that rockin' rake and king of the street cats, Dr. Winston O'Boogie

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It was in this flat that Lennon was first brought to the attention of the national press. On Sunday, 24 July 1960, he and his mates were displayed by a reporter for The People as typical examples of what the paper slugged in giant type THE BEATNIK HORROR. The article was illustrated with a photograph of a group of young, roughly dressed men, hunkered down in a squalid pad. The writer's point was that "Most beatniks like dirt. They dress in filthy clothes. Their 'homes' are strewn with muck." Right in the middle of the muck, actually lying in it on the dirty floor, is John Lennon, not identified in the text but unmistakable in appearance.

all-night music clubs, strip joints, gangsters, legalized prostitution

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"The noise crouches in the dark room like a daunting animal that attacks those who enter with a crushing impact. It hits them hard in the stomach, and is brutal to the eardrum and every nerve. With time, the ear distinguishes voices out of the pounding, rhythmic shreds of melody. The eye recognizes tables, chairs, a well-lit stage with a very decorative skyscraper backdrop, and young people. They sit and stand tightly packed. The dance floor is so full there's no room for even a mouse to squeeze in. Preferred clothing is the leather jacket. Long hair is piled up with heavy amounts of pomade and carefully crossed at the neck. The music consists solely of rhythm. It's primitive, stomped out in two-stroke beats, with a triplet played over it, grating against the beat and creating excitement. The audience contributes to the melody, assimilates it, and is carried away by it. The guys stamp their feet, clap, keep the beat with their arms, and entwine themselves in the steps of the twist. They somehow find room for all of this, despite the overcrowded dance floor. And then the Killer appears. The sea of fans receive him with cheering, whistling, stomping - with an orgy of noise, the cult-crowd goes wild before the star has issued a single note. It's a thing of ritual. The star, pale, in a dark stage tuxedo, sits at the piano and hammers out the same chord, in rhythm with the band, for several minutes. He heats his audience up before he takes the microphone and sings something that no one can understand. The guys and girls in the room go wild; they lose themselves in the rhythm and in their excitement. The boiling cauldron bubbles ever wilder. What kind of pent-up cases are these people, letting loose in rhythmical ecstasy? Specifically, only simple folk respond to this form of rhythm. It leaves the pretentious intellect cold."

paradise of beat bands, striptease clubs, bars, whores, outlaw night life

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fighting the grandmother style of the Beatles. The monks have begun their career in Hamburg, the same place as the Beatles. The Liverpoolers are loud, but the monks are louder. They have a new music and a new philosophy. The experts predict that the titles, 'Complications,' and 'Shut Up' will become international hits. The monks say that in one year, everything will be monk. They call themselves monks. They play monk. They dance monk. For them everything is monk. Their sound is brutal, hard, hot, and chopped stiff. Soft beat is dead. We give the public everything. We demand everything. We and the public are one. No one influences us. We are not a beat band. We make monk, or hop the way we want.

with the help of uncountable dexedrine rushing through his veins

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BEAT, all that it involves...the sound behind our cornflakes...the twitch of T.V.'s most with-it programme...the whole forcing of every living human being to get younger and younger, no matter how tired they may become in the process, is here examined as never before-by a writer who has been intimately involved. THIS BOOK WILL SHOCK, but it should be read in order that the whole frenetic, itching scene can be understood in relation to the bleak, lonely landscape in which it is in reality set

certain prosecution under the Obscene Publications Act!

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I still thieve and I still lie, and I admire myself and admonish myself pitilessly. My name, by the way, is not important and I shall not disclose it to you. All you need to know is that I was born in such-and-such a town to a pair of so-and-so's and I have no brothers or sisters, with the exception of one brother.Actually my name is Loveday, but it's down to you whether you choose to believe me or not. I come from a long line of illustrious Lovedays, all of them alcoholics, dandies and sodomites...If one day I was to become somehow fabulously rich, I would still, nevertheless, refuse to become a professional and would instead carry on regardless, behaving like an ill-mannered youth and carry on poking fun at my po-faced betters - those, who at all costs must not be mocked or laughed at lest the weight, gravity and seriousness of their positions should become somehow mysteriously undermined.