“Little Richard Story”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Richard Wayne Penniman.

The recent passing of this Rock & Roll icon has struck a chord with fans across the globe, from all segments of society and over multiple generations. His raw talent burst onto the scene during America’s glorious 1950’s. But endured long thereafter. A force that inspired Lennon & McCartney, Bowie, Prince, and so many others.

For this writer, his music first arrived as I listened to 45 rpm singles on the ‘Specialty’ label, from my father’s collection. Vinyl artifacts he had purchased as a young man in Columbus, Ohio, after graduating from high school in 1947. As a kid, I had no sense of time at work, when hearing these recordings. So each song carried an immediacy that others in my neighborhood found odd. In the early 1970’s, I did not think of him as dated or past-his-prime. He was a current part of my own musical consciousness. One that would soon expand with the release of ‘American Graffiti’ and the television show ‘Happy Days.’

Little Richard lingered in memory for many years as I grew to manhood. His conflicted journey from rebellion to preaching gospel truths, and back again, reflected my own upbringing. Having been born as the son of a Christian pastor with a particular taste for Blues and old-school Rock. I understood in personal terms the dichotomy of trailblazing and falling back on ancient themes, in equal measures.

This division haunted Penniman throughout life. As it has, myself.

My story of him is bent by fate, however. One created by chance in the year of 2000, as I took a vacation week with my first wife. We decided to make a southern tour. To absorb some of the gentle culture from that region, a way of life she did not know, first-hand. My own focus was on getting a chance to revisit the city of Lynchburg, in central Virginia. A place where I had lived as a child.

The nation was locked in controversy over ‘hanging chads’ and the selection of our next president. But for us, it was simply a time to get away.

My family moved to this place in 1970, when our father became a minister for the Fort Avenue Church of Christ. The community in which we lived was quiet and kind. A safe space that gave me room to flourish. I started my first business there, mowing lawns for our neighbors. And I fashioned an office in the basement, mimicking the habit of my sire.

With a new century beginning, I wanted to see this spot on the map once again. Wife 1.0 and I got a motel room in the area. Then, we planned our excursion to my familiar neighborhood on Sandusky Drive. The following day found us wandering down that street, and into remnants of a lost era. To Fort Hill Village, the shopping center where I had ridden my Schwinn bicycle as a youngster. To the elementary school, and junior high, which had been re-imagined and rebuilt over the decades. Finally, our tour ended with a meal stop at a restaurant that was new and unfamiliar, but appealing. A place very much in tune with the vibe I remembered during my initial stay.

It was called ‘At the Hop.’

The 50’s diner offered a traditional menu of burgers, fries, and milkshakes. My wife was thrilled. We were seated at a booth and chattered away while waiting for our greasy, edible goodies. Then, a pair of men took the spot next to ours. Strangely, I recognized one of the fellows. He took a seat with his back to mine. I felt a chill in the air.

Leaning toward Wife 1.0, I whispered carefully. “That is Jerry Falwell!”

While dining, she chirped about the curious inflections of southern people when speaking. And the monuments to Civil War history that were seemingly everywhere. I described a past neighbor who worked for the Chesapeake & Potomac phone company, and flew the Confederate battle flag on his front porch, instead of the United States emblem. It was something I had come to accept as ‘normal’ in 1970. Though still foreign, being a native of Ohio.

Behind us, Reverend Falwell took a call on his cell phone. He opined prophetically about the national election results, which were being decided. “I have it on good authority that George W. Bush will be declared the winner,” he said with confidence.

I sat up straight, while tasting my cheeseburger. A creation adorned with chili and onions.

In yonder days, I had visited the Thomas Road Baptist Church with my parents, to witness the ‘Living Christmas Tree.’ A literal spectacle of sorts. An exhibition in song with many participants stood on a giant platform in the shape of that holiday evergreen. Delivering gospel music to inspire the flock. In hindsight, our attendance seemed strange, as Jerry had once called my father’s chapel a ‘little pile of bricks.’ Yet it fit the family mood of comity and cooperation. My own focus was on the show, itself. Plus, the fact that this performance was being televised.

I remember looking around the church, counting each camera.

Feeling free in the midst of vacation, my burger tasted good. Wife 1.0 ignored the caveat about our notable guest in the booth next door, leader of the ‘Moral Majority.’ She was content to yammer about the preponderance of old cannons and souvenir rifles. But my mood had been charged with the unexpected encounter.

Then, someone put a coin in the jukebox. A vintage player stocked with genuine vinyl discs.

Throughout the restaurant, Little Richard began to echo. His unique voice filled our ears and hearts with gladness:

“Lucille, you won’t do you sister’s will

Lucille, you won’t do your sister’s will

You ran off and married

But I love you still

Lucille, please come back where you belong

Lucille, please come back where you belong

I’ve been good to you baby

Please don’t leave me alone

I woke up this morning, Lucille was not in sight

I asked my friends about her but all their lips were tight

Lucille, please come back where you belong

I’ve been good to you baby, please don’t leave me alone.”

I finished my chili burger with a dollop of irony. Here I was, in a diner with Jerry Falwell, conservative hero and white evangelist. Listening to the gayest, blackest, rowdiest, most entertaining and bombastic performer that the world had ever known. Primped and primed and powdered and punchy. A figure that electrified the 1950’s as no other.

The counterpoint to Liberace, another success story in an era of scorn and intolerance.

Wife 1.0 and I finished eating and left as Falwell busied himself addressing the election returns. His cohort was silent and faceless. I almost wanted to offer a token greeting as we departed. A Christian gesture of fellowship that I imagined my father would suggest. But instead, I surrendered to base emotions. I turned away, without paying attention.

We left for our motel. Bellies full and ready for the journey home, tomorrow. Warmed with vintage cuisine and the crazed crooning of Little Richard.

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'At the Hop' Lynchburg photos by Kipp Teague: https://www.flickr.com/photos/retroweb/albums/72157628455033087/with/28569334745/