by Nik Cohn
Squealing and shuddering, he put one foot up on the keyboard, his sweat dripped down between the cracks and he screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed:
Tutti frutti,
All rootie;
Tutti frutti,
All rootie;
Tutti frutti,
All rootie –
Awopbopaloobop
Alopbamboom.
December 21st, 1956: in that moment, Johnny’s mind had upped and walked away. Trembling, he put another nickel in, watched once more and his eyes opened wide.
Awopbopaloobop, he turned around fast and put his fist straight through a hardboard partition. Alopbamboom, the noise was like gunshot and Johnny started running.
Then everything was different.
Sweet little rock and roller, Johnny wore a three-quarter length jacket with velvet lapels, drainpipe denim jeans, winkle-picker shoes, a Mississippi string tie and, of course, his scimitar sideboards, his golden quiff. This was his uniform and, on his table, there was a bottle of Coke, a jar of Brylcreem, a copy of Elvis Monthly, a bicycle chain.
Sitting in the caff, he blew the froth off his coffee and the jukebox kept playing Heartbreak Hotel. When it rained, the windows steamed over and the waitress touched him with her nipples. Motorbikes roared in the street.
At the end of two hours Catsmeat came in and they pulled wrists together. Then Johnny combed his hair, Shot the Agate and, everywhere that he travelled, Catsmeat shambled two steps behind him, carrying his schoolbooks, carrying his knuckle-duster.
These were fierce times.
On Friday and Saturday nights, the caff was filled with leather boys and the jukebox was played as loud as it would go. Young girls appeared in tight skirts and tight sweaters, bright red lipstick and candyfloss hair, piled up high in a beehive. And Coca Cola was drunk direct from the bottle, and the windows were all steamed over, and the jukebox kept on blasting.
Good Golly Miss Molly and Dizzy Miss Lizzy and Lawdy Miss Clawdy: there was heavy necking in the corner booth, Willie did the hand-jive and then someone said that Bill Haley was King but someone else said No, it was Elvis. And there were voices raised in argument, there was a sudden scrimmage and a knife was produced. And then there was a circling and feinting and parrying, a flash of blades and someone screamed, someone fell down on the floor and began to bleed.
Johnny Angelo watched.
Upstairs, in his cold-water room, he mimed to All Shook Up and his hips went up and over like a roller coaster, up and over and down, up and up and over.
Catsmeat slept on the floor.
On Johnny’s 15th birthday, he went down in the schoolyard and Catsmeat followed two steps behind.
On one side, there were young girls swooning; on the other, there were young boys throwing stones; and Johnny passed right down the middle, Shooting the Agate slow and lazy from his hip.
Inside the classroom, he approached the teacher and he laid down his schoolbooks on the desk, his luncheon box, his wine-coloured blazer with the yellow dragon on the breast, his ruined blue suede shoes. ‘I’m 15 years old,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving here.’
‘You can’t,’ said the teacher.
‘Yes, I can,’ said Johnny, and he did.
Down in the market, he payed his rent with his finger-tips and his table was piled high with silver cigarette cases, cufflinks, diamond tiepins. Soon he grew wealthy and he ordered double portions of froth on his coffee, he bought a cut-throat razor with an ivory handle.
The jukebox was silver and gold, it had coloured spangles that twinkled as it played. Johnny Angelo sat in the corner booth, and Catsmeat told him jokes, performed tricks, darned his socks, while good hard rock swept over them.
Then it was Friday night and Jailhouse Rock was playing at the Roxy.
The Roxy was a motion-picture coliseum of 1931, B. De Mille baroque, complete with sweeping stairways and marbled pillars and mighty Wurlitzers, cupids and gargoyles. These last years, however, it had begun to decline. The stucco was crumbling, the Wurlitzer was no longer used, rats ran in the aisles. Most nights, it was three-quarters empty, it was cold as a morgue and rain fell through the roof.
But on this Friday night, the queues stretched three times round the block and many hundreds were turned away. Only the leather boys were admitted, their pockets all bulging with rocks and knives and bicycle chains, brass knuckles and the final equaliser.
