mne zakhotelos tatu nadpis yu
o pizdabolakh slez ne l'yut
собачье мясо.
dogmeat мясо.
изображение
собачьего
do not shed tears about pussy pains
• «не проливать слезы о киске боли»
moscow cunt
Moscow влагалищах
moscow tattoo
Московская татуировка
«Я не проливать слезы »
“I don’t shed tears about cunts”
mariia___bk
мясо
Moscow
влагалищах
😹 «не проливать слезы о влагалищах»😿
#sookie
#мrJYN
official luxury star girls understand directions.
официальные девушки класса люкс понимают направления.
understand! понять!
Ready!!! Готов!!!
@dougmeet
# мода мяса
# мясо собаки
# мясо любит
# мясоед
# мясо священников
# мясо горячее
мясо прикосновение мясо
# Московское мясо
#meat fashion
#мясо собаки
#meat likes
#meat eater
#meat priests
#meat hot
meat touch meat
#moscow meat
black lights matter.
черные огни имеют значение
•
Moscow • Russia
fuck•luxury.girls_official•
😍
YouTube
Channel
https://t.co/iMoXSIUoWF
https://twitter.com/mrjyn/status/11487760431778119
https://www.youtube.com/user/dougmaet/about
Joined
Oct 22, 2011
1,140,893 views
July 10, 2019
What Gets Me Hot
Because the world is round
She, just back from Harrod's with a stack of pound notes in her black patent purse--that roll--bigger and fancier than US bills spent just the same; and wherever she went to spend 'em, the women who first looked down when she strode in all looked up when she spoke up, and from there those ladies took notice.
When she had enough boxes at one boutique, everyone fallin’ out tryin’ to pack 'em in her shiny black hired car, she and Frankie Jean would just ride around until they picked out the next one,
where they did what it took to make the money do what the money was tryin' to tell them it wanted to--so, yeah, she was good and goddamn ready to snatch this line drive from off the pitcher's mound, if you will.
Myra Gail Lewis is about gonna eat her a real fucking Englishman for FEE FIE FOE FUM Breakfast, and she's gonna Bang HIS Mash for him down the street, if that's what it takes,
because SHE WAS HOLDIN' A STACK.
SHE WAS A RICH POOR
WHITE
BITCH, AND SHE LIKED THE WAY THAT
WHITE
UNDERWEAR FELT WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT.She dismissed the first question on her age, but unfortunately she would do this in the opposite order when it came to level of difficulty.
But somehow she manages to throw shade in gloomy London, hard to do for Elvis, much less, a new teenage wife, cousin, and daughter of her husband's bass player (which made Jerry Lee, her husband, and her Dad's boss), fuckin' bet!--oh, yeah, on her honeymoon.
So when he inquired as to the truth behind the rumor, and was she, in fact, married to the most popular rock 'n' roll star running a little hot of Elvis that day, she just about lost her shit, and feelin' it, she unfortunately, but so bad girl cooly decided she looked way too fucking good to take any shit that day, or any day from then on out, in London, and especially back home in Memphis,
bitches better watch who had done what, and who they thought they was fixin' to fuck with anymore--not in no school halls--she was history, the fuck outta there.
She
was talkin' about when one of 'em got the courage up to just try to say somethin' to her at the Piggly Wiggly, and so
was certainly not fixin' to take no shit from some bald man in a suit, with black specs on and holdin' the tiniest notepad and shortass pencil she had to keep from laughin' to concentrate.
When with a snap of her gum and a 'fuck you, and London--I'm from Memphis' look on her face--her hair piled up and pin-curled into a fresh perfumed bouffant by, for all she knew, Monsieur Bouffant, the way he queened around like Little Richard and spoke French like it was an insult, but about hair. He rocked it, which meant she could rock it right out there, standin' under that hair, standing so steady and composed in those new shoes and (I'm gonna say it, stockings and garter belt),pressing back the hard folds on that
brand new,
black and white,
starched
and
pleated,
polka dot Poodle skirt, flared out, rared out, and rockin' that season's newest, killer, $100-black pumps and heels.So,
she looks over the top of those punk rock-severe, only-from-Harrods, exclusive, haute couture
black-cat, black cat-eye
sunglasses,
and after the question was over, THE ONE SHE barely heard, she heard herself answering in the affirmative ...
but then that badass bitch threw some cradle-robber protestin' Brits who pussied out while demanding they leave the country.
Myra the teenage badass bitch threw them
out with Killer's motherfucking bathwater!And that was the last good time either of them had for a long time, before ultimately, the folderol sent them packin',
and ain't no one ever got over Myra, or over on Myra, since.
