LITTLE RICHARD December 5, 1932 - May 9, 2020
Little Richard always knew his true worth and was more than aware of his legend. “I am the originator, I am the emancipator, I am the architect of rock’n’roll,” he informed me with all due modesty back in 1996. “I am the engineer, I am the one that brought the train to the city… What a pity.”
There was no ‘off’ switch on the self-styled Quasar Of Rock. He’d learned his craft drumming up business for snake oil salesmen, and he never forgot how to dazzle. He beamed, his eyes wide, seemingly bordering on frenzy; a pompadoured, cosmetics-drenched, star-spangled vision. He was – depending on who you spoke to – either the King or the Queen Of Rock’N’Roll, King Of The Blues, Creator Of Soul and, back in the early 1950s when the young James Brown was engaged as his tour support, customarily introduced as ‘The Hardest-Working Man In Show Business’. And that extraordinary voice, soft and charming in conversational repose, had an explosive power that was way beyond the reach of his peers. An irresistible clarion call that united both black and white audiences, even in the segregated US South, it rang out across the world and changed the face of popular music forever.
In the beginning was the word, and the word was ‘Awopbopaloobop-Alopbamboom’. As an unaccompanied statement of intent, it was as nonsensical as it was inarguable. The secret language of nascent rock’n’roll, of teenage, Richard’s ground-breaking debut for Art Rupe’s Speciality Records in October ’55, was produced by Robert ‘Bumps’ Blackwell, and captured a level of raw excitement that was entirely without precedent. Against a driving R&B beat laid down by double-bass player Frank Fields and drummer Earl Palmer, Richard, urged on by dual saxophonists Lee Allen and Alvin ‘Red’ Tyler, pounded out insistent piano lines and unleashed a rapid-fire vocal fit to wake the dead. Shrieks, hollers, screams; volume, power, passion. It was the sound of a damn bursting. The sexual revolution’s year zero.
