Parents bothering you, kid? Blow out their ears with Chuck Berry

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I mean I have seen unusual performers, but this kid Iggy Stooge, this former high school valedictorian and most-likely-to-succeed was like nothing else. He bent over backwards and nearly touched his head to the floor. He massaged the mike stand. A photographer standing there remarked that Iggy was incredible because everything he touched turned into a cock! He was on his back writhing on the stage singing about not having any fun. No fun! Autoerotic rock and roll! Iggy scratched his chest and belly with a drum stick and then with his fingernails, and he was singing about fucking you, and doing this to you, and he was pointing at a girl a few feet from the stage. A kid behind her, with short hair and a college jacket, gives Iggy the finger! Iggy stops singing, crouches. Then he springs into the audience, and lands on all fours in front of the kid, who now is wondering why he is here. Iggy is staring at the kid, and slowly begins to walk on all fours. The kid begins to sweat and look around for friends. There is shouting and much pushing and all 2,500 people are standing, straining to see. The crowd is aflame, for reasons they do not know. Iggy is challenging everything they have come to accept about concert relationships, and about male sexuality. The males with the short hair and the Corvettes feel it and they don't know what to do with the feeling. Some of them are throwing containers of orange drink at him. Rock and roll! What is going on? There is more screaming and pushing. Everyone is trying to see, jumping to see. You can't see. Iggy crawls back out of the audience onto the stage, finishes the song and the group walks off. They have been onstage only about fifteen minutes.

I pulled his pants down and began to suck him. He had a small- to medium-sized one. I have never seen a British musician who had a decent-sized cock. I guess it's all that tea they drink and the smog. He got hard right off and I asked him if he wanted to come. He said, later, and I sucked him for a while longer and then he pulled me up and took off my clothes. He was good, sort of. While we were fucking I kept hearing his song. I didn't come but he did, and grunted, just like at the end of the song. He said he was sorry I didn't come and he ate me until I did. He was good at that. I have never seen a British musician who wasn't. They must build up muscles in their tongues, having to talk like that all the time.

a suction-cup head that put the vibes where they were needed.

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a typical 1969-1970 rock concert — it smells. The hall until recently functioning as a triple-X porn movie house, attracting odors closer to the dead-fish than the fresh-popcorn end of the spectrum. The promoter hasn't seen fit to have the bathrooms cleaned before the show, so beneath the scent of stale semen you have an olfactory undertow of ancient urine, sharpening as the show proceeds and your stoned-senseless brethren migrate through the bathrooms, doing their business in every conceivable way but straight down or forward. Incense may be burning, and of course almost everybody is smoking cigarettes as well as dope, and almost everybody (particularly in Britain) is in serious need of a bath, new sweat over old sweat under long-worn hippie threads being pretty much the personal-hygiene hallmark of the psychedelic era.

Each of the Pink Fairies arrived bearing the head of a dead pig on a pole

 

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Other staunch allies in combating the mod/skinhead problem were a motley bunch of Jewish East Londoners known as the Firm. The Firm were ex-mods themselves, but of the earlier, stylish variety whose twin dedications were music and creating mayhem and chaos wherever they went. Led by the dire duo of Peter Shertser and Ian Sippen, the Firm had taken a bunch of acid, but managed to retain a highly mutated version of the traditional mod obsession with making and spending money. They’d grown their hair and now dressed in sharp, custom-tailored suits of the most outrageous fabrics they could find. These bespoke monsters were made by an elderly tailor in the East End to whom they would present lengths of William Morris curtain material and demand that he sew it according to the same pattern as a three-button Tonik. At UFO, the Firm’s capacity for confusion and disorder reached inspired peaks. They spiked a number of people, attacked the more disorientated hippies with water pistols and let off an assortment of fireworks right on the dance floor.

needed help with her homework assignment in plaster casting

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It's strange in rock 'n roll, that there's been an abandonment of humour, when it's the bedrock of the music.