Not that that slowed down Killer, who with popularity at an all-time high, with the help of somebody at the record company of that period waking up and giving a fuck, finally providing him an enthusiastic initiative from a well-payed intuitive professional, who picked the right material, the perfect studio musicians, and whatever else the Killer was in a mind for then, and let me tell you, that's a scary grocery list; but it worked turning Jerry Lee into the most finely produced, best sounding, hottest playin', biggest session players of the time, from Nashville to Memphis, he blowed and strode it out, partying 'till dawn -- Myra finally going on, and he just went ahead and let it all hang out, whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ...
those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London,
decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any,
by positively
Lolitaing the poor, cagey old
Brit reporter to death,
but who composed in stride,
with the deathblow career-ending scoop of the decade question in his heart,and girl in his sights,
he
fired back thoughtfully, and it was polite, but not about their marriage,
and it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see:
her colors,
her teeth,
and what they looked like comin' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl, whose Daddy worked at a plant, and who barely could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, for poor white trash, right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry--
and where she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
But right was alright, but married, right, and rich off her ass was too good to pass, this morning.
She just back from Harrod's with a stack of pound notes in her black patent purse--that snapped shut--and musta weighed a pound
at least
with that roll--bigger and fancier than US bills, but spendin' just the same; and wherever she went to spend 'em, those women who first looked down when she strode in, all looked up when she spoke up,and from there it was off to the races, and those ladies took notice, and when she had enough boxes at one boutique and everyone fell out trying to pack 'em in the shiny black car, she and Frankie Jean would just ride around until they picked out
and
told the driver about the next one,where they did what it took to make the money do what the money was tryin' to tell them it wanted to--so, yeah, she was good and goddamn ready to snatch this line drive from off the pitcher's mound, if you will.
Myra Gail Lewis is about gonna eat her a real fucking Englishman for FEE FIE FOE FUM Breakfast, and she's gonna Bang HIS Mash for him down the street, if that's what it takes,
because SHE WAS HOLDIN' A STACK.
SHE WAS A RICH POOR
WHITE
BITCH, AND SHE LIKED THE WAY THAT
WHITE UNDERWEAR FELT WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
She dismissed the first question on her age, but unfortunately she would do this in the opposite order when it came to level of difficulty.But somehow she manages to throw shade in gloomy London, hard to do for Elvis, much less, a new teenage wife, cousin, and daughter of her husband's bass player (which made Jerry Lee, her husband, and her Dad's boss), fuckin' bet!--oh, yeah, on her honeymoon.
So when he inquired as to the truth behind the rumor, and was she, in fact, married to the most popular rock 'n' roll star running a little hot of Elvis that day, she just about lost her shit, and feelin' it, she unfortunately, but so bad girl cooly decided she looked way too fucking good to take any shit that day, or any day from then on out, in London, and especially back home in Memphis,
bitches better watch who had done what, and who they thought they was fixin' to fuck with anymore--not in no school halls--she was history, the fuck outta there.
She
was talkin' about when one of 'em got the courage up to just try to say somethin' to her at the Piggly Wiggly, and so
was certainly not fixin' to take no shit from some bald man in a suit, with black specs on and holdin' the tiniest notepad and shortass pencil she had to keep from laughin' to concentrate.
When with a snap of her gum and a 'fuck you, and London--I'm from Memphis' look on her face--her hair piled up and pin-curled into a fresh perfumed bouffant by, for all she knew, Monsieur Bouffant, the way he queened around like Little Richard and spoke French like it was an insult, but about hair. He rocked it, which meant she could rock it right out there, standin' under that hair, standing so steady and composed in those new shoes and (I'm gonna say it, stockings and garter belt),pressing back the hard folds on that
brand new,
black and white,
starched
and
pleated,
polka dot Poodle skirt, flared out, rared out, and rockin' that season's newest, killer, $100-black pumps and heels.So,
she looks over the top of those punk rock-severe, only-from-Harrods, exclusive, haute couture
black-cat, black cat-eye
sunglasses,
and after the question was over, THE ONE SHE barely heard, she heard herself answering in the affirmative ...
but then that badass bitch threw some cradle-robber protestin' Brits who pussied out while demanding they leave the country.
Myra the teenage badass bitch threw them
out with Killer's motherfucking bathwater!And that was the last good time either of them had for a long time, before ultimately, the folderol sent them packin',
and ain't no one ever got over Myra, or over on Myra, since.
then, and let me tell you, that's a scary grocery list; but it worked turning Jerry Lee into the most finely produced, best sounding, hottest playin', biggest session players of the time, from Nashville to Memphis, he blowed and strode it out, partying 'till dawn -- Myra finally going on, and he just went ahead and let it all hang out, whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ... those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London, decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any, by positively Lolitaing the cagey old Brit reporter to death, composed in stride, career-ending deathblow scoop in his heart, and 14-year-old american girl in his sights.
