(from 2014)
When quite seriously
unwell recently, courtesy of the blue tail fly or something similar, I spent
several days lying in bed feeling rather sorry for myself, with my thoughts a
mass of disjointed projects – like some weird document I wanted to put in
order, but couldn’t find the beginning or the ending to do so.
My daughter in a phone
conversation with Mrs O, before dropping everything to come and assist with my
care, asked if I was watching rock and roll films yet? That apparently was
viewed as the litmus test of impending recovery.
And it was true. As I
came back to life I didn’t feel like work. I didn’t feel like reading anything
or writing anything. But all of a sudden, I wanted to watch...rock and roll
films.
I have a very large
collection of these, starting with films from the early 50s up to generally the
70s, with a few “old singers benefit night” revivals since then. My collection
includes all the exploitation films knocked out in a couple of days to
capitalise on new fads. One of the first was of course Rock Around the Clock –
a quickie designed to get teenage bums on seats, or rather jumping about while
ripping up seats, featuring the questionable charms of Bill Haley and his
Comets. Haley was an unlikely star, middle aged and pudgy, complete with
kiss-curl and denture, thrust into the limelight when the film Blackboard
Jungle suddenly became a hit, and his Rock Around the Clock was on the
soundtrack. (It was initially promoted as a novelty foxtrot). Haley was soon
blown out of the water by Elvis and the like.
There were scores of
these pictures, and when “the twist” came in, and “beach parties” came in, the
whole cycle (including the same threadbare plots) started all over again.
Then there are the TV
performances that have survived in shows and compilations. Some are just
lip-synching to the recordings; others feature live performances that worried
the parents of Middle America – and ultimately the whole world. Their fears and
the market’s reaction to them can be summed up by the brilliant introduction to
the film Let the Good Times Roll. This was based on a rock revival show from
the 1970s.
After the opening
credits we have some scratchy black and white film. A middle aged DJ smashes
records – “rock and roll has got to go.” An American evangelist with wild eyes
and improbable hair starts getting worked up into a lather. He “understands” –
he knows how it feels – he knows what it does to you – he knows the evil it
does to you – it’s...it’s the beat – that’s what teenagers say, the beat, the
beat, the beat... Then suddenly – WHAM, BAM – we are in huge widescreen in full
color – Chuck Berry at his leering best – Hail, Hail, Rock and Roll.... Yeah.
No contest.
Anyhow, as I recovered,
my first foray into rehabilitation was to watch a compilation of two programs
from British TV from the 60s – featuring Gene Vincent, Jerry Lee Lewis, and
Little Richard.
Vincent was always
associated with motor bikes. He had a smashed up leg and a leg brace from a
motor bike accident when in the merchant navy, and impresario Jack Good dressed
him all in black leather. It may seem tame now, but in those pre-heavy metal
days, it was iconic.
A motorcycle gang roar
through the streets of London – the UK’s version of Marlon Brando’s The Wild
Bunch. Eventually they motor through large doors into a TV studio where they
come to a halt – and Vincent, complete in black leathers, launches into Be Bop
a Lula. In retrospect, there are several better performances preserved of
Vincent performing this number – he was a little the worse for drink on this
occasion – but he still managed to smash the stand microphone into the ground
during the song, as we had come to love and expect.
One of my proud
accomplishments as a teenager was doing a Vincent impersonation. Years after
Vincent’s early but not unexpected demise, I was sent with another young
gentleman, who we will call P, to work for a charity in a city with a large and
very respectable group of people.
They organised a party
– but not a party as you might know it. It was a very staid affair – perhaps a
gentle game of Bible charades was the daring highlight of the evening with a
little light music thrown in. And then we came in – P started pounding the
piano – I gazed into the middle distance with one leg straight behind the other
and a broom handle doubling as stand mike and straight into “Weeeeeeelll” For the 99.9% of the world who haven’t a clue
what I’m on about check out Vincent on
Even if I say so myself
(because no-one else is going to say it now) it was still rather a good
impersonation. Jaws dropped. Of course, the teenagers loved it. We were human!
