This video from 1978 on the indictment of Memphis physician, Dr. "Nick" George Nichopoulos and the death of his most famous patient, Elvis Presley, is the only such video record of the now-prophetic and strangely similar investigation, still ongoing, into Michael Jackson's death--only the dates and names need be replaced for its eerie equivalence. The burgeoning TV Tabloid press of 1977 was in its infancy with the laughably sincere Geraldo Rivera and that of 20/20 host, Hugh Downs. The "Memphis Mafia" whom Dr. Nick was a "member" finds its mirror in Jacko's staff, security and 'starfucker M.D.s,' Conrad Murray and Arnold Klein: seemingly all willing to sacrifice the cash cow (golden goose) for the cash (egg) now; all glorying in their respective bedside manners to one King or another and the perceived effect on its status or pocketbook, from the perspective of a cardiologist, dermatologist, and in Dr. Nick's case, general practitioner. All of these doctors, in one way or another, were willing to sacrifice their practice, profession, and possible freedom for a brush with two incredible performers and world's most famous junkies. There is no conspiracy to hide or cover-up the lack of documentation of Elvis's doctor's low profile on the Internet--his spotlight has come and not quite gone--especially now, as he turns 80, with the unfortunate timing to resurface into the spotlight of Julien's Auction House of Las Vegas: up for bid? among other things, the King's Prescription Bottles recovered after his death, and Nasal Douche, just as the Michael Jackson death and Doctor Scandal broke across the dessert. Having bravely soldiered through the landslide of Elvis detritus, exponentially multiplied after the Internet explosion of the last decade, I can tell you that Elvis Fans are almost, if not more, rabidly fantastic in their idolization AND denial of their exalted Idols' human fallibility (it remains to be seen, whether one will surpass the other in longevity of morbidity). The climate is fascinatingly identical: death hoaxes, ghosts, healing, obsession, depression, all five stages of denial simultaneously, shock, and blind inconsolable grief and disbelief pervade. It will be nothing if not interesting to track the lynch mob of Murray and Klein from this perspective, and analyze just how predisposed one group of fans will be to accept and admit to their Idol's fallibility, foibles and fall from grace, nodding and slouching toward Kublah Khan, and finally leaving Graceland and Neverland for the Promised Land without even a note, in order for any satisfaction of perceived Justice to be served in the prosecution of the doctors to be possible (although the DEA doesn't give a fuck about the fans). Will Jackson fans submit to the temporary indignity, which they've suffered all too often, and admit Jackson's drug addiction, if only to hang the doctors who happened to be at the barbershop? Elvis's didn't...and most still don't to this day (Junkies are dirty and ill-kempt, they don't BOTH HAVE URI GELLER AS HAIRSTYLIST, PAL AND SPIRITUAL ADVISOR/SPOONBENDER.) George Constantine Nichopoulos was acquitted of Federal charges brought forth in a criminal trial by the state of Tennessee and the Federal branch of the United States Drug Enforcement Administration, in costly proceedings, which ultimately failed to prove his criminal intent, and therefore negligence in the overprescription (coined just for him) of Schedule II narcotics, including opioids and amphetamines, in staggering dosages, while claiming he was trying to help. (Well media, that's a hell of a recap for you...you're welcome.) Elvis's toxicology report found no less than 14 drugs and drug polypharmacies present in his body (in other words, some of the drugs were making new drugs in combination). His death is still ruled a cardiac event and has not been reclassified as anything else (although everyone except a few million fans of his accept the truth and realize that even without conviction and intent proven, Elvis was murdered by Dr. Nichopoulos...Oh, and the other twenty-five doctors like him, who dispensed anything the King wanted, whenever he wanted it (Elvis and MJ were both master Doctor Shopaholics); not to mention the family, friends, fans, and entourage, who sat idly by and watched in silence and fear for their own security. With the full extent of addiction and its more sinister causation left a mystery for Elvis, one can only imagine if things will play out in a similar fashion for Jackson, and those involved in his life, fame, demise, death and legacy.
~ nichopoulooza
let me know if you like this essay?
July 15, 2009
Michael Jackson - Elvis Death: Fans Find Dr. Nick -- Murray - Klein Comparison
The Global Game | Writers on Soccer (Space)
Part 1 of the video introduction to the University of Nebraska Press collection "The Global Game: Writers on Soccer" (2008). Go to http://writers.theglobalgam... for more.