he fired back thoughtfully, and polite, not about marriage ⸻ it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see: her colors, her teeth, and what they looked like comin' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl’s mouth, a mouth whose Daddy worked at a plant to feed ⸻ who could barely afford the neighborhood. Not because they were poor white trash -- right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry ⸻ & she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ... those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from
Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London, decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any, by positively Lolitaing the poor, cagey old Brit reporter to death, but who composed in stride, with the deathblow career-ending scoop of the decade question in his heart, and girl in his sights, he fired back thoughtfully, and it was polite, but not about their marriage, and it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see: her colors, her teeth, and what they looked like coming' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl, whose Daddy worked at a plant, and who barely could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, for poor white trash, right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry-- and where she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
aaaaa11aaaaa11aaaaa11, aaaaa, whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ... those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London, decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any, by positively Lolitaing the poor, cagey old Brit reporter to death, but who composed in stride, with the deathblow career-ending scoop of the decade question in his heart, and girl in his sights, he fired back thoughtfully, and it was polite, but not about their marriage, and it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see: her colors, her teeth, and what they looked like coming' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl, whose Daddy worked at a plant, and who barely could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, for poor white trash, right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry-- and where she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
Sentences:
Death of Patrick Mathé, founder of the New Rose label - November 19, 2018 Important figure of rock in France, Patrick Mathé died Sunday.
Born in 1949, he opened the New Rose store in Paris in 1980, after having participated in the importation of punk into Paris in 1976.
New Rose will quickly become one of the nerve centers of rock in the capital.
Mathé will launch a label of the same name a few months later with his partner Louis Thévenon.
— my little bagatelle — Patrick Mathé died suddenly, entirely too young On Facebook, the night before, Patrick Mathé was happily doing what he loved doing; playing videos for himself, happy if others liked them (tasteful chestnuts, American outliers, Punk, obscure classics, soulful blues, New Orleans jazz, French pop and croon).
He and his label will be familiar to half of Memphis or wherever erudite music-lovers gravitate.
my connection: Our Favorite Band! "Pink Cadillac" James Barber New Rose picks up distribution, and releases my band's debut, only LP, Our Favorite Band Members: Donald W.
Spicer, Maury O'Rourke Our Favorite Band OFB, Our Favorite Band! Our Favorite Band Saturday Nights...Sunday Mornings Label: New Rose Records – ROSE 120 Format: Vinyl, LP, Album Country: France Released: 1987 Genre: Rock Style: Alternative Rock Notes Michael Stipe appears as a guest Coincidentally, renowned Memphis rebound artist, Alex Chilton and OFB shared the same path from Big Time Records in America, having been signed by Jim BARBER in 1985, as well as the added distinction of both having been contemporaneously signed for exclusive distribution in all European markets by Patrick Mathé, New Rose Records.
I later went on to record and produce projects for New Rose, including LGL's LP, when I called Linda Gail the year before from the Memphis telephone book at Doug Easley's famous console, and asked her to duet with me on 'Oh, Boy!' Approached by me after my duet with Linda Gail on 'Every Day's a Holly Day,' she jumped at her first chance to make a record in 10 years! I remain eternally grateful to Patrick, who provided belief and support, enabling me, and providing a much-needed boost for already legendary sister of Jerry Lee Lewis, Linda Gail Lewis, whose decade-long-dormancy was about to recover with the release of this album.
Linda Gail Lewis 'International Affair' comeback album extraordinaire from Patrick Mathé New Rose Disque Paris FR Recorded at original Easley Studio 1990, and produced by *me (*Doug K-dough Easley pretty much did everything else).
@rxgau #thanks (the producer)#LindaGailLewis International Affair [New Rose, 1991] The long-ago costar of the lowbrow gem Together registers more twang per syllable than prime Duane Eddy, belting and screeching like a flat-out hillbilly--Jeannie C.
Riley — mrjyn (@mrjyn) 23 juin 2018 Linda Gail Lewis International Affair [New Rose, 1991] A- Consumer Guide Reviews: International Affair [New Rose, 1991] The long-ago costar of the lowbrow gem Together registers more twang per syllable than prime Duane Eddy, belting and screeching like a flat-out hillbilly--Jeannie C.
Riley, say.
But though I'd love to hear her "Harper Valley P.T.A." (or "Fist City," or "9 to 5"), she's Jerry Lee's sister, wild-ass before she's anything else.
She doesn't ignore country on this band-centered studio job, but except for Billy Swan "I Can Help" ("If your child needs a mama we can discuss that too"), the standouts are from Wolf-Justman, Dave Edmunds, Bob Dylan, all of whom should be damn proud.
Covering "They Called It Rock," she gets up to "Someone in the newspaper said it was shit," and instead of rushing discreetly on to the next line she draws out that last word with the relish of a gal who's waited to sing it all her life.
