Something Different: A 1970 Memory & Little Richard Rocks On

I didn't realize that Little Richard had died until a friend, knowing me as a big fan, sent me a message with the sad news. To my shame, frankly, I had assumed he had died long ago, but subsequently felt glad to read that he had continued rocking almost to the very end.

Musical geniuses and master showmen, he and Chuck Berry were my rock-and-roll heroes. They captured the confused moods and feelings of youth better than anybody else. I probably owned every album Little Richard made, and wish I still had them. Little Richard's "Lucille," in particular, is a masterpiece of youthful angst delivered with a great musical backdrop, that unmatchable Little Richard singing style, and the right dose of humor--all light-hearted fun.

He had a deserved reputation as an eccentric, even a weirdo, at a time when America frowned upon eccentricities. With his heavy use of pancake make-up, aka "white face," most of us probably did not even know Little Richard was black. We kept hearing rumors that he was homosexual or even a hermaphodite. For a time, he had a bigger following in the UK, which then considered eccentricity endearing--I don't know about now when weirdness has become the norm. He, however, was very much an American original; one of those talented but flawed humans our society throws onto the world stage every so often who then influences artists and culture all over the globe. An icon; one of the ultimate bad boys; an original "influencer." Unlike, however, so many of today's "influencers," this man had genuine talent! He could write, sing, and put on a great show.

As a high school senior, I tried to see him in concert some 50  years ago (!) at the Los Angeles Olympic Auditorium on May 8, 1970. Located in the heart of seedy downtown LA, the definitely low-rent Olympic seemed a strange and wonderful place. My friends and I would go there to see boxing and wrestling, and even the late Reverend Ike, the "preacher of prosperity." The Olympic drew a raucous but generally good-natured crowd. On this occasion, however, just after Nixon's invasion of Cambodia and the Kent State shootings of a few days prior, the political and social scene had turned tense, nasty, really. This time, the youthful attendees, the dark flip side of the "hippies of love," came in a feisty, combative mood; the LAPD reciprocated. The cops would ram their big Harleys into the waiting throngs outside the Olympic, scattering us and knocking down those too slow to get out of the way. The crowd, in turn, would pelt the police with insults and a variety of objects. Once inside the darkened Olympic, undercover cops wrestled pot smokers to the floor; the lighting techs would shine their spotlights onto these struggles, stirring up the gathering even more.

The scene went from bad to worse. The warm-up acts faced constant interruption; some walked off. Rock impresario Bill Graham came out uttering soothing words of peace and love. He had a calming effect; the crowd's temperature dropped to an angry simmer.

That "calm" did not last.

When Graham introduced Little Richard, the audience went into a wild, rolling boil. The energy coming from Little Richard got doubled and tripled as it hit the packed floor. When Little Richard started banging out "Tutti Frutti," a frenzied mob surged forward. I don't know why, but Little Richard invited the screaming horde to join him dancing on stage: "Come on! Come on up! Come on!"

It didn't take long: under that leaping, gyrating weight, with a roar and in a cloud of dust, the stage collapsed. A large piece of audio equipment fell on Little Richard. His roadies helped him limp away.

The lights came on.

The cops declared the concert over, ordered us to disperse, and gruffly shepherded us out.

I never returned to the Olympic.

Ah, memories of pre-lock-down America.

Anyhow, Little Richard, RIP (Rock in Peace).