At Sinabar, Johannesburg, S Africa v. Brazil, 25 Jun 09
Intentions are good as the South African national anthem, "Nkosi sikelel iAfrika," strikes up. But the stirring song of apartheid-era resistance, its first verse in isiXhosa/isiZulu, fades quickly at Sinabar, a Randburg pub, before the FIFA Confederations Cup semifinal between Bafana Bafana and Brazil. Mini-vuvuzelas, with convenient lanyard, are distributed free to patrons.
Jacko Dances to Muzak 'Billie Jean' While Grocery Shopping with Liz - @nikkistix
me and mj have a lot in common. i'm really starting to like him with no qualifications or reservations. thanks to the drummer female drummer who has the nickisixx @twitter play on words name and who plays behind the popular American Idol guy with emo black spiky hair who was either on this season or last for turning me on, and of course, as always to whomever it was that I lifted it off of.
~ nichopoulooza
michael jackson disguise produce checkout meat canned goods moonwalk slide ehee Jacko Dances Muzak Billie Jean Grocery Shopping with Liz Taylor nichopoulooza @mrjyn visualguidanceltd @nikkistix @twitter
LETTER FROM VEGAS
All over the world, events get moved, delayed and even cancelled. Of course, Tempus Fugit, things change, and all of that. But––outside of an actual war zone––in Las Vegas this happens at a speed so much quicker than in any other place that it is a bit like living amidst time-lapse photography. Take Robert Goulet's short-lived show at the Venetian. It was slotted for a summer run and only lasted a few weeks.
There was a time when Goulet was just the sort of marquee name that casinos paid top dollar to have come perform in Las Vegas. Of course, back then there wasn't even a Venetian... "Those were the days, my friend," Robert Goulet sang.
If you manage to get to the Venetian at just the right time of day and approach the megaresort from just the right direction, you may catch a quick glimpse of them––the few, the proud, and the heavily regulated and restricted union protestors. Labor unrest never used to be a problem on the Strip for an obvious reason: casino executives and union leaders were both answerable to the same people. At least, that's how it was portrayed in Casino, and here at ground zero everyone believes in that movie. But––to throw in an extraneous Dylan quote––things have changed.
The Venetian has resisted fiercely union representation since opening. In fact, it was only a couple of weeks ago that the 9th Circuit upheld a ruling against the Venetian's claim that the casino could ban the protestors from its sidewalk altogether. I've been told that in most places in America the sidewalk is regarded as a public space. It doesn't snow here, so maybe it's just that no one knows that back East people are expected to do things like shovel the sidewalk in front of their homes without actually getting to own the sidewalk. But in Las Vegas the casinos argue that stewardship equals ownership, and in Las Vegas that is not an outrageous claim. Back in May, the Nevada Supreme Court ruled that Treasure Island and Mirage could restrict people from standing on the sidewalk in front of those casinos to hand out fliers for sex businesses.
I didn't see any protestors the night I arrived at the Venetian to see Goulet perform, shortly after his show had opened and, as it turned out, shortly before it closed, too. Though brief, the history of the C2K Showroom has been both contentious and notorious. It is not run by the Venetian but leased out to another company that subleases it for events and shows. Last year, however, the Venetian didn't let that stop the casino from shutting down and ultimately booting the operators of the popular C2K nightclub when stories of rampant drug use surfaced after a 21-year-old girl died after allegedly taking Ecstasy while at C2K. The C2K showroom was also the location for the Russian-themed production show "Nebulae" which closed up quickly and left town. There was some grumbling in the local press about the show leaving behind a few unpaid bills.
My real problem with the C2K showroom, though, was that as Goulet sang, I sat in an amazingly uncomfortable straight-backed chair pushed up against people on either side of me. Tickets for Goulet, by the way, started at $78. Keep in mind, the people around me were, let's face it, not young and the chairs were no better than the kind set up in a high school gym for a student play. This is sort of a mystery to me, too, since, as it turns out, I went back to C2K last night, invited to see the one-year anniversary of another show, "Melinda the First Lady of Magic". The seats put on the floor for her show were fantastic, not at all cramped, and, if you're someone who cares, even stylish.