A- See Also: Van Morrison/Linda Gail Lewis Patrick Mathe and New Rose front-loaded a small but graciously accepted all-in budget of $6,000 1990 dollars.
Recorded at Doug Easley's original backyard studio, i themed out a strange Memphis Honky Tonk gumbo absorbed by mine and Doug Easley's frequent outings to Hernando's Hideaway, enshrining its atmosphere, and hiring some of its house band to capture the anomaly which was HH; proudly constructed sans provenance as an organic, hand-picked, all-Memphis group of disparate but weirdly compatible coequal friends and HH musicians.
My project, Linda Gail Lewis "International Affair," propelled her from Hernando's Hideaway to Van Morrison and beyond, reinstating her filial supremacy as lifetime opener for her brother Jerry Lee Lewis and current, outrageously successful tour of Rockabilly Heaven, Sweden.
This project was a joy to put together, generously mentored by the ever-inspired, ever-inspiring Doug Easley (tell him hello when you see him, and show him this).
From there, Linda Gail Lewis spent the equivalent probationary period her brother had suffered following his infamous London debacle with new bride, 13-year-old cousin Myra Gail Lewis.
Arduous years of networking the Rockabilly Trail from Memphis to Malmo, LGL has reemerged as the natural force of nature she is, recovered and fully-bloomed as we speak.
Myra Gail Lewis is about gonna eat her a real fucking Englishman for FEE FIE FOE FUM Breakfast, and she's gonna Bang HIS Mash for him down the street, if that's what it takes, because SHE WAS HOLDIN' A STACK.
SHE WAS A RICH POOR WHITE BITCH, AND SHE LIKED THE WAY THAT WHITE UNDERWEAR FELT WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
But somehow she manages to throw shade in gloomy London, hard for a new teenage wife, cousin, and daughter of her new related husband's bass player (which made Jerry Lee, her husband, her cousin, and her Dad's boss)! Fuckin' bet!--oh, yeah.
And on her honeymoon.
she, in fact, married to the most popular rock 'n' roll star running a little hot of Elvis that day, she just about lost her shit, and feelin' it, she unfortunately, but so bad girl cooly decided she looked way too fucking good to take any shit that day, or any day from then on out, in London, and especially back home in Memphis, bitches better watch who had done what, and who they thought they was fixin' to fuck with anymore--not in no school halls--she was history, the fuck outta there.
for Patrick Mathe's New Rose Records, Paris FR 1991 at Doug Easley last session in his original backyard studio, quickly asked to sing on Van Morrison's next record which she of course answered and which propelled her on an unusual, even for a Lewis, sexscapade with the most enigmatic private Rock Star in the world, only to finish a tour all over Europe, meet Van's Miss Universe girlfriend, and ultimately win a lawsuit against a European tabloid newspaper who Ms.
Lewis sued for slander and prevailed, giving her the energy to turn the most exciting paragraph which she or I had ever read, written by the most critically acclaimed, relevant, and seasoned rock critics on the planet (loved so much, and reviled only sometimes by his peers and readers, he also had been bestowed a nickname, different but just as endearing was it from "the Killer," it just sounded cooler somehow to him, 'the Dean').
Further jolting her career into overdrive on what now seemed to take her surely way out of the atmosphere, where she deserved, finally to gravitate, and away from the slow doldrums and natural burn-out from which she found herself, after a blurred whirlwind which included a number one or two, and where she was an honest to God celebrity and recording star of Country & Western, Boogie Woogie, Rock 'n' Roll, and even Gospel music, along with her wild and woolly brother, even tackling the almost impossible feat (except for Moetta) of multiple and Wallenda tightrope walking, fraught duets with a man, who luckily was her brother, whose first take was better than any other and who sometimes only gave it one to put on and show, or throw away, whatever you felt like, KIller; no chart, no net, phrasing like Willie Nelson, but faster like Gene Autry's horse, Champ, but really shining on her own solo albums, in between the roaringest touringest schedule of any rock 'n' roll, country, honky tonk band in the world at that time--because guess what, he was them.
Sometimes working 325 nights-a-year, keeping up the hard-charging amphetamine gruel schedule with Eskatrols and Placidyls, still trying to make it back, Myra-gate in the rearview mirror but everything seemed further than it appeared, until the mid-70s and into the Killer's remarkable resurgence from mid-75 until some would say, today, but Linda Gail, who is back with her brother as he hits 81, would finally call it a day in the mid-1980s--she needed a rest, and a life.
aaaaa whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ... those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London, decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any, by positively Lolitaing the poor, cagey old Brit reporter to death, but who composed in stride, with the deathblow career-ending scoop of the decade question in his heart, and girl in his sights, he fired back thoughtfully, and it was polite, but not about their marriage, and it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see: her colors, her teeth, and what they looked like coming' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl, whose Daddy worked at a plant, and who barely could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, for poor white trash, right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry-- and where she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
But right was alright, but married, right, and rich off her ass was too good to pass, this morning.