Tonight there was no popcorn sold, no drinks on a stick and there were no lovers holding hands. Instead there were policemen patrolling the runways, torches in their hands, and policemen on the balconies and policemen at all the doors. And then there were the leather boys, who divided up into blocs, some saying that Bill Haley was King and others saying No, it was Elvis.
Johnny Angelo was up on the second balcony, crouching in the dark, and he was combing his hair, he was smiling all lopsided. Then the lights went down and the screen was filled by pictures of Elvis.
Jailhouse Rock: Elvis played a truck driver who kills a man in a fist fight and gets himself sent to the penitentiary. Inside the prison barbershop, his hair is shorn and his sideboards razored off entirely.
And the first lock of his hair to fall, this was the precise moment that the riot began in the Roxy.
High up among the gargoyles, the leather boys stamped their feet and the policemen flashed their torches. Elvis’ sideboards were sheared down to the bone and girls began to weep and there was the noise of flick-knives snapping open. Then Elvis emerged with a crewcut and somebody jeered, saying Bill Haley is Best, and the very next thing his flesh was slashed with razors.
Johnny Angelo rose up, and Catsmeat beside him, and everyone began to stampede. The policemen formed into lines and swung their truncheons. Girls screamed and klaxons sounded and great hunks of stucco crashed down into the stalls, a gun went Bang and all this time the leather boys were chanting: El Vis. El Vis. El Vis.
Then Elvis was singing Jailhouse Rock itself, and his hair was long again, his sideboards black and shiny, and he switched his hips, he leered across his shoulder. Dancing on a rampart, sliding down a drainpipe, he squirmed and shook and shuddered, he strutted all over and this is what he meant: Fuck You.
Everyone was moving in the dark, and Johnny Angelo put his knee through the seat in front of him, the wood exploded, and he slashed at the cushions with his razor, and the stuffing came spilling out in handfuls, all grey and musty, and then someone was running towards him, a Bill Haley fan, wishing to hurt him but Johnny reached out real slow and he stuck a thick wad of stuffing straight down his attacker’s throat, choking him.
There was blood on the floor. Catsmeat reached down and touched it. It was slippery in his fingers and, meanwhile, Johnny reached the edge of the balcony and went clean over the edge, grabbing a gargoyle by its throat, shinning down the stucco, and then he leapt into the runway, his knife still in his hand, and Elvis was leering, and Elvis was squirming, huge motion pictures, and a policeman was dying, his skull smashed in with a hammer.
Johnny Angelo stood still.
And Elvis was saying Fuck You.
So Johnny ran hard up the aisle and there was a great confused mass of flesh across his path but he smashed straight through, out the other side and on, until he came into a doorway and then there was a policeman, his face loomed up white and he swung his truncheon, he yelled for Johnny to stop. But Johnny didn’t, he held his knife out in front of him and he kept right on, he ran directly through the lawman’s guts. His knife went in deep and twisted. Then Johnny pulled it out again and the policeman fell down. Then Johnny went out in the street.
Outside in the street, it was empty and silent and still. Johnny’s heels clattered down the pavement, he ran up an alley and he hid behind some trashcans. He sat down in the slops and wiped the blood off his knife. His knife had an ivory handle.
Johnny combed his hair
.
Heartbreak Hotel
‘Fuck you,’ said Johnny Angelo, and he lived in a cold-water room on Bogside, the hallway was full of cats and he smiled his lopsided smile. He flicked his ankles out sideways. He hid his eyes behind big black shades. He turned the jukebox way up high.
Most nights he went inside a club called Heartbreak Hotel, down in the docklands. High above his head, there was a disused church, where vagrants and derelicts stayed, and motorbikes were stacked in rows along the quays. The wind cut sharply off the river, blowing back Johnny’s quiff like a plume. Everything was silent. Everything was still.
Heartbreak Hotel was a cellar, filled with a livid purplish light, and all the girls sat stiff-backed along one wall. Tight dresses and lipstick, they sported high-heeled shoes but the boys ignored them, preferring to huddle in their own tight circles, where they told dirty jokes and snickered, where they smoked cigarettes.