We were also mad – but hey, what did that matter?
Of course, I grew up.
Vincent got forgotten. Hopefully, my impersonation of Vincent got forgotten.
And at least in those far off days there wasn’t something like YouTube to come
back and bite you when you were old and grey and respectable.
So that was Vincent on
my DVD.
He was followed by
Little Richard. Flamboyant, Outrageous – every so often giving up the Devil’s
music to sing Gospel. I have never ventured inside a Pentecostal church, but he
gave one the impression of what might happen in a rising collective experience.
And Little Richard was fun. His performance – backed by a group called Sounds
Incorporated – holds up very well today.
I saw Richard in person
on his very first tour of Britain. They had booked him with Sam Cooke, but had
no idea what he was going to do. Would he sing gospel and lose them all their
money? Fortunately for rock and roll, he suddenly reverted and rolled back the
years.
I wrote it all up on this blog a couple of years ago
in a scholarly post called AH WOP BOP A LOO BOP A LOP BAM BOOM!
I remember Richard
throwing a shoe into the audience – causing scuffles for this sacred relic. Then another shoe. Then a jacket. It looked like the
shirt would be next. How far would this maniac go? Then suddenly, while jumping
up and down on top of the piano (as you do) he collapsed in a heap. The
musicians whimpered to a halt. The compere ran on – “is there a doctor in the
house?” Then from flat on his back – Gonna Tell Aunt Mary ‘Bout Uncle John – up
and away into Long Tall Sally.
His TV performance was
of that – er – standard.
And then the third was
the really bad boy of rock. Jerry Lee Lewis. Lewis came from a poor family in
Louisiana. He had been sent to train as a minister (TV evangelist Jerry
Swaggart is a cousin) but was quickly expelled from the college for playing
“the Devil’s music.” Apart from the lyrics, outsiders would find it hard to
tell the difference sometimes.
I remember a
documentary on the history of popular music. Lee was interviewed in some
honky-tonk dive. He was rambling, likely drunk, as he outlined all his troubles
in life, all his ups and downs and car crash relationships. “But” he ended on a
maudlin note, “Jerry Lee just keeps on rocking...” Then he paused – squinted
into the camera – “you’re not still filming this are you..?” Cut.
Lee’s first visit to
Britain in 1958 was brief. He got deported when it turned out that his new
bride was only 13. She was also his third bride. He was still only 22. A
further complication was that a divorce from bride number 2 hadn’t actually
been finalised when he tied the knot with Myra.
By the 60s attitudes
had changed. And Myra – they were still together at this point – had grown to a
more acceptable age. Lewis made several tours that lasted the distance and this
memorable TV show on my DVD came from one of those. As with Richard, the
audience was filled with minor celebrities. It is fun to spot them now,
including the much reviled Jimmy Savile. (I once ran past Savile at a charity
marathon, but that is another story). Dancing by this time had morphed into a
kind of abandoned thrashing, and if people saw themselves on the TV monitor
they would up the odds and do an impersonation of someone having an epileptic
fit.
Lee pounded the piano –
whisking his right hand back and forth without missing a beat around the stand
mike. He grabbed the stand mike and stood on the piano – his slicked down hair
refused to stay in place and got wilder and wilder, as did Lewis’ performance.
Whole Lotta Shaking Going On? Lewis gave a text book illustration of what he meant.
Great Spherical Objects of Fire? Yup - Lewis delivered.
The only unusual note
that I picked up on this time was that the piano was surrounded by boys. Not
girls – boys. Boys with long sweaty hair. Boys reaching out. Boys who wanted to
touch and stroke their icon. Lewis looked slightly disconcerted – this did not
appear to be his scene.
Do you know – just
watching Vincent, Richard and Lewis for an hour – I felt such a whole lot
better. I think all doctors should prescribe it.
Yeah. Rock on.
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