Cinematic Addict: *Little Richard: I Am Everything*

Or “When the Architect Still Has to Demand His Credit”

And “awopbopaloobopalopbamboom” to you too, boyo! (Pic: americanstandardtime.com)

Y’know what, dear readers? It hit me last night: I’m all politics’ed out!

The election results just dumped a load of saltpeter in my coffee, and triggered my PTSD too. There’s more to address, but I dunno if I have it in me! At what point am I just shouting into an echo chamber, and my cries have stopped falling on ears that believe everything our side says about Cheetoh Mussolini is a lie, anyway?

Honestly, I think I do need to “stay in my lane” and write about some rock ‘n’ roll for a bit, even though I’ve been diving headfirst into jazz lately, thanks to a book I’ll be reviewing here soon. I just feel a little punk-saturated, finishing back-to-back books on the subject at the moment. It just feels right, letting Amazon Music reel out “The Collector” from the Blue Note album Adam’s Apple by Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, Reginald Workman, and Joe Chambers.

And now that I am winding up both books, I can write about some things that got lost in the shuffle as I so narrowly focused my energy on learning the craft of creating literary works. And let me ask you, dear reader, and I do want your honest assessments here: Has my writing improved from the experience? Have you seen it in my work I’m doing here, at The ‘Stack? Please seriously let me know. Post your observations in the comments section here. I seriously need your feedback. I need to know I’m not delusional, and it ain’t my ego talking.

But yeah, I have a load of books and documentaries released in the last year I kept meaning to review for you, and just couldn’t while I was chasing down the latest draft of Anarchy In The Studio. Beginning with:

LITTLE RICHARD: I AM EVERYTHING – D: Lisa Cortes; Starring Little Richard. (TV-MA, 1 hr. 41 min., Magnolia Pictures and Magnet Releasing)

“I am the innovator. I am the originator. I am the emancipator. I am the architect of rock 'n' roll!” That’s Little Richard in a nutshell—a man who wore his audacity like eyeliner, strutting through music history with a voice that could wake the dead. Little Richard: I Am Everything doesn’t just tell his story; it’s a plea for the world to finally give him his due. Watching this documentary is a bit like lighting a stick of dynamite and then staring right into the explosion.

As that quote indicates, the man born Richard Wayne Penniman in Macon, Georgia on December 3, 1932, never suffered from insecurity. He knew who he was—the Muhammed Ali of rock ‘n’ roll—and that he deserved a fuckuvalot more credit than he got. And if Little Richard: I Am Everything does anything right, it shows you why that wasn’t just ego, wasn’t just bombast—though he had that in spades. Little Richard was the holy spirit, a force that punched a hole in the moral fabric of 1950s America with all the glitter, eyeliner, and primal howl that rock ‘n’ roll needed to stand on its own. He set the stage for everyone else—everyone, not just the ones who’ll admit it.

Directed by Lisa Cortés, the film gets some things dead-on. Through interviews, vintage clips, and fresh perspectives from today’s musicians and scholars, I Am Everything reminds us how dangerous Little Richard was when he first hit. The sight of a flamboyant, Black, bisexual man in loud drape suits, a mile-high pompadour, and a faceful of Max Factor, shaking himself into a frenzy, singing like he was possessed—it terrified and electrified the crowd in equal measure. He demanded attention and bent the rules. “Tutti Frutti,” “Long Tall Sally,” “Slippin’ And Slidin’,” “Good Golly Miss Molly,” “Lucille”—these songs weren’t limp, wet teenage hits, except when rendered by Pat Boone. These were assaults on the hypocrisy of the buttoned-down, gray flannel ‘50s, and when you hear them now, you realize they’ve barely aged.

What the documentary hits hardest is that Little Richard had to keep fighting for his place at the rock ‘n’ roll altar. How is it that Chuck Berry and Elvis—no disrespect—are remembered as r’n’r's primary fathers, but Richard’s name so often got buried beneath theirs? I Am Everything peels back the layers of cultural theft and erasure that plagued him, and it's infuriating. How many times did he have to reclaim his title, remind us that he gave us Prince, Bowie, and every other musician who’s ever dared to blur the lines?

And here’s the kicker—the film doesn’t let you look away from the contradictions that defined him. Little Richard loved the spotlight, loved pushing boundaries, but he was also deeply conflicted, fighting with his own faith and sexuality till the end. That push-pull between spirit and sin haunted him. So even as he claimed he was everything, he seemed at odds with it, retreating to religion just as fervently as he’d once embraced the chaos. The documentary pulls at this tension, even if it sometimes loses its way in examining every historical tangent.

If there’s a flaw in I Am Everything, it’s that it tries to say too much, trying to cover the birth of rock ‘n’ roll, Richard’s influence, and the ways he shaped—and was shaped by—the Civil Rights movement. But maybe that’s fitting. Little Richard was everything, and sometimes the enormity of that legacy refuses to fit into neat chapters.

In a world that’s always looking for a clean story, Little Richard’s life was the messy, glorious sound of someone refusing to be boxed in. He might not have gotten all the credit he deserved in his time, but if Little Richard: I Am Everything does one thing right, it’s this: it reminds us that rock ‘n’ roll wouldn’t exist without his scream, his sequins, his manic barrelhouse piano stylings, his raw, unapologetic self. This comes wailing through in all the vintage performance footage, a Black LGBTQIA+ man cutting a miles-wide fuchsia streak through the black & white ‘50s.  And that, as Richard might say, is the gospel truth.

Remembering the Architects—Supporting the Future of Punk Journalism

Thank you for reading to the end of today’s post. Little Richard’s story isn’t just about rock ‘n’ roll’s birth; it’s about claiming credit, refusing to be erased, and living with an intensity that wouldn’t bow down. And for punk journalism to survive and thrive, it requires that same kind of relentless commitment to telling it like it is.

Today, just as Little Richard had to keep demanding his place in the spotlight, I’m asking you to support The Tim “Napalm” Stegall Substack. This work is powered by readers who understand that fearless journalism, punk or otherwise, doesn’t get mainstream funding—it relies on real people who value truth, perspective, and a willingness to take risks. I depend on you, the readers, directly—not advertising support. When was the last time you saw any ads here, except maybe these exhortations to subscribe?

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