The problem is, now, if you're idiosyncratic, you're considered to be kitsch. There's also this kind of awful Mojo reverence for the past. You see nineteen-year-old kids churning out music that sounds like the worst Byrds album. I just don't understand why they'd want to do that. What rock 'n roll represents is pathetic conformity ... which should be burned down! Style isn't about shoes ... To me, a group like the Jesus and Mary Chain is boring. They just took a look at the Velvet Underground. It's like reconstructing the Last Supper, they've just placed themselves around the table!

strenuous parties with wild non-stop dancing to twist and stomp music

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Mick Farren stormed into the marquee and demanded that all food stocks be distributed to the masses. He demanded that Pepsi and Birds Eye donate their entire on-site warehouse to the crowds, in return for a favourable mention in his next speech. As a ‘symbolic act of protest against élitism’, the alliance agreed to carry out a joint assault on the main fence. From the stage, meanwhile, the harried MC kept preaching peace and love and the spirit of Woodstock. The insurrection erupted at 10 a.m., led by two French anarchists with a battering ram. ‘Zeeze kids are being toe-tally controlled by zooperpigs,’ one of them yelled, thumping at the sheets of iron. ‘Ex-source-sted, wretchyard, sleeping in zee pissoirs . . . Zeeeze kids are worse than zeee Jews, at least zeee fuck’n Jews didn’t pay to go to Auschwitz . . .’ Crash! The corrugated iron caved in. Two Angels, a Panther and a Young Liberal squeezed into the arena, where, to their astonishment, the oppressed masses joined the security guys and their Alsatians in chucking them out and repairing the breach.

James Brown invited me onstage to join him in “Sex Machine”

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One night when we had come back from Ratner’s to the Fillmore between shows, we walked into our dressing room to find a roadie getting “serviced” by a groupie. While the band and I tried to quietly manoeuvre our way around the “event,” Ken Jones was disgusted, “Streuth, it’s blow-job central ’round here; you think they would have had the decency to use the toilet like anybody else! Where do they think they are, Scandinavia?” Anyway, Mick Avory astutely observed, “Why hide such an event in a closet when you can perform it in public for the world to see?” The manners of society were breaking down, morals were being destroyed daily by these new liberal freedoms, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. People could perpetrate any deviance they wanted, anytime, anywhere, day or night; the most outrageous acts were allowed to take place, but not — according to Jonesy — in the Kinks’ dressing room.

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Despite the turmoil within the band, Grenville Collins notes that “all divisions melted away when the Kinks were confronted by external opposition . . . they would become a pack of wolves.” And no one, promoters or star, could escape the wrath of the Kinks, as English pop star Bobby Shafto found out one evening in the fall of 1964. Avory tells the story: We used to get this girl to come along and do a rave. . . . She would do a little striptease and we’d all play tambourines. The only available room was the one Bobby Shafto was in. He came in and made a fuss. He started doing the star bit, so we had a little kafuffle with him. Nothing terrible. We just put him in his place. Collins then had to contend with Shafto’s screaming and tearful manager: “Those disgusting, filthy, animalistic creatures have just beaten up my star.”

sex books took their place where the Gideon Bible used to be

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It was not the boys but the girls, our sweet little baby daughters, who were leading the fight for sexual freedom. Without pregnancy or VD to hold them back, they were asserting their sexual equality—and with a vengeance. If you looked on the dance floors of the 1960s, it was our darling daughters who were making those wild pelvic fucking motions. The boys just stood there, clumsily gyrating and drooling, waiting for the girls to work themselves into a state of horniness and drag them off to bed. It was our daughters who blew the double standard to smithereens, who destroyed the cult of virginity by the simple means of equating it with leprosy. It was the girls who had their ears pierced, stopped wearing makeup, discarded brassieres and girdles, showed their thighs and asses and tits with bikinis and microskirts and see-through blouses. They memorized the Kama Sutra as though they were cramming for a final exam, and then insisted on practicing and perfecting the arts of love. It was the girls who saw through Holy Matrimony, saw the way their parents really lived, the droning boredom and the lovelessness. The girls had our number; with all our fooling around, with all our suburban sexual sophistication and promiscuity games, we were still uptight puritans.

"What else is there to do? Watch television? Music is everything!!"

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Unfortunately, it is precisely those who shouldn't listen to music who constitute the majority of its most influential critics. These people, the snarling dogs who enforce mediocrity through their vehemence, sneering, and know-it-all pretensions, resent music because to them it is an unfathomable, inscrutable riddle. They want to speak about it, hold forth on it, determine its future like the parched schoolteacher who crushes the spirit of the child because he too was crushed so long ago. It's important to identify "music for people who shouldn't listen to music" and separate it into a different camp; it is indeed another "thing." It should occupy a space for so-called music which isn't music at all - in the same manner that television news isn't news and fast food isn't food. This new genre would be for people who don't like music at all, but are gleaning some sort of identification through it.

Just get Bailer and Linsberg to testify to its redeeming social content.

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