12th October 1962: Little Richard and The Beatles

The Beatles and Little Richard

Little Richard was The Beatles hero.

Out on stage was a lone black grand piano. Lined up behind it was Sounds Incorporated: two sax players, a guitarist, a bass player, drummer, and keyboard player with a Vox Continental electronic organ. All the musicians white guys, yet they looked so damn cool, so hip, in shiny Italian suits and real American ‘shades’. Their bodies, heads, hands, feet in ever-fluid locomotion, readying the audience for what was to come. Pumping out a single, pulsing, bass-heavy chord, over and over again, that made everything electric.

The atmosphere fully charged, crackled for release.

Bob Wooler Production

Bob Wooler’s voice purred into the microphone. His dulcet tones like shiny-black fur on a cat. A sudden wave of clapping and cheering, all but eclipsed his words: “Ladies and Gentlemen, NEMS Enterprises presents ‘A Bob Wooler Production’.” A roar erupted, enough to blow the roof off. “It’s the brightest star in all the Rock ‘n’ Roll galaxy! It’s…Little Richard…at the Tower!”

Then there he was. Little Richard.

Little Richard – Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!

Twisting. Twirling. Leaping. Strutting. Careening from one side of the stage to the other. And not one word yet, sung or screamed. There was only him—Little Richard. Black. Beautiful. Hair ‘conked’, moustache pencil-thin, smile utterly radiant; a rocking body not of this world; a whirling mass of energy—whooping, wheeling, waving, and bouncing nonstop. His sharkskin suit, shiny, sharp, attracting all eyes, both male and female.

And just when it seemed that nothing could cut through the riot and pandemonium in the auditorium, Richard skidded to a stop, twirled, and screamed: “Do you wanna hear it?”

The drummer cracked the snare. Richard screamed: “Yeah?” Everyone in the place screamed: “Yeah!”

Richard twirled, dived; screamed again: “Do you gotta hear it?” Screamed again: “Yeah?” Everyone screamed back: “Yeah!”

Richard shouted: “Do I gotta give it to you?” The crowd shouted: “Yeeeah!”

Lordy, Lord-dee

Then Richard let loose with a scream to end all screams—a long, drawn-out sound that slid up the scale, higher and higher and higher, until it broke into: “Lordy, Lord-dee, Lord-deee, Lord-deeee…Yeeeeaaaah!”

Before the sound had time to echo off the walls, Little Richard ran full-pelt across the stage¾sliding, sliding, sliding¾until, magically, he came to a stop right beside the grand piano.

Aaaah-wop…bop-aah-wop!

He spun around, hit every note on the keyboard with a thundering hand and just stopped dead, a lone finger sounding, ringing out the lowest bass note. Then he threw back his glistening head and gave forth with a wild fevered cry that hit you like a drumstick in the eye. “Aaaah-wop…bop-aah-wop!”

Saxes, guitars, electronic organ, and drums slammed down the first beat of the bar. A wall of rocking, rolling, pulsating sound crashed over him like a tidal wave heralding the end of the old world and the coming of the new.

Tutti-Frutti

“Aaaah…Tutti-Frutti…” The magical incantation repeated over and over and over again until the last incandescent full-throated call for everyone to rock ‘n’ roll.

“Aaaah-wop…bop-aah-wop…bop-aah…Whoooooo!”

Little Richard stood at the keyboard his hands pounding up and down like pneumatic drills. Tireless. Relentless. Unstoppable. Hammering on and on and on. Smashing the piano keys with fists, elbows, his backside and his feet. Screaming, calling, whooping, squealing, singing songs Spike had only ever heard coming out of jukeboxes and record players. Singing with such force, such passion, such belief, it turned rock ‘n’ roll into a living breathing entity you’d willingly give your life to for as long as you lived.

Ripped It Up

Richard sang all his hits. He rocked it up. He ripped it up. He shook it up. He balled it up. He sang so long and so loud it made Spike’s ears ring and his head spin. And the only prayer Spike could pray was: “Dear God, please never ever let Little Richard finish. And if I gotta die, take me right now, right out of this towering cradle of rock.”

Boom-boom-boom-boom…Aaaah-lop-bam-boom!” 

Paul McCartney

PAUL McCARTNEY was in seventh heaven because, after Elvis, Little Richard was his ‘number one man’ and he the ‘number one fan’ and every time Richard squealed, whooped or screamed, he did, too. And for one magical moment, he was free to be a rocking schoolboy again, his heart filled to bursting with happiness and joy. Unable to contain himself, wanting to share the moment, he glanced over at John, a huge grin on his face.

John Lennon

JOHN LENNON—a huge grin on his face, too—stood, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, oblivious to all but Little Richard. Nodding in time to the beat. Not missing a thing. Marvelling at the black singer’s effortless display of command. Full of admiration at how Richard could hold the entire audience with a look, a nod, a grin, or a sneer. Then get everyone going again with a single shake of his head or a simple falsetto ‘Whooooooo!’

Brian Epstein

BRIAN EPSTEIN nodded his head, almost in time with the beat. He couldn’t help but smile and feel more than a little pleased with himself. His ‘boys’ were playing the same stage as the great Little Richard and had more than held their own. It was nothing less than the passing of the torch, from one legend to the next, just as he’d always envisioned. Smiling, he turned, stopped short, stood staring at a good-looking young man in an ill-fitting stage suit. It was the same boy he’d seen coming out of Rex Makin’s office; the one he’d seen that night, in Hamburg; the one he’d been meaning to call. “Excuse me, but I think we’ve met somewhere, before, haven’t we?”

Tony Broadbent

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