The Column: Little Richard saved my youth

There was a 1954 hit called “Cara Mia” by the popular, full-throated English tenor, David Whitfield.

“Cara mia mine, say those words divine. I'll be your love till the end of time.”

Sure to draw only approving smiles from even the most uneasy parents, “Cara Mia,” was the first record I bought — a 78 rpm on the London label slipped between two pieces of corrugated backing by the storekeeper so you shouldn’t crack it even before you got home.

I was 14 and — having established superb, socially acceptable musical taste — on the way to adulthood.

Didn’t last.

Only a little later, I was in my tiny bedroom on the third floor of 619 69th St., Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, most likely admiring a stamp from Iceland or Canal Zone recently added to my collection or studying for the Boy Scout merit badge in electricity. Such a good son.

Who knows what was coming from the speaker of my Emerson tabletop radio but, opting for a change, I turned the dial, reaching, unintentionally, WINS.

Thunder, lightning, Alan Freed.

Rock 'n' roll.

All bets were off.

Just like that, I was through with David Whitfield. Likewise, Patti Page, Perry Como, Bing Crosby, Vaughn Monroe, Kitty Kallen, Jo Stafford — all the steadfast stars favored by Mom and Dad and with whom, depending on mood, they occasionally hummed along.

Done. Kaput.

Now what I wanted was the Dells, Harptones, Jesters, Five Keys, Moonglows, Valentines, Heartbeats, Penguins, Channels, Jesters, Teen Queens, Shells, Clovers, Crows, Chantels, Charts and Flamingos.

I was drugged. Insane. I needed more.

I craved Lillian Leach and the Mellows, Sonny Til and the Orioles, Willie Winfield and the Harptones. Ruth Brown, Johnny Ace, LaVern Baker, Fats Domino. And, oh brother, Little Richard.

Wop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom.

“Shut it down.”

My father speaks.

“Why?”

“Neighbors. Show respect.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

“Who’s screaming?”

“Little Richard.”

“What’s he got, Little Louie, something caught in his throat?”

Dad, a burly bread deliveryman who didn’t get beyond eighth grade, was a lovely and gentle guy but not quick to sense cultural shifts.

In the subsequent years of adoration that I devoted to Richard Wayne Penniman of Macon, Georgia — Little Richard — my father called him only “Little Louie.” Dad would puff his cheeks and make the sound of a balloon losing air. “Little Louie,” he would say to himself, mystified, and sit back in his easy chair.

It was a gentle rebuke, one generation sighing at another, as, from what I can tell, happens today.

Whatever.

Had I been threatened with exile to the roof and a diet of only my mother’s alarming stewed tripe and kale, I would not have been driven from rock and roll or Little Richard.

He sang as if it was his last night on Earth.

“Tutti Frutti,” “Long Tall Sally,” “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” “Rip it Up,” “Keep a Knockin’,” “Lucille,” “The Girl Can’t Help It” — how did my humble Webcor record player survive?

“Gonna tell Aunt Mary 'bout Uncle John, he claim he has the misery but he's havin' a lot of fun.”

I taped the cover of his first album to the wall. Richard’s mouth was wide open. His hair was in sub-orbit. His look was something beyond ecstatic as if, owing to his gospel background, Richard had just been awarded a personal pass to salvation.

And, oh, yes, he was black. Ours was not a hateful home but until Little Richard, there were no pictures of black people on our walls. We were as white as ceiling paint. It was a new day.

Once I saw Richard in person.

Freed was having one of his live revues at the Brooklyn Paramount.

The elegant old hall was jammed. White kids, Hispanic kids, black kids, everyone. Richard believed rock and roll brought people together. We of the Paramount thought so, too.

When Richard began singing, all that was bolted down broke loose.

He roared and yelped and pounded the piano mercilessly.

Richard was dressed in some outrageous and electrifying outfit. His pompadour was glossy and teetering toward the mezzanine. The man could sweat enough to put out a fire.

We stood, we danced, we hollered and, delirious, begged for more.

Little Richard died last month at 87. Bone cancer.

“Shut it down,” my father would plead as, again, the righteous racket boomed.

“Little Louie,” he moaned, a man forlorn. “You call that music?”

I did.

I do.