the persona of kim fowley is, to use his own vernacular, like lon chaney duct taped to david bowie, in the man who fell to earth / all that image compacted, he verbally hands you a live grenade while he swallows the pin and grins in meticulous disarray / he is too much americana for any one journalist, theatrical degenerate aside, melanoma scars tattoo his forearm, licorice like clark kent glasses, he whittles his roast chicken with a sculptor’s hint of royalty, and that is to be our first glimpse at the dropping of the guard into the belfry of a real life / to be all things at once is what honesty is, but to be all things at all is something the average joe cannot handle, not outside of the personal plushness of his own strip mall vaudeville needs anyhow
