In this laughably loaded Lester Bangsthemed extravaganza, you’ll find countless tales and reminiscences from those who knew him, as well those who didn’t but admired him nonetheless. It got close to printing time when we realized we forgot something: the perspectives of our dear readers. So here you have it, a collection of YOUR feedback, good and bad, on Lester’s concise, uncontroversial missives. —Ed.

PIGFUCKER

Dear CREEM:

its three in the morning. shot up with wild turkey. barbecue bob on hifi. jimmy reed on radio. danger zone just around the corner. somebody threw a molotov cocktail and blew up the block. an hour with keith richards will do. please tell tony glover, wonder where he is tonight, maybe pulling the harps outta the ole leather bag. playing along with ole sonny stereo, really liked that blues 72 piece, tony gets sharper and real razor tongue, thanks for tony, ps. thanks for r. Meltzer

pss. WARNING, leave dylan alone, thats for you lester you pigfucker. love you love your dog but leave dylan to the ones who really love him. psss. (piss) yes I was born in Chicago.

patti smith

america (the country not the group)

(Lester: “Whaddaya mean? I love Dylan! It’s just that I think Self-Portrait is his best album. And that ain’t nihilism either.”)

Published February 1973

PANTS SHITTER

Dear CREEM:

Ha! When I took a look at what Lester Bangs wrote about the Stones I almost shit my pants! (wonder why I never did?) Well, anyways, to get to the point, I mean wat are you an ex-“Denvers State Hospital” patient? What are you, soft? Let me see you write fantastic music like that! And perform like Jagger! (Don’t try you’d only make a fool outa yourself.) In fact I wanna say “thanks” to all the beautiful stone freiks for wat they are! If you wonder why I’m writing this on a paper bag its coz I was in a grocery store reading that sucky article and got so pissed off I started writing. After all Lester have a little sympathy and taste.

A loyal stone freik,

Susan Picone
Lowell, Mass.

P.S. (I hate it, writing on paper bags that is)

(Lester replies: “Will you marry me?”)

Published March 1973

ALICE’S RUNAWAY

I’m a 15 year old girl and I live in Newport, Rhode Island. Alice Cooper is coming down here to do a concert in Providence, R.I. and my sister won’t take me and my friends. Of course my friends are going to take the bus and I got to sit on my ass home cuz my asshole parents won’t let me take the bus. They seem to think that I’m 2 years old and that I can’t take care of myself. Well I’ve just about had it with their shit. I’m leaving. I never had the guts to leave before but I can’t wait now. I was gonna stay in school and be a somebody. (So they say.) But now I’ll become a bum. I don’t care anymore. Besides how old do they think half the kids are that go to his concert? A good percent of them are my age even some younger than me. How the hell do they think all these kids get to the concerts? I’m sure the hell they don’t all get rides. Maybe they think I'm gonna get raped or something. I hope the hell I do and get them off my ass! They think they’re so god dam smart. I’d like to kick them both right in the ass. This concert meant so much to me. And I’m so fuckin’ pissed off it ain’t funny. Do you have any suggestions on what I should do?

Debbie Narse
Newport, R.I.

P.S. Alice Cooper: I love ya! And I’ll get to your concert if I have to bust my ass!

(Lester Bangs said he’d give you a ride. —Ed.)

Published August 1973

JUJU STY

Lester, your eyelids are growing heavy, you are getting drowsy, you are falling asleep. Deeper, deeper, deeper. Alas, you have fallen asleep. Now I have you in my power you bastard. Now repeat after me, “I will give Eric Clapton’s records a good review,” “I will give Eric Clapton’s records a good review.” “Eric is God not Lou Reed.” “Eric is God not Lou Reed.” OK Lester when I snap my fingers you will come out of your hypnotic state and once again become your usual self.

Mohl the Mystic
West New York, New Jersey

P.S. If this fails I will send Buddy Miles to kick Lester’s ass next time he knocks Eric.

(Lester: “Who’s Lou Reed?”)

Published May 1974

SPRINGSTEEN BACKLASH INTENSIFIES

I will be forced to cancel my subscription if you continue to hype that god-awful no talent, Bruce Springsteen.

I was all set to forgive you for running that Dave Marsh puff job on Springsteen in the October issue when, to my complete consternation, I opened up November’s CREEM and saw Lester Bangs’ shameless review of his Born to Run LP. Lester’s comparing that whining, self-pitying Springsteen to Neal Cassady was the last straw. In fact, it was sacrilegious. Neal is no doubt doing cartwheels in his grave right now. Lester, I never thought you’d stoop so low. Sincerely,

Dashiell Chandler
Poisonville, Pa.

P.S. Those so-called Creemettes who hawk Boy Howdy T-shirts in your magazine are lewd and disgusting. Besides that, they ain’t got no tits and you can tell them I said so.

(Lester: “The greatness of any album has nothing to do with the public’s reaction to overhype, and the CREEMettes ain’t exactly drooling after your buns either.”)

Published January 1976

LESTER BANGS IS A WALKING TORT

I would like to apologize to the readers of CREEM for the Jefferson Starship article in the March issue. I took a lazy attitude toward it to begin with, but the way it was edited [By the libel lawyers—Ed.] took out the fun parts as well as another section that was crucial in making whatever point there was to be made. I’m sorry you had to read the resultant piece of crap.

Lester Bangs
N.Y., NY

(“The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers.” —Dick the Butcher)

Published May 1977

LESTER

I know we haven’t had a lot of communication in the last few years, and it might just be out of line for me to write this letter. I’m writing it anyway. It’s been a few days since I heard the news about Lester, and it’s only at this early hour of the morning that I’m able to deal with it.

Ten years ago I wrote a letter to CREEM Magazine, addressed to Lester. In the letter was a collection of my first clippings, reviews and interviews for a local San Diego underground paper called The Door. Lester had been the first rock critic for the paper, I had followed in his footsteps. I wanted him to read my work. I received a quick reply from Lester saying my writing was “damn good...for a San Diego boy.” He passed my articles along to Dave Marsh, and the two of them gave me my first assignment for a national magazine—Humble Pie. I wrote the story, Lester edited it, and it ran almost immediately. I soon felt the difference between being a local writer and a CREEM published “journalist.” Lester helped me out with more assignments. His writing usually carried verbal dynamite, and the brutal truth, but his dealings in private were marked by compassion. Those early articles of mine were pretty bad, and Lester fixed them up.

The years went by, Lester moved on and so did I. I started writing a lot for Rolling Stone, something Lester didn’t quite view with the same enthusiasm that I did. He’d been through his Rolling Stone days. Something about giving a bad review to a friend of the publisher. Lester didn’t back down, and the magazine suffered the loss of his by-line. His articles in CREEM on Lou Reed and the Rolling Stones, and his piece in the Village Voice on Elvis’s death, remain some of the finest music journalism put to paper. He was an incredible writer, a pretty decent rock ’n’ roll frontman, and I owe him a lot. Even if he did rip me for writing one too many cover stories on Peter Frampton. I probably deserved it.

There are many who knew him better, and a whole lot of people who never had the pleasure. I guess I’m writing this letter in hope that CREEM gives Lester a fitting tribute. I’ll always remember what he said about sticking to a point of view, how to find girls in Lansing on a Tuesday night, and how to survive growing up in San Diego. I hope you guys are doing fine in Birmingham. Me, I’m putting on an MC5 record. Sincerely,

Cameron Crowe
Los Angeles, CA

Published August 1982