This is the heartbreaking part––Goulet sounded fantastic. The pace of the show was a bit slow and his banter awkward, but his voice was magnificent. I'm not a fan of Goulet's style of singing, and I was surprised by how powerful a performer he is. Unlike so many Strip regulars, Goulet sings unguarded and full-bodied. Though almost 70, he is better now than he sounds on recordings I downloaded from decades ago. Hearing his voice boom out, it is amazing that people didn't hear it echo all through the Venetian, past the slots and tables and even out on to the Strip. If they had heard, surely they would have come to see him... But things have changed in Vegas. Maybe one day they will change again. I hope so. I am a little weirded out to say this, but here it is: I look forward to the return of Robert Goulet, after all, in Las Vegas––final extraneous Dylan quote––the wheel's still in spin.
JERRY LEE LEWIS + HUEY MEAUX: Southern Roots STUDIO OUTTAKES [TMI, Memphis: KILLER'S 38th BDAY]
Pedophilé Gumbeauxxx
http://visualguidanceltd.blogspot.com...
"I'm going to record 'Old Shep' in rock and roll - only Old Shep is gonna die in my song. I think I'll send him up to Elvis's place and let it bite the hell out of him."-- Jerry Lee Lewis
Huey Meaux's non-stop chatter in the local patois made him celebrity, Swamp Pop put the 'Crazy Cajun' on the map.
As a promoter, his most brilliant stroke was the Sir Douglas Quintet ("She's About a Mover" #13 1965), but by 1966 Meaux was struggling to get his other artists on the air. He'd try any means necessary!
"Huey called and asked if I knew any party girls," recalls a friend, eager to please the local music legend. The kid convinced a 16-year-old hanger-on at the radio station to accompany Meaux to a Nashville convention for $300. Unfortunately for Meaux, not long after the convention ended, his contact was busted on narcotics charges. The young man cut a deal with the authorities in return for telling them what he knew about Meaux and the underage girl. Meaux was convicted of conspiring to violate the White Slave Traffic Act.
Sentenced to three years in federal prison, Meaux was incarcerated for eight months in Seagoville, Texas. He received a full pardon from President Carter.
After his release from prison in 1969, Meaux seemed to be a changed man.
According to associates at the time, it wasn't a change for the better.
Huey Meaux : Southern Roots Session: TMI Studio, Memphis--29 September, 1973:
It was Jerry Lee's birthday - he was 38! The album? Southern Roots.
Jerry Lee ribbed Meaux throughout the 50 hours of sessions, calling him Papa Thibodeaux, Coonass Bastard, and more epithets than you'd hear at a Kaplan mixed marriage.
"We fought," Huey P. Meaux said, "but we delivered."
Meaux was one of those colorful characters. A Cajun named after Louisiana dictator Huey "Kingfish" Long, Meaux had worked in all aspects of the record business. Southern Roots saw him work with The Killer.
Mack Vickery contributed songs, harmonica, vocals, and more craziness than should be allowed in one room containing Meaux and Jerry Lee.
Recording conditions were chaotic, to put it mildly. Musicians, family members, delivery men, ex-girlfriends, and people just off the street wandered around, pushed engineers out of the way, and slept on the floor.
The album was subtitled "Back Home to Memphis". A filthy Mack Vickery tune written with Jerry Lee in mind, "Meat Man," kicked it off: two minutes and forty seconds of sexual boasts.
1981
Meaux survived a bout with throat cancer, and save for one last novelty hit--Rockin' Sidney's 1985, 'Don't Mess With My Toot-Toot,' cancer--the fatal kind--may have been the best thing for Meaux's personal life.
In the studio Meaux was agitated and incoherent. His mouth was often dry, and he was constantly smacking his lips -- telltale signs of cocaine use.
Detectives received a call claiming that Meaux was producing, not records, but child pornography; they were more than a little intrigued -- especially since the tipster was Ben Meaux (Huey's dad).
After ten years of spiraling cocaine use and its attendant difficulties, the Houston Police (acting on tips from Meaux's own family) arrested him, and brought him to his office at Sugar Hill to execute a search warrant in early 1996.
Breaking down the locked door of his playroom was a physician's examining table, complete with gynecological stirrups, and just under 15 grams of cocaine in one of the drawers. There was also a king-sized bed and a dozen or so sex toys nearby. And strewn about the room and stuffed inside a large chest were hundreds of photographs and dozens of videos that police say Meaux had produced himself at Sugar Hill over the past 20 years.
