From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Reflections On A Birth Of Rock And Roll Night. #1

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Reflections On A Birth Of Rock And Roll Night.

 

 

 

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Bill Haley and The Comets performing a rock national anthem, Rock Around The Clock.

The Golden Age Of Rock ‘n’Roll:1953-63, Volume 9, various artists, Ace Records, 2001

Rock and roll was (is) big, sweaty cities, hot time summertime and the living is easy cities, New York outlandish cities, be-bop cities, kids sitting around Washington Square, Central Park, Union Square, name your square or be square,  be-bopping away, waiting, waiting impatiently, waiting out of their shoes impatiently for the big freeze red scare cold war night to turn warm and  provide some fresh air to breath, to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter, head down, ass up breathe. Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sax, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that Asphalt Jungle movie seen down at the Majestic on that cool off Saturday popcorn afternoon. Stag (stag, meaning no girl not solo but with full corner boy regiment), later, intermission later, seeing she, Public School 63 sweet Madonna and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Zooey (not frozen Irish Madonna thank god but not caring not caring a fig just following that bath soap, could it be perfume smell that has hooked guys since, well. Adam), and off to private upstairs balcony screening. Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Zooey, boy) off to Schrafft’s corner lunchroom and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges; play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Zooey (he heard) sweat (and Zooey,  cool bathsoap smell Zooey does not sweat even in sweaty New York cities) and do things up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran Mr. Sam’s ragged looking for just the right look, and old Mr. Mack too benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.        

 

Rock was (is) small Podunk towns, every boy knows every girl (and maybe desires each too although that would cause a scandal in monogamous protestant-driven podunk), small , sweaty towns and villages, hell, one street main street crossroads down in Texas, pass throughs for Greyhound buses and oil tankers, summertime and the living is easy crossroads, Podunk outlandishly named towns, Boise, Helena, Ponticello, Big Sur (before the invasion), Olde Saco filled with French-Canadian boys calling out the songs in patois French (no Arcadia here), be-bop (okay, half  be-bop towns, dusty old towns soon, how soon, to be de-populated by every boy and girl and off to the big sweaty rock and roll cities). Kids sitting around the village green, the fourth of july bandstand, the monument to the civil war, maybe on ocean edge towns down some salty beach, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting just like big sweaty city waiting, for the big freeze red scare cold war night to turn warm and provide some fresh air to breath to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter (or under old time mahogany inkwell desks for real Podunk towns), head down, ass up breathe. Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sax, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell out of that Asphalt Jungle movie seen down at the Bijou (imitation big city Majestic, really doubling for Sunday morning pancake socials too), on that cool off Saturday popcorn (popcorn addicted same as in sweaty cities) afternoon. Stag (ditto, cities, maybe corner boys, maybe no), but later, intermission later, seeing she, Olde Saco South Junior High School, for example, (no blank big city Public School X number here) sweet Madonna (same as big city on that) and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Betty (or Jane, Mary, nothing as exotic as city, city Zooey and off to private upstairs balcony screening. Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to BettyJane Mary, boy) off to Doc’s corner drugstore and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges, play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Betty (he heard) sweat (and Betty, Zooey-like, cool Betty does not sweat even in sweaty summer midday corn-picking fields) and do things, universal do things, private girl things, up in cloistered rooms (so he heard) when they (boys they in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the Sears catalogue (and Ma) ragged looking for just the right look, and old Doc and his fuddy-duddy drugstore with odd medicines for sick people what-a- drag- to- be-old-and- it- ain’t- never- going- to- come- to- that- for- me  benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.        

 

Rock was (is)… And thus this compilation.