Music: Fats on Fire

The Dallas kids yelled as the fat man stumped onstage, flashed an 88-key grin and tore into the piano with both hands, like a starving man wolfing a platter of chicken. The kids shrilled an octave higher as the performer knocked out a couple of bars introduction, then quieted down to mere noise as he ducked his head shyly, leaned over to the mike and opened a satchel-sized mouth: "Ah'm walkin' "— each word a hard, booming beat—"Yes indeed, Ah'm talkin'." A diamond-heavy right hand jackhammered treble chords between beats; three saxes, an electric guitar, bass and drums came down hard on each syllable. Six extra loudspeakers hyped up the rainbarrel acoustics of the Dallas hall known as the Sportatorium, boosted the big noise to the threshold of pain. The kids spilled out into the aisles to rock and roll, but were herded back to their seats by a squad of 26 cops.

Four songs later Antoine ("Fats") Domino Jr. had shown for the 97th time, in a grueling succession of one-night stands, why his reputation rivals that of Elvis Presley with rock 'n' roll fans. Leaving his audience in a happy lather, rock-solid Fats (215 lbs., 5 ft. 7 in.) trucked offstage to his dressing room.

Two handlers laid out fresh clothes as Fats mopped his face and clambered out of his tan silk suit (he owns 51 such rigs). The band got a quick dressing-down: "You guys ain't playin' wuth a cotton picker's wages—a real crummy beat." Then, turning to reporters, Fats philosophized about his wearying one-night stands: "Gold all the way, but man, they get old." Fats's gold standards are high: he estimates that he will make $600,000 to $700,000 this year, spend $60,000 on a house in New Orleans for his wife and six children, pay taxes with the rest.

Basic Bestsellers. The cash came early: Fats is only 29. Eleven years ago he was plunking out "back-beat," barrelhouse piano while he sold "snowballs" (shaved ice and flavoring) from a New Orleans streetside stand. By 1949, he played "rhythm and blues"—the record trade's postwar tag for Negro pop music with the beat, but not the brass, of Dixieland. His record, The Fat Man (Imperial), hit for an 800,000-copy sale. In 1955 rhythm and blues got transformed into rock 'n' roll and began to boom; so did Fats.

Since then, every record he has cut for Imperial has been a bestseller—standards like My Blue Heaven and Blueberry Hill, and custom-tailored works like Blue Monday and I'm Walkin'. Last week his latest lament, Valley of Tears, was doing well: "Only four weeks old, and that baby is hittin' between seven and eight hundred thousand." Fats talks the words in his songs, and they can be understood—a rarity among rock 'n' rollers. The lyrics are clean, but the beat is lowdown and as basic as they come. His head-rolling piano antics never sink to pelvis level.

For the Kill. In his Dallas dressing room last week, Fats speculated about his popularity and Presley's: "You got to hand it to the boy. He's it, right now." But when fans call Fats the undisputed rock 'n' roll king, he chortles: "Man, I carry that tag well—I mean undisputed."