According to investigators, some of the photos were of nude girls as young as seven. Some of the videos (n/a) showed Meaux having sex with girls ranging in age from 12 to 16--among them, the two daughters of Meaux's former live-in girlfriend.
66-year-old Meaux was charged with possession of a controlled substance, possession of child pornography, and two counts of aggravated sexual assault of a child. A few days later, he was slapped with a civil lawsuit by his two former common-law stepdaughters, who accused him of having sexually abused them for years.
A frail, wasted-looking Meaux showed up for his court arraignment on January 31, but a few days later, he failed to keep an appointment to be fitted with an electronic monitoring device that a judge had ordered him to wear while out of jail on his $130,000 bond.
Huey Meaux's on the run. He remains at large as of this writing!
*If you'd like to look for Huey, I've put a clue on the map. Good Luck!
nichopoulooza
Category: Music
Tags:
JERRY LEE LEWIS hUEY MEAUX MERCURY SOUTHERN ROOTS MACK VICKERY STUDIO OUTTAKES TMI Memphis THE KILLER 38 BIRTHDAY SEPT 29 1973 SIR DOUGLAS QUINTET sTEVE CROPPER DUCK DUNN MEAT MAN PEDOPHILE MEAUX KAPLAN CAJUN COONASS HOUSTON TEXAS COCAINE AMPHETAMINE PILLS UPPERS DEXAMYL PLACIDYL WIMMEN AUDIO NICHOPOULOS NICKOPOULOOZA [::] threepasco
Huey P. Meaux ~ The Crazy Cajun ~ someone just searched if he was dead ... tryin' to find out myself
Huey P. Meaux ~ The Crazy Cajun
The following is an excerpt from an article originally published in Texas Monthly.
Huey P. Meaux ~ The Crazy Cajun
By Joe Nick Patoski
Huey Meaux [b. March 10, 1929] grew up outside of Kaplan, Louisiana, a small community surrounded by rice fields near Lafayette. His parents and siblings were poor sharecroppers who spoke mainly Cajun French, worked hard in the fields all week, and played harder on Saturday night, when Creoles and Cajuns would push back the furniture in a house, get roaring drunk, and dance to a band all night long.
"Back in them days, my dad worked for the man-picked cotton, hoed, grew rice, shucked it, and harvested it," he told me one time. "We had four shotgun houses, two black families, two white families. Music was a release. If somebody didn't get cut up and beat the shit out of someone, the dance was considered bad. I was raised that way."
He moved with his family to Winnie [Texas] at the age of twelve, part of the Cajun migration west across the Sabine River to greener rice fields and better jobs. His father, Stanislaus Meaux (known to all as Pappy Te-Tan), played accordion and fronted a group with teenaged Huey as the drummer. "I wasn't worth a damn," Huey told me once, but the excitement of being in a band stayed with him. In his twenties, he cut hair at the barber shop by day. "A barber is like a bartender, he knows who is screwing whose wife, when, and what time. I dug all that because I was part of something," he said. After hours, he was a disc jockey, hosting teen hops in Beaumont [Texas] and promoting dances all over the Golden Triangle.
His colleagues on the local music scene included singer George Jones, pianist Moon Mullican, and disc jockey J. P. Richardson, a.k.a. the Big Bopper. ("I was riding with him in the back seat of a car from Port Arthur to the studio in Houston when he wrote the lyrics for the B side of a novelty song he was cutting called Purple People Eater Meets the Witch Doctor. He called the B side Chantilly Lace," Huey told me back in the seventies.) A local promoter and record producer named Bill Hall taught Meaux the nuances of the business of music, mainly by never paying Meaux what he was owed. "That was my college education in the bidness. I didn't think people were supposed to get paid for having fun. So Hall would take my records, put his name on them, and take them to the record companies. When we'd go to Nashville, he'd tell me to keep my mouth shut. He said they'd laugh at my accent up there. And I believed him," Huey said.
In 1959 Meaux produced the first hit with his name on it, Breaking Up Is Hard to Do, a maudlin lament by Jivin' Gene, as Meaux had rechristened Gene Bourgeois. The song's hook, he liked to tell people, was the vocal's echo effect, which was accomplished by "sticking Gene back in the shitter, surrounded by all that porcelain." Subsequent hits such as Barbara Lynn's soul stirrer You'll Lose a Good Thing, Joe Barry's swinging I'm a Fool to Care, Rod Bernard's This Should Go on Forever, T. K. Hulin's As You Pass Me By Graduation Night, and Big Sambo and the Housewreckers' histrionic The Rains Came were all expressions of teen sincerity tailor-made for belly rubbing on the dance floor. The sound was dubbed swamp pop in honor of the region the artists came from.
