I rang the buzzer. I was let in. The lights were dimmed in the mixing room. I could see Stuart and the engineer behind the desk and the back of a hunched figure on a stool. The figure turned around. The face was covered in foundation, the eyes heavily lined with mascara. The bouffant wig was in place.
‘Are you the boy from the record company?’
‘And who am I?’
‘And what is Little Richard?’
I thought fast: ‘The Real King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.’
‘That is correct. And what else am I?’
‘It depends? I’ll tell you what I am. I am the most beautiful man in show business.’
And he said that with a bit of a shriek and then giggled afterwards as if to let me know that he is OK and quite approachable really.
Then he says, ‘Come closer. I want to see your face properly.’ I move closer.
‘Closer still, boy.’
I move closer again.
My face is now about 18 inches from his. He stares into my eyes and then lets out the loudest non-amplified vocal sound I have ever heard in my life.
‘A WOMP-BOMP-A-LOO-BOP, A WOMP-BAM-BOOM’.
Those who enjoy leisure can scarcely find a more interesting and instructive pursuit than the examination of the workshops of their country, which contain within them a rich mine of knowledge, too generally neglected by the wealthier classes.
email: chris is at anti-mega.com