hummed a few notes and set the rhythm. After several bars of harmonica introduction, he started to sing: "Little village, too small to be a town." He repeated the line.

"What's the name of that?" Leonard interrupted from the control booth. 

"Little Village, Little Village, motherfucker," Williamson said, his voice rising. "Little Village."

"There isn't a motherfuckin' thing in there about a village, you sonofabitch," Leonard shot back to the laughter of the musicians. "There's nothin' in the song that has anything to do with a village."

"Well, a small town."

"I know what a village is," Leonard retorted.

"Well, all right, goddammit. You don't, you don't need no title," Sonny Boy yelled. "You name it after, after I get through with it, you sonofabitch. You name it wha'ch you want. You name it your mammy if you want."

Managers, lawyers, admirers, relatives, hookers, and beatniks

epub or mobi

The three-hundred-watt garage light suddenly came on. Standing beneath it with arms folded were my mother and my father, looking like Joseph and Mother Mary. My father spoke, "You'll never turn this garage into a bordello!" I nervously shoved Alma toward the latched garage door but, as I was unlatching it, I received my first bite of the strap Daddy had brought. Daddy had wasted no time in whipping me and the fourth impact of the strap changed the pitch of my hum from bass to treble. Much less than romantic I shouted in pain, "I'll see you later, Alma!" turned from her and darted away from the next swing of the strap. Mother was coaching Daddy, as usual, saying, "Lord knows how long he's been doing this, Henry, he's just getting out of hand." 

music of sexual abandon, base emotions, and miscegenation.

epub or mobi

The way the audience reacted, with incessant calls for more and Berry's delight in continuing to perform, it was amazing that he ever left the stage. It took a handful of organizers ... to stop him from reappearing, then the dramatic appeals of the management for the audience to leave the building. "Listen, please! Please! He's overrun 15 minutes," the exasperated MC yelled into the microphone, quickly adding, "Look! There's about 2,000 people outside waiting for another concert. We don't have a Pink Floyd concert if we don't clear the place!" But his appeals go unheeded, drowned out by the applause and the chants of "We want Chuck! We want Chuck!"