My friend Michael Bane grew up in Memphis in the fifties, and he has tenebrous memories of the Killer’s role in local society.
Preachers railed against him, mothers smelled his awful presence in the laundry of their daughters, and young boys coveted his wicked, wicked ways. He was feared more than the rest, and hated more too. Of all the rock-and-roll creatures, he projected the most hellish persona. How many times did Starkweather gnash and grin with sexy delight as “Great balls of fire” crackled from his car radio?īy 1958 Jerry Lee Lewis was on top. Charlie Starkweather, five-foot-two, “red-headed peckerwood” (the words of his confession), thrashed and skidded trough Nebraska and Wyoming murdering and murdering and murdering. Eisenhower lay numb and still from a stroke Nixon, large wet cow liver of a human, ruled. The day the record was released, the Commies fired their second silly Sputnik, a half-ton ball circling nine hundred miles up, a dog panting fearfully within, stranger than any Egyptian glyph. “Great balls of fire” was a fine and sleazy record, the yell of a tribe sloughing his senses.
Cosas Que Leo #213: MUCH OBLIGED, JEEVES, P.G. Wodehouse.
Cosas Que Leo #214: CROSSED #1, Garth Ennis & Jacen Burrows.Cosas Que Leo #215: LAS CINCO MUJERES, Hallie Rubenthold.Kiko Amat en Intelectuales de Pandereta (Valencia), 29 de enero.Revancha: premio Panenka Libro del Año 2021.SUBSOL: festival de cultura popular y subcultura.
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