***The Roots Is The Toots-The Music That Got The Generation
Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night
Peter
Paul Markin comment on this series:
I recently completed the first leg of this series which is
intended to go through different stages of the American songbook as it has
evolved since the 19th century, especially music that could be
listened to by the general population through radio, later television, and more
recently the fantastic number of ways to listen to it all from computers to iPods.
That first leg dealt with the music of my parents’ generation, that being the
parents of the generation of ’68, those who struggled through the Great
Depression of the 1930s and World War II in the 1940s. This leg, centered on
the music of my generation growing up in the Cold War 1950s, is a natural
progression from that first leg since a lot of what we were striving for was to
make a big musical break-out from the music that was wafting through many of
our houses in the early 1950s.
The pitter-patter sound of stuff from Tin Pan Alley and sometimes
from Broadway if they were not one in the same once they hit our muffled ears.
You know Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree,
Rum and Coca Cola, Tangerine, I’ll Get By, If I Didn’t Care, tear the
goalposts down, grab a Tennessee waltz, and swing and sway with Big Buddha and
some guy chomping on the chop sticks. The music of our “square” parents which
was driving us to desperation for a new sound just in case those threatened
bombs that we kept being warned about actually were detonated. At least that
musical jail-break is the way we will tell the story now, although I, for one,
have a little more tolerance for some of their music, those square parents
still square but maybe there was hope if the listened to the Ink Spots crooning
away at about seven million different songs with that great harmony, or the
Duke taking that A train or better, much better sweet junkie Billie swaying a
dark fruit, day and night, all of me, and whatever else Cole Porter could
button up the night with. Some, I said, since I am unabashedly a child of rock
and roll, now denominated classic rock. Jesus.
Whether we liked it or not, whether we even knew what it
meant, or frankly, during that hellish growing up absurd teenager time in the
1950s trying to figure out our places, if any, in the cold war red scare world,
if there was to be a world, and that was a close thing at times, or whether we
cared, our tribal music was as dear a thing to us, we who were in the throes of
finding our own very different musical identities. Whether we knew it or not in
the big world- historic picture scheme of things, knew what sacred place the music
of the 1950s, rhythm and blues, scat be-bop, rockabilly, doo wop, flat out pure
rock and roll those tunes held a primordial place in our youthful hearts. That
was our music, our getting through the tough times music of post-World War II
teen alienation and angst, that went wafting through the house on the living
room radio (when the parents were out), on the family record player (ditto on
the parents), or, for some, the television (double ditto the parents out,
especially when American Bandstand
hit us like a hurricane and we breathlessly rushed home very afternoon after
school to make sure we were hip to the latest songs, the latest dances, the
latest hair styles, boys and girls, and whether that brunette with the boffo
hair-do and showing an edge of cleavage was ‘going steady” or whether we has a
dream chance at her, or her “sister,” same boffo hair-do sitting across from you
in seventh grade English class), and best of all on that blessed transistor
radio, compact enough to hide in shirt pockets but loud enough when placed next
to your ear to block out that mother-father-brothers buzz that only disturbed
you more, rear a that allowed us to
while away the time up in our rooms away from snooping parental ears. Yes, that
was the pastime of many of those of us who constitute the now graying fading
generation of ‘68.
Some of us will pass to the beyond clueless as to why we
were attuned to this music when we came of age in a world, a very darkly-etched
world, which we too like most of our parents had not created, and had no say in
creating. That includes a guy, me, a coalminer’s son who got as caught up in
the music of his time as any New York City Jack or Jill or Chi town frat or frail
whose father busted out of the tumbled down tarpaper shacks down in some
Appalachia hills and hollows, headed north, followed the northern star, his own
version, and never looked back and neither did his son.