She, xxx --xxx , but spendin' just the same; and wherever she went to spend 'em, those women who first looked down when she strode in, all looked up when she spoke up, and from there it was off to the races, and those ladies took notice, and when she had enough boxes at one boutique and everyone fell out trying to pack 'em in the shiny black car, she and Frankie Jean would just ride around until they picked out x aaaaathen, and let me tell you, that's a scary grocery list; but it worked turning Jerry Lee into the most finely produced, best sounding, hottest playin', biggest session players of the time, from Nashville to Memphis, he blowed and strode it out, partying 'till dawn -- Myra finally going on, and he just went ahead and let it all hang out, whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ... those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London, decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any, by positively Lolitaing the poor, cagey old Brit reporter to death, but who composed in stride, with the deathblow career-ending scoop of the decade question in his heart, and girl in his sights, he fired back thoughtfully, and it was polite, but not about their marriage, and it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see: her colors, her teeth, and what they looked like coming' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl, whose Daddy worked at a plant, and who barely could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, for poor white trash, right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry-- and where she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
(289) Best words: lewis (10) jerry (9) killer (8) rock (7) gail (7) myra (6) good (6) record (6) first (6) linda (5) memphis (5) white (5) black (5) looked (4) question (4) gonna (4) brother (4) time (4) picked (4) fuck (4) poor (4) roll (3) band (3) world (3) country (3) star (3) success (3) 1991 (3) dean (3) studio (3) records (3) bitch (3) shit (3) hair (3) thought (3) london (3) decade (3) tour (3) great (3) girl (3) went (3) dawn (2) written (2) years (2) strode (2) heard (2) fixin (2) badass (2) affirmative (2) cold (2) schoolgirl (2) rockabilly (2) money (2) session (2) schedule (2) deserved (2) decided (2) giving (2) frankie (2) jean (2) backyard (2) felt (2) husband (2) teenage (2) elvis (2) hideaway (2) rose (2) buddy (2) holly (2) music (2) Keyword highlighting: Jerry Lee footage SHOT AT NORTH HOLLYWOOD'S "PALOMINO CLUB" HONKY-TONK AUGUST 16, 1976.
Episode 1 begins with the distorted, over-amped, amphetamine-fueled face of 'The Killer,' as you'll never see him again; looming in a fish-eyed demonic visage in interviews sodden with whiskey-soaked pill-pride.
Here, Palmer talks about shooting images of Jerry Lee Lewis: "When I went to interview Jerry Lee Lewis in Las Vegas, he wasn't performing on a stage, or even a riser, but in the entrance of the Holiday Inn." Jerry Lee Lewis - ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE COMPLETE (We sadly lost our friend and reason for all of the success Linda Gail has continued to have until I write this update in 2020 during the COVID-19 quarantine observed around the world, and the only thing I can think of which would be capable of stopping a force of nature, like her brother, who has only just completed another in a string of sold-out, blissed-out tours in a Dylan-like never-ending tour, mostly consisting of fanatical Nordic rockabilly towns, where nights are cold and long, and Rockabilly is King, and where, as the Dean penned in his review now twenty years ago, 'this wild-ass before anything else' Linda Gail Lewis is definitely still 'belting them out' as the Queen of Sweden, Finland, Iceland and other countries so cold, I don't want to know.
(loved so much, and reviled only sometimes by his peers and readers, he also had been bestowed a nickname, different but just as endearing was it from "the Killer," it just sounded cooler somehow to him, 'the Dean').
Further jolting her career into overdrive on what now seemed to take her surely way out of the atmosphere, where she deserved, finally to gravitate, and away from the slow doldrums and natural burn-out from which she found herself, after a blurred whirlwind which included a number one or two, and where she was an honest to God celebrity and recording star of Country & Western, Boogie Woogie, Rock 'n' Roll, and even Gospel music, along with her wild and woolly brother, even tackling the almost impossible feat (except for Moetta) of multiple and Wallenda tightrope walking, fraught duets with a man, who luckily was her brother, whose first take was better than any other and who sometimes only gave it one to put on and show, or throw away, whatever you felt like, KIller; no chart, no net, phrasing like Willie Nelson, but faster like Gene Autry's horse, Champ, but really shining on her own solo albums, in between the roaringest touringest schedule of any rock 'n' roll, country, honky tonk band in the world at that time--because guess what, he was them.
