One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock

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Pat MurphyPurists may argue about the identity of the first rock ‘n’ roll record – 1951’s Rocket 88 has its vocal supporters – but for vast numbers of non-experts who were simply around during the 1950s, Rock Around the Clock was where it all started. Written in 1952 and recorded by Bill Haley and his Comets in 1954, the song exploded into mainstream culture via the soundtrack of the 1955 movie Blackboard Jungle. And 60 years ago this summer, it was the most popular record in North America.

Indeed, if you want to pinpoint a single moment signifying the birth of post-war youth culture and the associated cult of rebellion, Rock Around the Clock is it. To be sure, much of the rebellion was faux, nothing more than self-referential posturing and high spirits. And when it went beyond that, it could most aptly be described as juvenile delinquency. But the idea of the teenager as a separate and distinct entity became irrevocably embedded in popular imagination.

True to the pattern of the times, it took six months or so for the phenomenon to fully cross the Atlantic; and when it did, it hooked-up with the peculiarly Anglo-Celtic manifestation known as the Teddy Boys. The mating was a combustible one.

The Teddy Boys, or the Teds for short, favoured Edwardian style drape jackets with velvet collars, tapered drainpipe trousers, and crepe-soled, preferably suede, shoes. Hair was also a big thing, with greased ducktails, quiffs and – for those who could grow them – sideburns being the order of the day.

Thus suitably uniformed, the Teds relished what young males in groups have traditionally cherished. There was the camaraderie of the pack, the solidarity-inducing buzz from the disapproval of their elders, and perhaps the prospect of occasional violence. Legend even had it that some Teds had exposed razor blades sewn into the collars of their jackets, all the better to punish any adversary who had the temerity to grab them by the lapels.

As for the mating between the Teds and rock ‘n’ roll, it was initially consummated when Blackboard Jungle played at the Elephant and Castle in South London, replete with cinema seats being torn up and dancing in the aisles. From there, aided by dramatic headlines in the popular press, the contagion spread. Or at least it appeared to do so.

Although our village a few miles from the Dublin city centre only had a handful of usually peaceful Teds, things got hot one summer Sunday afternoon when a group from a more urban parish came looking for excitement, only to get more than they bargained for before escaping via public transportation. Varying reactions illustrated the generation gap: We 12 and 13 year-olds gleefully retailed stories of the purported battle, which none of us had actually witnessed, while our outraged parents thought that a compulsory stint in the military was the answer. Alas, the fact that Ireland had little by way of an army and no national service rendered that an impractical solution.

Adult anxiety probably peaked in early 1957 when Haley and his Comets crossed the Atlantic for a personal appearance tour. In the best Fleet Street fashion, the London media dubbed their tumultuous arrival at Waterloo Station as the Second Battle of Waterloo, and Dublin warily waited for its turn on the itinerary. In addition to fears of disorder, there was the moral dimension, perhaps best exemplified by newspaper reports of an American archbishop’s warning about the dangers “rock ‘n’ roll tribal rhythms” posed to Catholic youth.

Haley’s two-day visit, however, was a bit of anti-climax. While the shows were enthusiastically attended, there was relatively little by way of disturbance although when the tour moved on to Belfast, the local Teds fought with Canadian sailors from the aircraft-carrier Bonaventure.

Looking back, though, one is struck by the age profile of the creative players. To put it mildly, they weren’t teenagers.

Bill Haley was a prematurely middle-aged 30 year-old when Rock Around the Clock took the world by storm, and his two key Comets – Rudy Pompilli and Franny Beecher – were a little older. Max Freedman, one of the song’s two writers, was on the far side of 60, while producer Milt Gabler was in his early 40s.

Still, age notwithstanding, they knew how to make a great record.

Troy Media columnist Pat Murphy casts a history buff’s eye at the goings-on in our world. Never cynical – well perhaps a little bit.

© Troy Media


Rock Around the Clock

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