epub or mobi
His band was a well-oiled rock 'n' roll
machine: two drummers, two bass players, two guitar players, full horn section,
and Little Richard's grand piano front and center. He strolled onto the stage
to a hard-pumping vamp, wearing what is best described as a purple chiffon
shower curtain. His hair was about three feet high, and he had on more eye
makeup than GG Allin and Alice Cooper combined. With the help of a couple of younger,
more masculine bandmates he stood on top of the piano and signaled for the
music to stop. He had something very important he wanted to share with the
audience. "WHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" he squealed.
"I AM THE BEE-YOO TEE-FUL LITTLE RICHARD!!!" He gave the band the
signal to continue, hopped off the piano, and began banging away at a
positively pugilistic version of "Bama Lama Bama Loo." After that he
slid through a set of greatest hits, whooping and hollering and only occasionally
stopping to proclaim his greatness or make some sort of vital non sequitur.
"Look at my hands!" he screamed. "Aren't they bee-yoo-tee-ful??
Can you believe I once had to wash dishes? Me?? The Georgia Peach??!!
WHOOOOOOOO!!!"
Mariconda and I had a little powwow before we left: we promised that
there were to be no more bags of mystery pills on this jaunt, and no excessive
day drinking, either, just our regular short beers for breakfast and however
many bottles of Rioja were reasonably needed to wash down some typical Spanish
lunch - say, four. Or maybe five, if it was paella day. And then maybe one, but
only one, of those kooky coffee-and-brandy concoctions. But that was it until
sound check. Unless we were holding some coke, and then perhaps a small line.
But only as a digestif. After all, we weren't animals. We made no promises that
we'd stay sober, but agreed that we'd try at least to wait until the sun went down
before we started to get seriously weird.