Meaux was on his way to becoming a one-stop hit factory; eventually he would own many labels and Sugar Hill Recording Studios and manage artists; he would publish his artists' songs, collect their royalty checks, and promote their records to radio stations. The way Meaux told it, his first royalty check, $48,000 for Barbara Lynn's You'll Lose a Good Thing, attracted too much attention around Winnie. "Even today people think I made that money selling dope," he told me years ago. "I never sold any dope in my life. Sold some whiskey before, took some dope, but never did sell none." He shifted operations to Houston, where peers like Don Robey at Duke and Peacock Records and H. W. "Pappy" Daily at D Records were cutting and selling hits as if the town were Nashville and Memphis combined. Among such company, Huey was well known for his good ear and even better known for his promotional talents. "The song is number one. The singer is probably third or fourth," he explained to me. "The song makes the singer and the producer. Promotion makes all of it. It's up to the man behind the desk, spending money here and there, taking care of favors, just like you elect a president or governor."
As a promoter, his most brilliant stroke was co-opting the British invasion of the early sixties by finding a Tex-Mex rock band from San Antonio, dubbing them the Sir Douglas Quintet, dressing them up in British mod outfits, and even releasing their record on the London label. The record was She's About a Mover, which broke onto the Top Ten pop charts in 1965. Image was everything. "He used to make the married members of the band take off their wedding rings before going on stage," recalled organist Augie Meyers. "He didn't want to spoil the illusion."
Thanks to Meaux's relentless efforts, an all-Mexican San Antonio band called Sunny and the Sunliners broke the racial barrier on television's American Bandstand by performing a bluesy version of Little Willie John's Talk To Me in 1962. Soon after, Meaux had another hit--a slow and thoroughly teen rendering of Hank Williams' I'm So Lonesome, I Could Cry by a young white band from Rosenberg called the Triumphs, fronted by a pimplefaced kid named B. J. Thomas.
"The reason why I had so many hits was that around this part of the country, you've got a different kind of people every hundred miles--Czech, Mexican, Cajun, black," Meaux said. The names came and went--Roy Head, Chuck Jackson, Ronnie Milsap, Mickey Gilley, Lowell Fulson, Joey Long, Doug Kershaw, Clifton Chenier, Big Mama Thornton, Johnny Copeland, Lightnin' Hopkins, Archie Bell and the Drells, Tommy McLain, Cosimo Matassa, and Jerry Wexler--all of them made records or worked with Meaux at one time or another. For two generations of Gulf Coast rock and rollers--or any musicians from Baton Rouge to San Antonio--he was the pipeline to the big time.
But for every Dale and Grace topping the charts with perfect pop hits like I'm Leaving It Up to You, there were twenty failures. Meaux's magic never worked for two talented young boys from Beaumont, Johnny and Edgar Winter, whom he recorded under the names The Great Believers and Texas Guitar Slim. "We'd put them on a local television show called Jive at Five, and their records would stop selling like you turn a light switch off," Meaux said. "People would freak out, being as they was albinos." He said he never got credit for his part in the discovery of ZZ Top and years later took great pleasure in suing the band and manager Bill Ham on behalf of Linden Hudson, a songwriter who was never paid or credited for a song the band recorded. Huey had a copy of the settlement check framed on his wall.
The flip side of his skills as a producer and a promoter was his willingness to take advantage of his artists. An artful con man, Meaux would mockingly warn his acts, "I wouldn't sign that if I were you" at the contract table. Another time he said, "I like to keep my artists in the dark so their stars shine brighter." The artists, hungry for fame and fortune, never balked-and many enjoyed long friendships with Meaux even though he took advantage of them. Gulfport, Mississippi, songwriter Jimmy Donley was a sentimental lyricist who sung in what Meaux called the heartbreak key. Donley sold compositions such as Please Mr. Sandman, Hello! Remember Me, and I'm to Blame to Meaux (and to Fats Domino, among others) for $50 apiece because he needed the money and figured he could always write another song. Even though Donley hardly profited from the relationship, he and Meaux remained close friends; Donley called him Papa. In the liner notes Meaux wrote for the Donley memorial album, Born to Be a Loser, he says that in 1963 Donley called him to thank him for all he'd done for him; 45 minutes later, Donley committed suicide.