In particular, there was a rider named Ace, the leader of the pack. He wore a black leather jacket with silver studding down the back, tight black leather pants, high black boots and he had a face like a weasel, all skinny and shifty and starved.
Why was he the leader? Just because he smoked a cigarette with perfect style and, down in Heartbreak Hotel, this was the only thing that counted.
The elegance with which the smoker inhaled; the length of time that the smoke remained in the lungs; the smoothness with which it was then expunged through the nostrils; the condition of the smoker, e.g. the absence of gasping or watery eyes; and, finally, the wrist-action with which the smoker dispatched the ash – all of these things were crucial and Ace was an artist, he couldn’t be topped.
Johnny Angelo challenged him.
A beer-crate was placed in the middle of the floor and Johnny crouched on one side, Ace on the other. 20 cigarettes were laid out between them, a lighter and an ashtray, and all of the leather boys ranged in ranks behind Ace, and Catsmeat stood behind Johnny.
These were the rules: the contestants took turns to inhale and they continued to smoke without a pause until one of them cracked.
And Johnny was flash.
His style was full of flourishes, allusions, baroque embellishments. Just the way that he flared his nostrils and the smoke poured forth so smooth, this alone was enough to draw murmurs of admiration from the leather boys and Ace seemed crude by comparison. Nonetheless, he had lungs like india-rubber, he had stamina that was infinite and 8 cigarettes were smoked in succession but neither Johnny nor Ace gave ground.
Nobody spoke, no one moved: Johnny Angelo blew smoke rings, then poked his finger through the hole, very idle, and a purple haze hung over everything. Ace sucked deep and Johnny watched him, stared him down until he sweated and his face was pinched like a ferret.
The 10th cigarette was completed, then the 11th and Johnny kept watching, and Ace kept sweating. Flicking ash, Johnny yawned and stretched and, halfway through the 12th cigarette, Ace just suddenly upped and quit. He ground out the butt beneath his heel, he walked away into the docklands. Then everyone sighed and the jukebox started playing, while Catsmeat wept.
At the age of 15, Johnny led the pack.
The leather boys drifted round the beer-crate and formed a ragged circle around him. Then Johnny let a very small smile flicker in the corner of his mouth, he let one hand trail behind him, fingers outstretched, and he led a parade of motorbikes.
At three o’clock in the morning, he emerged from Heartbreak Hotel and nothing stirred. All the ships were tied up, all their crews were down in the cabins and the quays were quite deserted. Very far away, the derelicts whimpered in their sleep.
Right then, out of silence there came an explosion like an earthquake, a sudden howl of engines, and the whole of the docklands shook. Windows rattled in their frames, loose bricks fell crashing into the street and then, out of the debris, Johnny Angelo came riding on a motorbike, a black monster on a black machine.
So many years, he’d listened to the bikes revving up in the alley and now he rode out front, black leather and black helmet, a yellow dragon emblazoned on his back and one word ELVIS, spelled out in silver studding.
Very slowly, soberly, the riders moved out of the docks and into Bogside and on through all the city. Everything was empty, all the streets were stilled and this was a solemn procession, Johnny Angelo first, then Catsmeat, then all of Johnny’s followers, fanned out in formation, and they passed through like ghosts, not looking to left or to right.
Outside the city, they came to a long straight stretch, a hill that rose gently for almost two miles and then broke off in a sharp crest. And when the riders hit this stretch they put their feet hard down, the purr of their engines turned into a scream and their machines vibrated wildly between their legs, hurtling and howling and rearing back. And everyone was burning but Johnny most of all, he left them behind and, when he hit the crest, he flew straight off into space. 20 or 30 or 40 feet, he soared up high and everything was stretched out beneath him, everything, and his machine was exploding beneath him, and he hung there without moving, hovering like a great black bird.
Night-rider: he roamed the countryside, a phantom, a marauder, and his followers fanned out behind him, causing destruction wherever they passed. All night long, they rode without resting and, when dawn approached, they wheeled around, returning to the city.
While everyone was sleeping, Johnny passed by and sank down into the docklands. Along the quays, right to the water’s edge and he came again to Heartbreak Hotel.
