Good Golly Miss Molly

Hideaways with a north swell  showing 

Sometimes I live in the country
Sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I have a great notion
Jumpin in the river and drown
        -- from Goodnight Irene, an American folk song first recorded in 1933 by Lead Belly 

During our period of sheltering on the island, two icons of the music industry -- and of my generation -- have died: John Prine and Little Richard.

It doesn't seem to matter where you are, you hear about these things. Unless you're doing a media fast. In which case, I salute you.

Saturday morning the crazy disc jockey on KKCR, Kauai's community radio station, announced the passing of Little Richard from bone cancer at 87. Age-wise, Little Richard was not a Boomer, yet his music was part of the radio play and teenage house parties that defined a part of my life. So I include him in our generation.

I'm driving slowly -- because I'm still buzzed on tai chi -- through the green overgrowth of Hanalei on both sides of the road. It's raining lightly and mountains are hiding behind grey clouds yet releasing foamy white ribbons of water down their faces. From the car radio, Little Richard's unmistakable voice is crying Tutti Frutti, his first hit recording from 1957, followed by his husky dance-anthem, Good Golly Miss Molly.

The juxtaposition of it all grounds me. I cannot help but think about the time I met Little Richard. The surroundings couldn't have been further from where I am at this moment.

It was in Chicago. Time was the early '90s. Little Richard was in his early 60s. He wasn't playing the Gospel or Rock 'n Roll circuits any longer. He was the headliner for a trade-show party being held in a theater downtown Shy-Town, as Chicago was called.

The sole reason I went to the party was to confirm the fact of Little Richard actually being there. And if so, see him perform live! It seemed incongruous but possible. Old rockers often show up at fairs and other weird places, still singing and playing songs they recorded 50 or 60 years ago.

Sometimes it's disappointing, and other times it's a great nostalgic experience.

We gathered in a ballroom-like space, set up with numerous high tables and a buffet in the back. Following a typical spread of medium-quality finger food, a medium-height black man in a wild rock 'n roll suit a la something Elton John might wear, appeared on stage in front. His hair was thick, a bulging halo of tight curls that circled the sides and top of his head. It may have been a wig-hat.

He sat down at a piano and began to sing and play. It was indeed, Little Richard. Going through a repertoire of mostly familiar songs, he delivered familiar hoots and high note screams, though not as feral or profane as his early recordings. He banged on his piano.

He finished with the great folk song, "Good Night Irene," which is neither gospel nor rock 'n roll. Some, like me, sang along, familiar with the memorable lyrics. Then he did something I had never seen before. He asked his audience to join him on stage.

"Come on up here with Little Richard," he implored.

The crowd of mostly men who were working away from home, hesitated. What was this? My business partner and I wasted no time climbing the stairs. We walked directly to Little Richard.

His round smiling face was enhanced with gobs of makeup. His wide eyes and red lips appeared artificial. His face was a theater mask. The performer who once called himself the "Queen of Rock 'n Roll," sat at the piano, his larger than life persona reduced to a man on a bench.

No more than three feet distance from him, I looked into his big eyes and said: "Hey, Little Richard."

His head swiveled as he silently absorbed the attention surrounding him. He still had 25 more years to go. I felt glad to hear him and see him up close, a living legend from my distant youth.

RIP Little Richard.