Twelve years old,
enthralled by Jan August’s Misirlou,
I listen to the 78 record on my phonograph.
My heart soars with the strings.
I notice a stack of 45’s
with bright, colored centers
my Father brought home from his tavern,
donated by the jukebox man.
I never heard of Little Richard,
put on the white and gold label.
I got the heebie jeebies ’cause I love you so
My heart beats faster,
feet dance.
Next weekend, a teen party.
Over the loudspeaker—
Tutti Frutti, oh rootie
Little Richard again.
At home, the 78’s,
Patti Page, Rosemary Clooney,
Johnnie Ray, Frankie Laine,
lay scattered on the floor.
Instead the record player spins
Rock Around the Clock,
Rock N’ Roll Is Here To Stay,
Maybellene, Blueberry Hill.
Violins got heebie jeebied.
78’s collected dust.
Little Richard—
piercing wail, pounding piano,
towering pompadour, raunch and religion—
with Chuck Berry, Fats Domino
broke the sound barrier
for the rest of my life.
Originally published in Terror House Magazine