In the first light of dawn, a door opened and Johnny disappeared, went back into the earth from which he’d come.
Ace and The Mighty Avengers
Johnny Angelo was 15 years old. Then he was 16. Then he was almost 17. Each night, he emerged from Heartbreak Hotel and he travelled the countryside, his followers ranged out behind him.
He sat in the caff. He listened to the jukebox. He smoked cigarettes. He wore tight black leather. He kept combing his hair. Up his sleeve, he carried a flick-knife and, right next to his heart, a picture of Elvis Presley.
In Heartbreak Hotel, there was a purple haze over everything and the leather boys formed a circle, surrounding Johnny Angelo, who was their leader.
And Catsmeat wept.
Each time that Johnny passed him by, tears welled up in the cretin’s eyes and Catsmeat hid his face. Such grace and such elegance, it made him tremble all over and he busied himself with his chores, ironing Johnny’s shirts, darning Johnny’s socks.
Late one night, however, Catsmeat went down in the High Street and he threw a brick through the window of Musicland. And just as Johnny Angelo had once acquired a camera, so now the deficient reached through the neat round hole and picked out an electric guitar. This guitar was shaped like a spaceship and covered with golden spangles, tinsel highlights that glittered in his hands. Slung low on the hip, all shiny and unused. Catsmeat thought it was beautiful and he couldn’t stop staring.
Pink piggy eyes and flesh like sourdough, he held this guitar like a baby, cushioned tight against his belly, and he walked on tiptoe. Under every street lamp, he stopped and stared some more.
In due course, he arrived at Heartbreak Hotel, where Johnny was sitting on a beer-crate, casting craps against a wall. Right then, Catsmeat came close and held out the guitar, ‘Johnny Angelo,’ he said. ‘This is yours.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Catsmeat. ‘Yes, it is.’
A bit dubious, Johnny then took the guitar in his hands, looked it over, ran his fingers on the strings. Everyone was watching and he plucked a string at random.
A single note sounded.
Then Johnny smiled his smile.
And Catsmeat hid.
That same night Johnny Angelo went back to Bogside and shut his door. Inside his room, he stood in front of the mirror and he strummed, not learning how to play but learning how to
move. How to drop his hips, how to grind, how to bury his guitar in his groin. Above all, how to twitch.
His legs were long and skinny, very fast, and he wrapped them tight in gold lamé. And as soon as he started to sing, they took on a whole private life of their own, they started to vibrate and they stretched like elastic, they flew.
Down in Heartbreak Hotel, Johnny Angelo stood on a small raised stage and his followers sat in the dark, not moving, just the tips of their cigarettes glowing red among the purple.
Then a spotlight came on and Johnny started singing, started strumming and moving his hips, but nobody heard him sing, no one heard him play: only his legs existed.
Legs that slithered like serpents, that bent back double, that tied themselves in knots. And ran, cowered, kicked and flaunted. And leaped up high and hovered and fell, and dissolved and reformed and dissolved once more, and they sprawled all over the stage, until they filled up everything.
Spider legs, puppet legs, clasped tight by gold lamé, and his spangled guitar kept glinting in the spotlight.
Somebody screamed.
And Johnny rode his motorbike all through the city, in the boulevards and alleys and freeways, in the mansions and the tenements, and Kid Clancey rode behind him, Little Richard and Monseigneur Pike.
At the top of the hill, he soared off into space, and his engine screamed, and he hung there, suspended like a black bird of prey, and everything was stretched out beneath him, everything.
He was 15 years old.
Then he was 16 and he led his followers against all the rival gangs of the city, the Black Marias from Jitney, the Shieks from St Jude, the Ricos from Shanty Canrush and, most especially, the Tombstones from Crescent Heights, who were led by Ace.
Riding out front, Johnny headed down an alley and Ace would be coming right at him, they’d meet in the middle. This was known as the Chicken Run, common practice among the gangs, a shutdown in which one or other of the riders would always lose his nerve, would swerve away at the very last moment. But with Ace and Johnny Angelo, it didn’t work like that: they kept right on going, they’d clash head on and their bodies were flung in the air, turning over and over, limp like rag-dolls.