Sometimes working 325 nights-a-year, keeping up the hard-charging amphetamine gruel schedule with Eskatrols and Placidyls, still trying to make it back, Myra-gate in the rearview mirror but everything seemed further than it appeared, until the mid-70s and into the Killer's remarkable resurgence from mid-75 until some would say, today, but Linda Gail, who is back with her brother as he hits 81, would finally call it a day in the mid-1980s--she needed a rest, and a life.
aaaaa 1111111111, 11, whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ... those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London, decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any, by positively Lolitaing the poor, cagey old Brit reporter to death, but who composed in stride, with the deathblow career-ending scoop of the decade question in his heart, and girl in his sights, he fired back thoughtfully, and it was polite, but not about their marriage, and it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see: her colors, her teeth, and what they looked like coming' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl, whose Daddy worked at a plant, and who barely could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, for poor white trash, right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry-- and where she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
But right was alright, but married, right, and rich off her ass was too good to pass, this morning.
She, xxx --xxx , but spending' just the same; and wherever she went to spend 'em, those women who first looked down when she strode in, all looked up when she spoke up, and from there it was off to the races, and those ladies took notice, and when she had enough boxes at one boutique and everyone fell out trying to pack 'em in the shiny black car, she and Frankie Jean would just ride around until they picked out and told the driver about the next one, where they did what it took to make the money do what the money was tryin' to tell them it wanted to--so, yeah, she was good and goddamn ready to snatch this line drive from off the pitcher's mound, if you will.
Myra Gail Lewis is about gonna eat her a real fucking Englishman for FEE FIE FOE FUM Breakfast, and she's gonna Bang HIS Mash for him down the street, if that's what it takes, because SHE WAS HOLDIN' A STACK.
SHE WAS A RICH POOR WHITE BITCH, AND SHE LIKED THE WAY THAT WHITE UNDERWEAR FELT WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
She dismissed the first question on her age, but unfortunately she would do this in the opposite order when it came to level of difficulty.
But somehow she manages to throw shade in gloomy London, hard to do for Elvis, much less, a new teenage wife, cousin, and daughter of her husband's bass player (which made Jerry Lee, her husband, and her Dad's boss), fuckin' bet!--oh, yeah, on her honeymoon.
So when he inquired as to the truth behind the rumor, and was she, in fact, married to the most popular rock 'n' roll star running a little hot of Elvis that day, she just about lost her shit, and feelin' it, she unfortunately, but so bad girl cooly decided she looked way too fucking good to take any shit that day, or any day from then on out, in London, and especially back home in Memphis, bitches better watch who had done what, and who they thought they was fixin' to fuck with anymore--not in no school halls--she was history, the fuck outta there.
She was talking' about when one of 'em got the courage up to just try to say something' to her at the Piggly Wiggly, and so was certainly not fixin' to take no shit from some bald man in a suit, with black specs on and holding' the tiniest notepad and shortass pencil she had to keep from laughing' to concentrate.
When with a snap of her gum and a 'fuck you, and London--I'm from Memphis' look on her face--her hair piled up and pin-curled into a fresh perfumed bouffant by, for all she knew, Monsieur Bouffant, the way he queened around like Little Richard and spoke French like it was an insult, but about hair.
He rocked it, which meant she could rock it right out there, standing' under that hair, standing so steady and composed in those new shoes and (I'm gonna say it, stockings and garter belt), pressing back the hard folds on that brand new, black and white, starched and pleated, polka dot Poodle skirt, flared out, rared out, and rockin' that season's newest, killer, $100-black pumps and heels.
So, she looks over the top of those punk rock-severe, only-from-Harrods, exclusive, haute couture black-cat, black cat-eye sunglasses, and after the question was over, THE ONE SHE barely heard, she heard herself answering in the affirmative ... but then that badass bitch threw some cradle-robber protesting' Brits who pussied out while demanding they leave the country.
Myra the teenage badass bitch threw them out with Killer's motherfucking bathwater! And that was the last good time either of them had for a long time, before ultimately, the folderol sent them packing', and ain't no one ever got over Myra, or over on Myra, since.
again when it was my my good fortune to seek her out to duet on a Buddy Holly tribute record with my band, Our Favorite Band for the same label we would sign with the same founder and president of New Rose Records in 1991 for Patrick Mathe's New Rose Records, Paris FR 1991 at Doug Easley's last session in his original backyard studio, (it was her first time in the studio to record in 10 years, and from its success she was quickly asked to sing on Van Morrison's next record, which she of course, answered in the affirmative and which propelled her on an unusual, even for a Lewis, sexscapade with the most enigmatic private Rock Star in the world, only to finish a tour all over Europe, meet Van's Miss Universe girlfriend, and ultimately win a lawsuit against a European tabloid newspaper, and maybe Dr.
Jawn, who Ms.
Universe was now crying softly about.
Lewis sued for slander and prevailed, never receiving that apology, however.
