Showing posts with label DJs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DJs. Show all posts
This is the land of knee-tremblers and wee bastards
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In New York, no one knew diddly fuck about Sun Records
pdf, with thanks to the original sharer
Oh, yessuh, good people, this is ol’
Daddy-O-Dewey comin’ atcha for the next three hours with the hottest
cotton-picking records in town—(aside: Ain’t that right, Diz? “That’s right,
pahd’ner.”). Yessir, we got the hottest show in the whole country—Red, Hot and
Blue coming atcha from W H Bar B Q right here in Memphis, Tennessee, located in
the Chisca Hotel, right on the magazine floor—I mean mezzanine floor (aside to
himself: Aw’ Phillips, there you go again, you’re always messin’ up!).
Vince Taylor was black leather and chains, the final rocker.
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.
a Jew-boy from the Bronx converted to a mambo freak
Talk
about good-time urban corruption! The atmosphere was as thrilling as a James M.
Cain novel. Swing was everywhere. And we made the scene, Patty and I, from the
Reno Club, where John Hammond had scooped up Count Basie, to Dante’s Inferno,
where bottomless topless waitresses held my full attention. Here in the Wild
West, the juke joints and blues clubs were in full cry. At the Elks I heard Joe
Turner, that magnificent shouter, then a singing bartender, whom twenty-five
years later I wound up producing. The big bands were roaring: Bennie Moten’s,
led by his accordion-playing brother Bus; Andy Kirk and his Clouds of Joy;
Harlan Leonard and the Rockets. In our room at the Puritan Hotel — no lie — Patty
and I left the window open so the late-night sounds from the street, the
blistering jazz of wide-open Kansas City, would fuel the fire of our
lovemaking.
people pack in tight, rubbing, touching, sweating to the music
‘See, the other night I went out with my kid
brother. I’m bored and that, so I tag along with him to this club round our
way. Now, I’m not kidding you but it was un-be-fucking-lievable down there.
There’s all these young’uns, togged up like farmers in baggy jeans and
dungarees, off their heads and going absolutely mad. They were all over the
shop. You could tell. Their eyes were shot and they didn’t have a care in the
world. Friendly as fuck, mind you, no bother whatsoever. Anyways, the place is
rammed and there’s dry ice everywhere and these bleedin’ strobe lights going
off every five seconds, you get a fucking great headache watching them. It was
manic down there so I pulled my kid brother aside and asked him, what the fuck
is going on? You know what he does? He pulls out these three white pills and
tells me that at least three quarters of the bods there have dropped one and
that’s why everyone is going beserk. They’re called Ecstasy and apparently you
don’t give a fuck once you’ve dropped it or as my kid brother says, got right
on one. Doesn’t sound right to me. I mean, in my day, it was blues that did the
trick but this stuff is something else. I dunno, maybe I’m getting on but I
told him if I saw him dropping one I’d make his life hell rather than ecstasy.’
Jimmy Spruill is a very odd kind of a person, just has his own thing
I had a deal I used to
do when I played saxophone when we'd get into it, I'd get on my knees or I'd
fall on my back and me and this other saxophone player would kick our heels up
in the air, man. We were playing in one of these real dives, man, I mean the
floor looked like it had mud on it all the time, but it was a packed house. We
started puttin' on our act and the saxophone player and I walked out through the
crowd and we fell down on the floor, so the guitar player decided to join us. He
fell down on his knees, and then he fell down on his back, man, and he was
playin his guitar with his teeth and the
piano player looked around and saw him on the floor and he stopped right in the
middle of the song and he got on the microphone and he told him, 'Hey, get up
offa that floor with my suit on!' That cracked the house up.
Crazy about titty ‘cause I sucked my mother’s titties so long
pdfs of issues 1-10, with thanks to the original sharer
Over
the past ten years I’ve been doing home improvements, laying rugs, building
furniture. I like to go down to Atlantic City, have a good time and come back.
Who cares … I’m a cook at the Blarney Rock restaurant, that’s 267 Madison
Avenue. We got corned beef, roast beef, daily specials … I was workin’ at the
pop factory – Old Dutch pop factory that was on Homan and 13th
somewhere around the ABC club … I had a good job at Ford motor factory – at that
time I was bringing home $377 every two weeks. I was on one of the hardest jobs
in the plant … Being good in this business doesn’t necessarily mean you’re
going to make it. That’s life …
"Oi, I sent you a hundred quid and I never got any fucking records!"
pdf (317 pages / 138 MB)
In
the middle of Leicester Market, with hundreds of people milling about, walking
up and down the stalls, and he opens his jacket and he's got all these John
Dickenson envelopes you put wages in. So he says 'Well, blues are so much ...
black bombers are so and so ... green & clears are this much ... ' At the
next all-nighter I took three of them and this skinhead girl comes up to me and
says 'Don't it make your head feel like it's got a hedgehog on it?' She was the
same girl who came up to me and said that it was nice to have a few weirdos
here, 'cause I had long hair at the time. The Northamptonshire scene was going
at the same time as The Wheel. I mean a lot of people say that it started
there, but there were always people around Bedford, Luton, Corby and Kettering.
We used to have all-nighters at this disused hen house in a village called Bletsoe,
about ten miles north of Bedford. Somebody had hired a generator to get the decks
going. I remember dancing to Little Richard's "I Don't
Wanna Discuss It'. In the
morning I had dust and chicken feed all over my trousers. This place wasn't
even on the bloody road, you'd need an Ordnance Survey map just to find
it.
How long it will last
nobody knows. Nor can anyone predict whether these kids will evolve their
tastes with the development of soul music, or one day drop it as a passe fad,
just as the mods did in '67 when they suddenly ditched soul for flower-power,
swopped pork-pie hats and mohair for beads and kaftans and became
hippies ... Edwin Starr thought that the ending was an anticlimax. "Fans had tattoos put on their body to commemorate the last night, only to find out it wasn't the last night!"
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