Satin-Voiced Ben E. King Of Stand By Me Last Chance Last Dance Fame Passes On At 76-The Dance Hall 1960s Night Sits A Little Dimmer
This piece was not written fro Ben E. King but it could have been...
Funny how memory draws you in, draws
you in tight and hard once you focus in just a little. Take this combination.
Recently I have been involved in writing some little sketches for my North
Adamsville High School reunion Class of 1964 website. You know never before
revealed stuff (and maybe should not be revealed now except I believe the
statute of limitations has run out on most offenses) about what went on in the
class rooms when some ill-advised teacher turned his or her on the class; the
inevitable tales of triumph and heartbreak as told in the boys’ or girls’
Monday morning before school talkfest about what did, or did not, go on over
the weekend with Susie or Billy; the heart-rending saga of being dateless for
the senior prom; the heroics and devastating defeats of various sports teams
especially the goliaths of the gridiron every leaf-turning autumn; the
mysteries of learning about sex (I thought this might get your attention,
innocent exploration or not) in the chaste day time down at the summer-side
beach, or late at night after not watching the double feature at the outdoor
drive-in movies (look it up on the Internet that there was such a way to watch
them); date night devouring some hardened hamburgers complete with fries and
Coke at the local all-know drive-in restaurant (ditto look up that too); older
and car-addled taking the victory spoils after some after midnight “chicken
run”; spending “quality time” watching breathlessly the “submarine races” (ask
somebody from North Adamsville about that); and, just hanging out with your
corner boys at Doc’s Drugstore throwing dimes and quarters in the jukebox to
while the night away. Yeah, strictly 1960s memory stuff.
Put those memory flashes together with
my, seemingly, endlessly gone back to my early musical roots in reviewing a
commercial classic rock and roll series that goes under the general title Rock
‘n’ Roll Will Never Die. I noted in one review and it bears repeating here
while time and ear have eroded the sparkle of some of the lesser tunes it still
seems obvious that those years, say 1955-58, really did form the musical jail
break-out for my generation, the generation of ’68, who had just started to
tune into music. Those two memory-inducing events coming together got me
thinking even further back than high school, back to elementary school down at
Adamsville South where music and sex (innocent, chaste variety) came together
at the record hop (alternatively called the sock hop if in your locale the
young girls wore bobby sox rather than nylons to these things. Nylons being one
of the sure signs that you were a young women and not merely some stick girl so
the distinction was not unimportant).
See we, we small-time punk in the
old-fashioned sense of that word meaning not knowledgeable, not the malicious
sense, we hardly wet behind the ears elementary school kids, and that is all we
were for those who are now claiming otherwise, listened our ears off to the
radio or when we scurried home right after school to watch American Bandstand when that program came on in late afternoon. And
we hungry to be “hip” (although not knowing that word, not knowing that out in
the adult world guys, guys mostly, guys in places like North Beach in Frisco
town or the Village in New Jack City were creating the ethos of hipness which
we would half-inherit later as latent late term “beats”) wanted to emulate
those swaying, be-bopping television boys and girls if not on the beauties of
that medium then with some Friday or Saturday night hop in the school gym or in
some church basement complete with some cranky record player playing our songs,
our generation-dividing songs (dividing us for the prison of our parents music
heard endlessly, too endlessly if there is such a concept).
Those were strange times indeed in that
be-bop 1950s night when stuff happened, kid’s stuff, but still stuff like a
friend of mine, not Billy who I will talk about some other time, who claimed,
with a straight face, to the girls that he was Elvis’ long lost son. My
friend’s twelve to Elvis’s maybe twenty. Did the girls do the math on that one?
Or, maybe, they like us more brazen boys were hoping, hoping and praying, that
it was true despite the numbers, so they too could be washed by that flamed-out
night.
Well, this I know, boy and girl alike
tuned in on our transistor radios (small battery- operated radios that we could
put in our pockets, and hide from snooping parental ears, at will) to listen to
music that from about day one, at least in my household was not considered
“refined” enough for young, young pious you’ll never get to heaven listening to
that devil music and you had better say about eight zillion Hail Marys
to get right Catholic, ears. Yah right, Ma, like Patti Page or Bob Crosby and
The Bobcats were supposed to satisfy our jail break cravings (not Bing, not the
Bing of Brother, Can You Spare A Dime? anyway). And the local hop put
paid to that notion, taking the private music of our bedroom dreams and placing
us, for good or evil, out on the dance floor to be wall-flower or “hip”
(remember we did not know that term then, okay.)