She'll live); played Buddy Holly, GBOF, retired (over 100) club, watched Jerry and Kerrie's backyard wedding from roof with National Enquirer photog, and partied till dawn at Hernando's Hideaway.
Doug Meet Jerry Lee footage SHOT AT NORTH HOLLYWOOD'S "PALOMINO CLUB" HONKY-TONK AUGUST 16, 1976.
Episode 1 begins with the distorted, over-amped, amphetamine-fueled face of 'The Killer,' as you'll never see him again; looming in a fish-eyed demonic visage in interviews sodden with whiskey-soaked pill-pride.
Here, Palmer talks about shooting images of Jerry Lee Lewis: "When I went to interview Jerry Lee Lewis in Las Vegas, he wasn't performing on a stage, or even a riser, but in the entrance of the Holiday Inn." Jerry Lee Lewis - ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE COMPLETE mrjyn produced Jerry Lee Lewis's younger sister Linda Gail Lewis comeback solo record International Affair to great critical success Robert Christgau, Village Voice Rock critic extraordinaire picked International Affair as one his top record pics of 1991 in his highly regarded, annual Village Voice Best of Pazz and Jop list, where the Dean graded it an extremely rare 'A' comparing her to Jeanie C.
Riley and Bobby Gentry, while crediting the eclectic selection of songs from Bob Dylan to Gram Parsons to Nick Lowe, agonizingly selected by producer, me, a big compliment, singling that out in his review, where Linda Gail Lewis received her first and much deserved A-, in a microdot-dense tight, hard, and burning hot one-paragraph injection of Hellfire, giving her the energy to turn the most exciting paragraph which she or I had ever read, written by the most critically acclaimed, relevant, and seasoned rock critics on the planet (loved so much, and reviled only sometimes by his peers and readers, he also had been bestowed a nickname, different but just as endearing was it from "the Killer," it just sounded cooler somehow to him, 'the Dean').
Further jolting her career into overdrive on what now seemed to take her surely way out of the atmosphere, where she deserved, finally to gravitate, and away from the slow doldrums and natural burn-out from which she found herself, after a blurred whirlwind which included a number one or two, and where she was an honest to God celebrity and recording star of Country & Western, Boogie Woogie, Rock 'n' Roll, and even Gospel music, along with her wild and woolly brother, even tackling the almost impossible feat (except for Moetta) of multiple and Wallenda tightrope walking, fraught duets with a man, who luckily was her brother, whose first take was better than any other and who sometimes only gave it one to put on and show, or throw away, whatever you felt like, KIller; no chart, no net, phrasing like Willie Nelson, but faster like Gene Autry's horse, Champ, but really shining on her own solo albums, in between the roaringest touringest schedule of any rock 'n' roll, country, honky tonk band in the world at that time--because guess what, he was them.
Sometimes working 325 nights-a-year, keeping up the hard-charging amphetamine gruel schedule with Eskatrols and Placidyls, still trying to make it back, Myra-gate in the rearview mirror but everything seemed further than it appeared, until the mid-70s and into the Killer's remarkable resurgence from mid-75 until some would say, today, but Linda Gail, who is back with her brother as he hits 81, would finally call it a day in the mid-1980s--she needed a rest, and a life.
aaaaa whether gettin' his nose broke at some richass Memphis coke bar, or his home away from home, Hernando's Hideaway, he was damn sure gonna find it where he could, and doing just that with whichever made-up whore Kenny Rogers, (not that one, the one who owned Hernando's) brought up to his office to 'meat' the Killer ... those records by that decade's worth of great producers, picked for good taste to get this mercurial wildman back on top, kept him charting into the 90s and continuing to tour on the backside of his one and only biopic, the catastrophic but energetic movie adaptation biopic, Great Balls of Fire, taken from the book, which happened to have been written by his most beloved (for real) ex, Myra Gail, the same, but not the same 15-year-old schoolgirl who when separated from Jerry's sister, Frankie Jean Lewis, her minder in London, decided to not reply to the first question about family lineage--and did she share any, by positively Lolitaing the poor, cagey old Brit reporter to death, but who composed in stride, with the deathblow career-ending scoop of the decade question in his heart, and girl in his sights, he fired back thoughtfully, and it was polite, but not about their marriage, and it hit hard, cowing her for a second, until she showed him three things he wasn't ready to see: her colors, her teeth, and what they looked like coming' out of a poor, white, Southern schoolgirl, whose Daddy worked at a plant, and who barely could afford to live in a nice neighborhood, for poor white trash, right smack dab in Midtown Memphis, where he would come home, have a beer, and maybe go play music with cousin, Jerry-- and where she thought that made her the coolest girl in school, and she was right.
But right was alright, but married, right, and rich off her ass was too good to pass, this morning.
