Hell's Angel: Gene Vincent

He looked for all the world like a man in the grip of some dark, wrenching religious experience. The contorted figure in the black leather suit stood with one leg forward, knee bent, and the other, held rigid in a steel brace and thrust awkwardly out behind him. The stance was unnatural, you could maybe call it unholy. His body seemed twisted, almost tortured. At peaks in the act, his whole frame would appear to vibrate as he clutched the microphone stand with his gloved hands, desperately, as though it was all that prevented him from being born away by the rage and passion of the moment. His corpse pale face was framed, Dracula style, by the upturned collar of his leather jacket, and a sweat soaked bunch of grapes had collapsed on his forehead. He had this trick of raising his eyes to an imaginary point, high in the auditorium, higher even that the cheap seats in the upper balcony, as though he was staring into some unknown place, invisible to the rest of us.