Goat-gland transplants were 'blasphemous, pornographic and obscene'

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There was music in the cafés at night and revolution in the air well into the 1950s, especially when the doc’s old seat at the microphone passed to Bob Smith of Brooklyn, New York. The great Señor Wolfman found XERA (now XERF) pretty much the same old playpen. “All you had to do was file one form sheet,” he said, “run the National Hour every Sunday night, and pay your taxes, and the Mexicans would let you do whatever the hell you wanted.” For a while on the air as a sort of homage to Brinkley he peddled jars of pellets called Florex. (“You know, maybe the marriage is getting a little stale in the naughty department. Well, one of these pills in mama’s orange juice…”) More important, he was Brinkley’s spiritual disciple, giving the world an earful of the unexpected: “We gonna rock your soul with a steady roll and pay our dues with the BLUES!” It started with “the Chess sound” out of Chicago—records by Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Little Walter—and exploded from there. Across the continent Wolfman Jack, Fat Daddy Washington, Magnificent Montague, and other border-blaster DJs of the new generation spread the music that mainstream American radio tried to wish away: hard-core blues and R & B, Clyde McPhatter, Hank Ballard, Joe Turner, the Platters, the Clovers…