She, xxx --xxx , but spending' just the same; and wherever she went to spend 'em, those women who first looked down when she strode in, all looked up when she spoke up, and from there it was off to the races, and those ladies took notice, and when she had enough boxes at one boutique and everyone fell out trying to pack 'em in the shiny black car, she and Frankie Jean would just ride around until they picked out and told the driver about the next one, where they did what it took to make the money do what the money was tryin' to tell them it wanted to--so, yeah, she was good and goddamn ready to snatch this line drive from off the pitcher's mound, if you will.
Myra Gail Lewis is about gonna eat her a real fucking Englishman for FEE FIE FOE FUM Breakfast, and she's gonna Bang HIS Mash for him down the street, if that's what it takes, because SHE WAS HOLDIN' A STACK.
SHE WAS A RICH POOR WHITE BITCH, AND SHE LIKED THE WAY THAT WHITE UNDERWEAR FELT WHEN SHE THOUGHT ABOUT IT.
She dismissed the first question on her age, but unfortunately she would do this in the opposite order when it came to level of difficulty.
But somehow she manages to throw shade in gloomy London, hard to do for Elvis, much less, a new teenage wife, cousin, and daughter of her husband's bass player (which made Jerry Lee, her husband, and her Dad's boss), fuckin' bet!--oh, yeah, on her honeymoon.
So when he inquired as to the truth behind the rumor, and was she, in fact, married to the most popular rock 'n' roll star running a little hot of Elvis that day, she just about lost her shit, and feelin' it, she unfortunately, but so bad girl cooly decided she looked way too fucking good to take any shit that day, or any day from then on out, in London, and especially back home in Memphis, bitches better watch who had done what, and who they thought they was fixin' to fuck with anymore--not in no school halls--she was history, the fuck outta there.
She was talking' about when one of 'em got the courage up to just try to say something' to her at the Piggly Wiggly, and so was certainly not fixin' to take no shit from some bald man in a suit, with black specs on and holding' the tiniest notepad and shortass pencil she had to keep from laughing' to concentrate.
When with a snap of her gum and a 'fuck you, and London--I'm from Memphis' look on her face--her hair piled up and pin-curled into a fresh perfumed bouffant by, for all she knew, Monsieur Bouffant, the way he queened around like Little Richard and spoke French like it was an insult, but about hair.
He rocked it, which meant she could rock it right out there, standing' under that hair, standing so steady and composed in those new shoes and (I'm gonna say it, stockings and garter belt), pressing back the hard folds on that brand new, black and white, starched and pleated, polka dot Poodle skirt, flared out, rared out, and rockin' that season's newest, killer, $100-black pumps and heels.
So, she looks over the top of those punk rock-severe, only-from-Harrods, exclusive, haute couture black-cat, black cat-eye sunglasses, and after the question was over, THE ONE SHE barely heard, she heard herself answering in the affirmative ... but then that badass bitch threw some cradle-robber protesting' Brits who pussied out while demanding they leave the country.
Myra the teenage badass bitch threw them out with Killer's motherfucking bathwater! And that was the last good time either of them had for a long time, before ultimately, the folderol sent them packing', and ain't no one ever got over Myra, or over on Myra, since.
again when it was my my good fortune to seek her out to duet on a Buddy Holly tribute record with my band, Our Favorite Band for the same label we would sign with the same founder and president of New Rose Records in 1991 (We sadly lost our friend and reason for all of the success Linda Gail has continued to have until I write this update in 2020 during the COVID-19 quarantine observed around the world, and the only thing I can think of which would be capable of stopping a force of nature, like her brother, who has only just completed another in a string of sold-out, blissed-out tours in a Dylan-like never-ending tour, mostly consisting of fanatical Nordic rockabilly towns, where nights are cold and long, and Rockabilly is King, and where, as the Dean penned in his review now twenty years ago, 'this wild-ass before anything else' Linda Gail Lewis is definitely still 'belting them out' as the Queen of Sweden, Finland, Iceland and other countries so cold, I don't want to know.
disenchanted just one decade earlier.
for Patrick Mathe's New Rose Records, Paris FR 1991 at Doug Easley last session in his original backyard studio, (it was her first time in the studio to record in 10 years, and from its success she was quickly asked to sing on Van Morrison's next record which she of course answered in the affirmative and which propelled her on an unusual, even for a Lewis, sexscapade with the most enigmatic private Rock Star in the world, only to finish a tour all over Europe, meet Van's Miss Universe girlfriend, and ultimately win a lawsuit against a European tabloid newspaper who Ms.
Lewis sued for slander and prevailed, never receiving that apology, however.
She'll live); played Buddy Holly, GBOF, retired (over 100) club, watched Jerry and Kerrie's backyard wedding from roof with National Enquirer photog, and partied till dawn at Hernando's Hideaway.