But can you blame me, or us, for our
jail-break visions and our clandestine subterranean life-transistor radio
dreams of lots of girls (or boys as the case may be), lots of cars, and lots of
money if we could just get out from under that parental noise. Now getting back
to that rock and roll series I told you that I had been reviewing. The series
had many yearly compilations but as if to prove my point beyond discussion the
year 1956 has two, do you hear me, two CDs to deal with that proposition that I
mentioned above. And neither one includes Elvis, Jerry Lee, Bo Diddley or some
other stuff that I might have included so you know we are in the golden age
when there is that much good non- Hall of Fame stuff around.
Needless to say Larry Larkin, my old
corner boy from North Adamsville home town day Phil Larkin’s cousin, remained a
step ahead of everybody around Ashmont Street in the Dorchester section of
Boston during those days, those days when that seismic change occurred in our
youthful listening habits. (And Larry would transfer whatever cultural
knowledge he had picked up on those Dorchester mean streets, mostly useful
except more often than not wrong on the do’s and don’ts of sex, to Phil, known
as “Foul-Mouth” Phil among the corner boy brethren who would pass it on to us).
Everybody, everything had to change, had to take notice of the break-out, if
only to cut off the jailbreak at the pass. And that is where Larry Larkin’s
step ahead of everybody else came into play, everybody else who counted then,
and that was mainly the junior corner boys who hung around in front of Kelly’s
Variety Store on Adams Street where generations, at least two by that time and
more since, of elementary school boys learned the corner life, for good or
evil, mostly evil as a roster of those who wound up in the various county and
state prisons would testify to.
And not just any elementary school corner
boys but parochial school boys. That is what was significant about my bringing
attention to the environs of the Dorchester section of Boston, a section loaded
down with every kind of ethnic Catholic, recent immigrant or life-time denizen
of the triple decker night, and where it seemed there was a Catholic church on
every corner (and there almost was, and to prove the point Dorchester boys,
girls too lately, identified themselves after being from “Dot” identified
themselves by what parish they belonged to, say Saint Brendan’s on Main Street,
Saint Gregory on Dorchester Avenue, Saint Anne’s on Neponset Avenue and so on,
a phenomenon you would not notice in say Revere or Chelsea).
If there seemed to be a church on every
corner there was sure to be a bevy, if that is the way they are gathered, of
parish priests ready to guide the youth in the ways of the church, including at
Saint Brendan’s one Lawrence Joseph Larkin. And one of the things that had
upset that 1950s era bevy of priests at that parish (and at other parishes and had
caused concern in other religious groupings as well) was the effect that the
new music, rock and roll, in corrupting the morals of the youth. Was making
them zombies listening on those transistor radios that seemed to be attached to
their ears to the exclusion of all else. Was making them do lewd, yes, lewd,
moves while they were dancing (and not even dancing arm and arm with some girl
but kind of free-form about three feet away from each other as if the space
between was some sacred land to be worshiped but not defiled, blasphemy, pure
blasphemy) at what they called record hops, or sock hops, or some such thing on
Friday nights at the public school Eliot School over on Ashmont Street. Was
making them a little snarly when dealing with adults a snarl they learned from
the television or movies with guys named Elvis or James leading them on,
begging them to follow them in the great break-out. Worse, worse of all was the danger of dangers,
sex, which bad as the fast dancing was when they did an occasion slow dance was
very improper, the guys hands drifting down to the girl’s ass and she not even
swatting it away. So yes there was something like a panic about to erupt.
And formerly pious altar boy Larry Larkin
was leading the charge, was the first to wear those damn longer sideburns like
he was some Civil War general. To constantly rake his hair with that always
back pocket comb to look like Elvis’ pompadour style (strangely Larry was a
dead-eye blue-eyed blonde kid, so go figure). He had introduced the new flaky
dance moves like the Watushi learned from eternal afternoon rush home from
school American Bandstand, from his older brothers or from “Foul-Mouth” Phil’s latest
intelligence from his older brothers , that had priests and parents alike on
fire, had been the villain who had introduced the move of the boy putting his
hand almost to a girl’s ass when slow dancing (the girls learned to not swat
them away on their own so don’t blame Larry for that one), and a mass of other
sins, mortal and venial. All learned, according to the priests, at that damn
(although they did not use that word publicly) secular school over on Ashmont
Street. The priests and a few like-minded parents were determined after a
collective meeting of the minds among themselves to put a stop to this once and
for all.