Huey's gift of gab made it possible to overlook the gray areas of his personality--the way he treated his artists, his open interest in young women, and his hedonism. The first time I walked into Sugar Hill Recording Studios, in 1974, two years after Meaux bought it, he regaled me for the entire day with the story behind each of the gold records, the publicity photographs, and other mementos hanging on the wall and cluttering the desk in his office. It was a history lesson about roots before the roots of rock were cool.
His showmanship peaked as the Crazy Cajun on his Friday night radio program on KPFT-FM [in Houston]. Huey didn't just announce records, he went wild-stomping his feet to the music, whooping, singing, and yakking nonstop: "Give it to me good, Houston, unh, you sure betta b'lieve it. Come close to the radio and give your papa some sugar, sweet cher ami." A good portion of the radio audience was "the men and women in white up in the TDC"-- prisoners in the state system, mostly up in Huntsville. Huey read their letters, sent them dedications (Release Me was a popular request), and visited with their relatives in the studio.
One night when I was in the studio watching him do the show, he auditioned two new singles he'd just released on his Crazy Cajun label--Country Ways, by Alvin Crow and the Pleasant Valley Boys, from Austin; and Before the Next Teardrop Falls, by Freddy Fender, a fifties-era Tex-Mex rocker from San Benito [see Music: Wasted Days, Texas Monthly, October, 1995]. The Crow tune never went very far, but the Fender cut was Meaux's biggest meal ticket of his career. Fender had a promising career interrupted by a stint in Angola State Prison in Louisiana for possession of two marijuana cigarettes in the early sixties. He had come to Meaux, citing the common bond of their experiences behind bars. The two had tried a variety of combinations, including Jamaican reggae sung in Spanish, to no avail until Meaux cajoled Fender into singing on top of an instrumental track recorded by an anonymous Nashville country band.
Before the Next Teardrop Falls was the unlikeliest country and pop hit of 1975, eventually reaching number one on Billboard's Hot 100. The follow-up, a remake of Fender's 1959 regional rock hit Wasted Days and Wasted Nights, went to number eight. Fender and Meaux had discovered a formula: recycle the swamp pop melodies into modern country music by replacing horn charts with steel guitar fills and female choruses. Meaux was Fender's producer and manager, meaning he received a bigger cut than his artist. Freddy didn't care because they were both getting rich with hits like Secret Love, You'll Lose a Good Thing, Living It Down, and Vaya Con Dios. Freddy bought a house on Ocean Drive in Corpus Christi, where he parked his custom hot rods on the front lawn. Huey bought himself a Beatles-style shag wig and a Lincoln Continental, paid off his note on Sugar Hill Studios, and received major record company funding for his custom record label with a growing stable of acts.
By the end of the ride, in 1980, Fender was strung out on dope and booze and bankrupt with $10 million in debts. He was also accusing Meaux of taking advantage of him through unscrupulous contracts. Huey, who had previously specialized in one-hit wonders, was ready to sever the relationship too, blaming Freddy for squandering his earnings. In 1981 Meaux survived a bout with throat cancer. Save for one last novelty hit--Rockin' Sidney Simien's 1985 zydeco ditty (Don't Mess With) My Toot-Toot-Huey more or less bailed out of the producer-manager-promoter realm and moved into music publishing. He augmented the Crazy Cajun song-publishing catalog by purchasing, among other tunes, Desi Arnaz's signature song, Babalu, and a number of soul composer Isaac Hayes' songs from the Memphis bank that assumed ownership of them after Hayes went bankrupt.
Joe Nick Patoski is a senior editor at Texas Monthly and former music columnist for the Austin American-Statesman. He has contributed articles to Rolling Stone, the Village Voice, and Cream, among other music publications, and is the co-author (with Bill Crawford) of Stevie Ray Vaugh: Caught In The Crossfire, published in 1993.
Source: Sex, Drugs, And Rock & Roll, Texas Monthly, May, 1996 - Vol. 24, Issue 5, p. 116 (10 pp.)
Copyright © 1996 Texas Monthly Photo: The Rolling Stone Illustrated History Of Rock & Roll, Anthony DeCurtis and James Henke, editors, Random House, New York, 1992, p. 255