From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- From The "Ancient Dreams, Dreamed" Sketches-"In The Teen Club Night"

Peter Paul, seemingly, had endlessly gone back to his early musical roots in reviewing various compilations of  a classic rock series that went under the general title <i>The Rock ‘n’ Roll Era</i>. And, as he furtively pointed out, while time and ear had 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 his generation, the generation of ’68, who had just started to tune in to music.

And they, as Peter Paul confessed to me one rainy booze-soaked night a few years ago, they small-time punk (in the old-fashioned sense of that word), they hardly “wet behind the ears” elementary school kids, and that is all they were for those who were then claiming otherwise, listened their ears off. Those were strange times indeed in that be-bop 1950s night when stuff happened, kid’s stuff, but still stuff like a friend of his, not his grammar school best friend “wild man” Billie who he had told me about before and promised to talk more about some other time, who claimed, with a straight face to the girls, that he was Elvis’ long lost son. Did the girls do the math on that one? Or, maybe, they like the more brazen boys; Peter Paul’s (really Billie’s) corner 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 Peter knew, boy and girl alike tuned in on their  transistor radios (small battery- operated radios mainly held to the ear but that  they could also put in their  pockets, and hide from snooping parental ears, at will) to listen to music that from about day one, at least in his household (and just a little later my Olde Saco, Maine one too) was not considered “refined” enough for young, young pious “you’ll never get to heaven listening to that devil’s music” and you had better say about eight zillion <i>Hail Marys</i> to get right Catholic, ears. Yah right, Ma, like Patti Page or Bob (not Bing, not the Bing of <i>Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?</i> anyway) Crosby and The Bobcats were supposed to satisfy their jail-break cravings.

And they had their own little world, or as some hip sociologist trying to explain that <i>Zeitgeist</i> today might say, their sub-group cultural expression. Their “cool” things, nothing hot, nothing sticky to the touch then. He had told me in an earlier sketch about the pre 7/11 mom and pop corner variety store hangouts with the tee-shirted, engineered-booted, cigarette (unfiltered) hanging from the lips, Coke, big -sized glass Coke bottle at the side, pinball wizard guys thing. And about the pizza parlor juke box coin devouring, hold the onions on the pizza I might get lucky tonight, dreamy girl might come in the door thing. And, of course, the soda fountain, and…ditto, dreamy girl coming through the door thing, natch. Needless to say you know more about middle school and high school dance stuff, including hot tip  “ inside” stuff about manly preparations for those civil wars out in the working- class neighborhood night, than you could ever possibly want to know, and, hell, you were there anyway (or at ones like them).

But the <i>crème de la crème</i> to beat all was the teen night club. The over fourteen and under eighteen teen night club. Easy concept, and something that could only have been thought up by someone in cahoots with parents (or maybe it was them alone, although could they have been that smart). Open a “ballroom” (in reality some old VFW, Knight of Columbus, Elks, etc. hall that was either going to waste or was ready for the demolition ball), bring in live music on Friday and Saturday night with some rocking band (but not too rocking, not Elvis swiveling at the hips to the gates of hell rocking, no way), serve the kids drinks, tonic, …, oops, sodas (Coke, Pepsi, Grape and Orange Nehi, Hires Root Beer, etc.), and have them out of there by midnight, unscathed. All supervised, and make no mistake these things were supervised, by something like the equivalent of the elite troops of the 101st Airborne Rangers.

And they, from Billie on down, bought it, and bought into it hard. And, if you had that set-up where you lived, you bought it too. Why? Come on now, have you been paying attention? Girls, tons of girls (or boys, as the case may be). See, even doubting Thomas-type parents gave their okay on this one because of that elite troops of the 101st Airborne factor. So some down at the heels, tee-shirted, engineer- booted Jimmy or Johnny Speedo from the wrong side of the tracks, all boozed up and ready to “hot rod” with that ‘boss”’57 Chevy that he just painted to spec, was no going to blow into the joint and carry Mary Lou or Peggy Sue away, never to be seen again. No way.

That stuff happened, sure, but that was on the side. This is not what drove that scene for the few years while Peter Paul and the others were still getting wise  to the ways of the world. The girls (and guys) were plentiful and friendly in that guarded, backed up by  101st Airborne way (damn it). And they had their …sodas (I won’t list the brands again, okay). But know this, and know this true, they blasted on the music (and later my corner boys did too). The music on some of those compilations previously mentioned to give you an idea of what was what.  I will, in agreement with Peter Paul, tell you some of the stick outs, strictly A-list stuff, from those teen club nights so you get the flavor of those hormonally-maddened times:     

<i>Save The Last Dance For Me</i>, The Drifters (oh, sweet baby, that I have had my eye on all night, please, please, James Brown, please, save that last one, that last dance for me); <i>Only The Lonely</i>, Roy Orbison (for some reason the girls loved covers of this one, and thus, we, meaning the boys “loved” it too); <i>Alley Oop</i>, The Hollywood Argyles (a good goofy song to break up the sexual tension that always filled the air, early and late, at these things as the mating ritual worked its mysterious ways); <i>Handy Man</i>, Jimmy Jones( a personal favorite, as I kept telling every girl, and maybe a few guys as well, that I was that very handy man that the gals had been waiting, waiting up on those lonely week day nights for. Egad!); <i>Stay</i>, Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs (nice harmonics and good feeling); <i>New Orleans</i>, Joe Jones (great dance number as the twist and other exotic dances started to break into the early 1960s consciousness); and, <i>Let The Little Girl Dance</i>, Billy Bland (yes, let her dance, hesitant, saying no at first, honey , please, please, no I will not invoke James Brown on this one, please).