Yes we were crazy for the swing and sway of Big Joe Turner
snapping those big fingers like some angel- herald letting the world know, if
it did not know already, that it did not mean a thing, could not possibly
matter in the universe, if you did not whether your young febrile brain caught
any or all of the not so subtle to experienced ears sexual innuendoes that
drove Shake, Rattle, and Roll, if you
did not rock with or without Miss La Vern Baker, better with, better with, her
hips swaying slightly, lips moistened, swirling every guy in the place on Jim Dandy vowing be her man just for
that smile and a chance at those slightly swaying hips. Mr. Elvis Presley,
with or without the back-up boys, better with because they held the key to the
backbeat that drove Elvis just a little bit hardy, rockier, and for the girls
from about ten to one hundred sexier, belting out songs, knocking down walls,
maybe Jericho, maybe just some teen-struck Starlight Ballroom in Kansas City
blasting the joint with his Jailhouse
Rock to the top of the charts. Elegant Bill Haley, with or without that guy
blowing that sexy sax out into the ocean air night in some Frisco club, blowing
out to the Japan seas on Rock Around The
Clock. Bo Diddley, all banded up if there is such a word, making eyes wild
with that Afro-Carib beat on Who Do You
Love. A young Ike Tina-less Turner too with his own aggregation wailing Rocket 88 that had every high school
girl throwing dreamy nickels and dimes into the jukebox, with or without
fanfare. Buddy Holly, with or without those damn glasses, talking up Peggy Sue before his too soon last
journey. Miss Wanda Jackson, the female Elvis, with or without the blues, personal
blues, strung out blues too, singing everybody else’s blues away with that
throaty thing she had (and that long black hair and ruby red lips to make a
schoolboy dream funny dreams), that meaningful pause, on yeah, Let’s Have A Party. Miss (Ms.) Patsy
Cline, with or without the bad moments, making grown men cry (women too) when
she reached that high note fretting about her long gone man on She’s Got You, Jesus. (And you not caring
for all the strung-out emotion, or hubris, still wanting Patsy for a last
chance last dance close up song to take a whirl at that she you had been eying until
your eyes got sore all night.)
Miss (Ms.) Brenda Lee too chiming in with I’m Sorry. Mr. Jerry Lee Lewis doing a
million songs fronting that wild piano off the back of a flat-bed truck in High School Confidential calling out, no
preaching out the new dispensation to anybody who wanted to rise in that
rocking world, with or without a horde of cashmere sweater girls breaking down
his doors, putting everybody else to shame. The Everly Brothers, always with
that soft -spoken refrain catch that nobody seemed to tire of, getting everybody
nervous, everybody who had gone past curfew looking for a little, well, looking
okay, and not reflecting enough on damn reputations except in the school
pecking order determined first week of ninth grade in the girls’ lounge and boys’ “lav,”
doing teary Wake Up Little Susie. The
Drifters with or without those boardwalks. The Sherilles with or without the
leader of the pack, the Dixie Cups with or without whatever they were doing at
that chapel. Miss Carole King, with or without the boys, writing the bejesus
out of last gasp Tin Pan Alley. Yeah, our survival music.
We, the generation of ’68, baby-boomers, decidedly not what
Tom Brokaw dubbed rightly or wrongly “the greatest generation,” decidedly not
our parents’ generation, finally could not bear to hear their music, could not
bear to think anybody in the whole universe would think that stuff was cool.
Those of us who came of age, biological, political, and social age kicking,
screaming and full of the post-war new age teenage angst and alienation in the
time of Jack Kennedy’s Camelot were ready for a jail-break, a jail-break on all
fronts and that included from “their song” stuff. Their staid Eisenhower red
scare cold war stuff (he their organizer of victory, their gentile father Ike),
hell, we knew that the world was scary, knew it every time we were forced to go
down into some dank school basement and squat down, heads down too, hoping to
high heaven that the Russkies had not decided to go crazy and set off “the
bomb,” many bombs. And every righteous teenager had a nightmare that, he or
she, was trapped in some fashionable family bunker and those loving parents had
thoughtfully brought their records down into the abyss to soothe their savage
beasts for the duration. Yelling in that troubled sleep please, please, please
if we must die then at least let’s go out to Jerry Lee’s High School Confidential.
We were moreover, some of us anyway, and I like to think the
best of us, driven by some makeshift dreams, ready to cross our own swords with
the night-takers of our time, and who, in the words of Camelot brother Bobby,
sweet ruthless Bobby of more than one shed tear in this quarter, quoting from
Alfred Lord Tennyson, were “seeking a new world.” Those who took up the call to
action heralded by the new dispensation and slogged through the 60s decade
whether it was in the civil rights/black liberation struggle, the anti-Vietnam
War struggle or the struggle to find one’s own identity in the counter-culture
swirl before the hammer came down were kindred. To the disapproval, anger, and
fury of more than one parent who had gladly slept through the Eisenhower times.
And that hammer came down quickly as the decade ended and the high white note
that we searched for, desperately searched for, drifted out into the ebbing tide.
Gone. But enough of that for this series is about our uphill struggles to make
our vision of the our newer world, our struggles to satisfy our hunger a little, to stop that
gnawing want, and the music that in our youth
we dreamed by on cold winter nights and hot summer days.