Their strategy was simplicity itself,
with few moving parts to complicate things-“if you can’t fight them, join them.”
So come the first Friday night in November of the year of our Lord 1957 Saint
Brendan’s Parish used its adjacent auditorium for its first sock hop. Worse,
worse for Larry, hell, worse for everybody who learned anything at all from
him, and liked it, boy or girl, the priests had ordered from their Sunday
pulpits that every parent with teenagers
was to send their charges to the hop under penalty, of I don’t know what, but
under penalty. And thus the long chagrin death march faces come that first hop
night.
Obviously there were to be certain, ah,
restrictions, enforced by the chaperones inevitable at such gatherings of the
young, those chaperones being the younger priests of the parish who were allegedly
closer to the kids, had a clue to what was going on, or else dour older boys
and girls, probably headed to the seminaries and convents themselves, or those who
were sucking up to the priests for sin brownie point. Banned: no lipstick or
short dresses (short being anything above the ankle practically in those days)
on girls and ties and jackets for boys and no slick stuff on their hair. Worse,
worst of all no grabbing ass on the slow dances (not put that way but the
reader will get the picture). Yes, boring made more so by the selection of
records that were something out of their parents’ vault with nothing faster
than some Patti Page number yakking about old Cape Cod or Marty Robbins
crooning about white carnations cranking out on the old record player that had
been donated by Smiling Jack’s Record Store over on the Boulevard. (Jack
O’Malley, proprietor of the shop, a notorious drunk and skirt-chaser in his off
hours obviously in desperate need of indulgences, no question).
Enter Larry Larkin who had been dragged
to the front door of the auditorium by his parents and who were duly recognized
by Father Joyce, the young priest put in charge of the operation by Monsignor
Lally (although Larry had not been too hard dragged since Maggie Kelly was to
be there, yes, he had it bad for her). Now everybody knew that Phil had a
“boss” record collection either bought from his earnings as a caddie over at
the golf course on weekends and in the summer or “clipped” from Smiling Jack’s
(and if the reader needs to know what “clipped” meant well we will just leave
it at Larry did not pay for them). They also knew he has a pretty good record
player with an amplifier that his parents had bought for him the Christmas
before last. None of that stuff some of which had used by Loopy Lenny the DJ
over at the Eliot School sock hops would be used this evening and some of the
kids commented on the fact that Larry came record empty-handed. Yes all the
signs where there for a boring evening.
But here is where fate took a turn on a
dime, or maybe not fate so much as the fact that the new breeze coming through
the teenage land was gathering some fierce strength in aid of the jail-break
many like Larry knew was coming, had to come. About half way through the first
part of the dance when more kids were milling around than dancing, talking in
boy-girl segregated corners, when even the wallflowers were getting restless
and threatening to dance, and they never danced but just hung to their
collective walls, definitely before the intermission, all of a sudden from
“heaven” it seemed came blaring out Danny and the Juniors At The Hop and the formerly downbeat scene started jumping with
kids dancing up a storm (including a few former wallflowers who too must have
sensed a portent in the air). The priests bewildered by where the music was
coming from tried to investigate while Bill Haley’s Rock Around The Clock came on with the kids dancing fast like crazy
(including some off-hand grabbing ass usually reserved for slow dances). Irate
and failing to find the source of the “devil’s music” Father Joyce, red-faced
(whether because he knew that the closed dance doomed him among the kids or
because he was going to on the carpet with the Monsignor and probably consigned
to do the 6:00 AM weekday masses) declared the dance over. Done. And that was
the last time Saint Brendan’s Parish sponsored a sock hop for their tender
youth charges.
Oh, yes, how does Larry Larkin last
seen among the milling around crowd on the dance floor fit into this whole mix.
