On this tour Jerry Lee saw that something strange
was going on. Boys were dressing funny - not in the familiar teddy boy clothes,
but in stripes and polka dots and silly little caps. And the girls, too: white
boots and skirts that barely covered the source of all sorrow. And they all,
all of them, boys and girls together, had the same hair - not true fine long
hair like his own, but hair so straight that it seemed to be steam ironed, and
clipped across the brow in bangs, like dobbin ponies. And everywhere that music
- that goddamn, motherfucking music. He had figured that those Beatle boys,
whom he had met on his last trip, would be gone by now, gone. But not only were
they not gone, they were bigger than ever; and there were whole new bunches of
them, like those Rolling Stone boys, duded up like nigger faggots on the last
night of Mardi Gras - and getting rich, all of them, every last motherfucking
one of them. And there he was, Jerry Lee Lewis, better than all of them, all of
them put together, and he could not even get him a hit, not one stray hit.
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