Vince Taylor was black leather and chains, the final rocker.

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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

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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.

you don't know if we're parodying you or you're parodying us anymore

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I will indulge in Obscenity, for I will ruin & destroy all class distinctions in Language. Language of the lower strata is Obscene to the bourgeoisie. Language of their own class is Art to the bourgeoisie. If speaking & writing in the total FREE LANGUAGE of the ENTIRE SOCIETY leads to the saintliness labeled by the money-suckers as "depravity & corruption" I WILL DEPRAVE & CORRUPT MAN TO SANITY. Usage of sex in any manner in Literature is declared Obscene by money-sucking high-income vampires because they want legal & social apparatus to exterminate their enemy with utmost atrocity so that sex could not be used ever otherwise as capital. I will deliberately write what the bourgeoisie call Obscene to ruin & destroy the treatment of sex as capital. The bourgeoisie claim that man & society gets "depraved & corrupted" after reading a particular book or poem in which sex is normalized, because they know that even the psychiatrist who comes out of the political asshole would not call masturbation & extra-marital copulation "depravity & corruption" or in any way anti-social. I will write in whatever manner I like and immerse my thoughts in the entire vocabulary of mankind. Poetry should have in its armor anything & everything that Life includes. 

You aren't "liberating" Vietnam. When you "liberate" a village do the people come out laughing, with flowers? Do the girls run up to kiss you? When was the last time you got laid without paying for it? When was the last time a girl said she liked you without wanting piastres? When did you pay an honest price for your drinks in the bars? They say the army makes a man out of you. By now you know better. The army just tries to make a robot out of you. A killing machine. What is a man? Is there something really "manly" about being able to stick a bayonet into a man's belly? There isn't a damn thing about killing that is "manly." If you are really "manly" you don't have to hit women who march in peace demonstrations — you can be gentle. If you are afraid of being gentle then you aren't ready yet to be a man. Your cock makes you a man, not your gun. And, friend, if you confuse your cock with your gun you are really in trouble.

Joey was born with a malformed Siamese twin growing out of his back

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Grandpa Al Lewis’s politics were radical and to the left. There in the living room, with his cigar and classic New York accent, Lewis argued for the abolishment of New York’s harsh Rockefeller drug laws and the establishment of universal health care. John wasn’t into it.

“You give these lazy immigrants something free like that and you’ll never get rid of them.”

“Who wants to get rid of them except you?” Lewis said. “They built the country. Do you know how many Chinese immigrants died pounding out the Union Pacific Railroad, my friend? Hundreds!”

I had to laugh hearing John warn us about immigrants taking free stuff. All his T-shirts came from the band’s merchandise. He never under any circumstances bought underwear or socks. His mother always bought him a ton of them for Christmas and that was all he ever needed. John’s yearly wardrobe budget was zero dollars and zero cents.

Grandpa Al was more than a left-winger. He was an eccentric and one with a delusion here and there. He told us he served on the legal defense team of the 1920s anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti. There was no doubt Grandpa would have if he could have, but he was about eleven years old at the time. He also informed us that in the sixties he met Charles Manson, who babysat his sons. “He was a gentleman!” Grandpa said. Hearing this, Dee Dee started talking about his own sons, who didn’t even exist, and about his fictional days fighting the Vietcong. Someone should have grabbed a tape recorder, because this was an album.

teenagers are so prone to anxiety and destruction, music helps them

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“We were playing bar mitzvahs at the Brentwood Temple, house parties—the Jewish kids would have their chaperone dances, and the Catholic kids would have theirs—it was all dogshit,” Kim Fowley remembers. “In between times we’d be stealing golf clubs. We’d chase ambulances and fire engines, and when some rich guy’s house went up in flames we’d go for the golf clubs because we could sell them in the ghetto. Black people wanted to play golf in the ’50s. We’d go down to the black neighborhood, and all the other thieves would be there with the toasters and waffle irons. The bass players were always wandering in and out, and the guitar players were always the hardest to get. So Phil Spector would come by and play sometimes. But he was just a guy who knew the songs that everybody else knew. He didn’t make an impression. Give him ten bucks, or don’t give him anything so we can have more.”

get into debased beatnik bop and clip joint raunch

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I was sittin' one night talkin' to this guy and I told him, "Look. Mickey Mouse is not something that Disney dreamed up. Mickey Mouse is something that Disney grabbed hold of from some guy, and he was just a stick figure. Then he got some artist to work on him, and they developed Mickey Mouse through the years ... and I says "If you go back far enough, you can trace Mickey Mouse to this stick figure, with a circle on it, and you can also imagine, here's Mickey Mouse's father, he'd be something like a real ratty lookin' thing, and so since Superman had the 'S' on his thing, I put 'R.F." on his chest". So this guy comes around the next day "You know what, that Rat Fink you drew last night, I want a T-shirt with that on there." O.K., so I made him one, made his friends one, and their friends all wanted one, so pretty soon, I'm drawin' this Rat Fink on everything . And in 1963 I copyrighted it. But it was still supposed to be what Mickey Mouse's father looked like. I don't know what Disney'd say about that, but that was the original intent. We're gonna animate him, and Mr. Gasser, Hot Breath, and Junkyard Dog, these are all his buddies. Nobody's doin' a cartoon on what's really goin' on, that's what kills me. That's why I sorta wanta get this done because they're all super-heroes. I don't wanna talk about that. I want to talk about skateboarding, and goin' down to the beach, and hot-rodding. There's never been a cartoon done about "Wild Wheelies", and '57 Chevies skiddin' around corners and throwin' a shift like Mother's Worry … Nothin'! That's what I wanna do ... but the big guys downtown with the money, they all say "We don't want that. We want 'Spiderman' stuff." ... and I says "Well, that's too far out for me. It doesn't happen. It's not down to earth. It's not what's happening in the street.