Simple, he had hired Jimmy Jenkin, a non-Catholic ace tech guy older friend of
his brother, Jack, and therefore not subject to the fire and brimstone of hell
for his heathen actions, to jerry-rig Larry’s sound system in a room with an
electric outlet near up near the rafters of the auditorium, a place that the
good priests were probably totally unaware of. Money well spent and a kudo to
Jimmy. And Larry, well, if you want to see Larry (and “Foul-Mouth” Phil, now a
regular weekly visitor at his cousin’s, ready to bring the new dispensation
across the river to Adamsville) then show up some Friday night at the Eliot
School where he will be dancing to the latest tunes with Maggie Kelly in tow.
Enough said.
Hey, here are some stick-outs records from
Larry’s collection used by Loopy Lenny at the Eliot School that every decent
hopping, be-bopping record hop (or sock hop, okay) spun out of pure gold:
Blue Suede Shoes, Carl Perkins (Elvis covered it and made millions but old
Carl had a better old rockabilly back beat on his version); In The Still Of
The Night, The Five Satins (a doo wop classic that I am humming right this
minute, sha dot do be doo, sha dot do be doo or something like that spelling,
okay); Eddie, My Love, The Teen Queens (incredible harmony, doo wop
back-up, and, and “oh Eddie, please don’t make me wait too long” as part of the
lyrics, Whoa!); Roll Over Beethoven, Chuck Berry ( a deservedly early
break-out rock anthem. Hell I thought it was a big deal just to trash my
parents’ Patti Page old Chuck went after the big boys like Beethoven and Tchaikovsky.);
Be-Bop-a-Lula, Gene Vincent (the guy was kind of a one hit wonder but
Christ what a one hit, "yah, she’s my baby now"); Blueberry Hill,
Fats Domino (that old smooth piano riffing away); Rip It Up, Little
Richard (he/she wild man Richard rips it up); Young Love, Sonny James (
dreamy stuff that those giggling girls at school loved, and so you
"loved" too); Why Do Fools Fall In Love?, Frankie Lymon and
the Teenagers (for a minute the king be-bop, doo wop teenage angel boy.
Everybody wanted to be the doo wop king or queen, including my friend Billy); See
You Later, Alligator, Bill Haley and The Comets (yah, these “old guys”
could rock, especially that sax man. Think about the expression people still use “see you later alligator”);
and Since I Met You Baby, Ivory Joe Hunter (every dance pray, every last
dance pray, oh my god, let them play Ivory Joe at the end so I can dance close
with that certain she I have been eyeing all night).
Note: I have mentioned previously the excellent album cover art
that accompanied each classic rock series compilation. Not only do they almost
automatically evoke long ago memories of red hot youth, and those dreams, those
steamy dance night dreams too, but has supplied this writer with more than one
idea for a commentary. One of the 1956 compilation album covers is in that same
vein. The cover shows what looks like a local cover band from the 1950s getting
ready to perform at the local high school dance, not a record hop but if they
are worth anything at all they will play the songs us po’ boys were listening
to on the transistor radio or via that cranky record player lent by somebody
for the occasion at the hop. Although the guys, especially the lead vocalist,
look a little skittish they know they have to make a good showing because this
is their small-time chance at the big time. Besides there are about six
thousand other guys hanging around in their fathers’ garages ready and willing
to step up if the Danny and the Bluenotes fall flat. If they don’t make that
big splash hit like Danny and the Juniors did with At The Hop, the first song that got me jumping, jack they are done
for.
This live band idea was actually
something of a treat because, from what I personally recall, many times these
school dance things survived on loud record playing dee-jay chatter, thus the
term “record hop.” From the look of it the school auditorium is the locale
(although ours were inevitably held in the school gym), complete with the
obligatory crepe, other temporary school-spirit related ornaments and a
mesmerized girl band groupie to give the joint a festive appearance.
More importantly, as I said before, at
least for the band, as they are warming up for the night’s work, is that they
have to make their mark here (and at other such venues) and start to get a
following if they want to avoid another dreaded fate of rock life. Yes, the
dreaded fate of most bands that don’t break out of the old neighborhood, the
fate of having to some years down the road play at some of the students they
are performing for that night children’s birthday parties, bar mitzvahs,
weddings and the like. That thought should be enough to keep these guys working
until late in the night, jamming the night away, disturbing some old fogy Frank
Sinatra fans in the neighborhood, perfecting those covers of Roll Over
Beethoven, Rip It Up, Rock Around The Clock and Jailhouse Rock. Go to it boys, buy the ticket and
ride the furies.
