This appears in The 11th Hour, a gleefully subversive Village Voice-style publication in Middle Georgia that I urge you to check out.
Little Richard feels pretty.
“I’m beautiful!” he squeals at every concert, between manic performances of “Tutti Frutti,” “Long Tall Sally,” and other standards that still rattle the rafters. He probably tells his postal carrier, too, and his manicurist. “I’m not conceited – I’m convinced!” At age 77, without a doubt in the house, “The Beauty is still on Duty.”
He is perhaps, among other titles, the Inventor of Daily Affirmations.
That guileless and unassailable self-love has proved one of the few constants for Little Richard, the Macon-born “architect of rock ’n’ roll,” whose career otherwise has been defined by its zigzagging contradictions. He has sallied back and forth, tracking glittery stardust all over the South’s switchback dirt-trail between the juke joint and the church; between flesh and…
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