From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- In The Time Of The Be-Bop Baby- Boomer Jail Break-Out-1964
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Martha and the Vandellas performing Dancing In The Streets (lordy, lordy, yes).
I had several months ago been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in an extensive classic rock ‘n’ roll series from the 1950s and early 1960s(now classic, then just our coming of age music). A lot of those reviews had been driven by the artwork which graced the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may, to the themes expressed in these artwork scenes. Here we have the latter, the not fit in part, for this reviewer anyway.
The1964 art cover piece I want to comment on here had as its subject an illustration of a high school girl (the guy, the heads turned guy backdrop used let you know, just in case you were clueless, that the rock scene was directed, point blank, at high school students, high school students, especially girls, with discretionary money to buy hot records, or drop coins in the local juke box), or rather since her top part was not shown her high heel sneakers (Chuck Taylor red high tops, for sure, no question, although there is no trademark present no way that they can be some knock-offs in 1964, no way, I say). The important thing, in any case, is the sneakers, and that slightly shorter than school regulation, 1964 school regulation, dress, a dress that presages the mini-skirt craze that was then just on its way from Europe. Naturally said dress and sneakers, sneakers, high- heeled or not, red or not, hell, Chuck Taylors or not, against the mandatory white tennis sneakers on gym days and low-heel pumps on other days, is the herald of some new age. And, as if to confirm that new breeze, that sniff of a breeze even those who did not fit in could sense, in the background scouring out her properly lonely prudish window, a sullen, prudish (oops, I said that already) old dame, an old dame who probably never was a jitterbug dame, never a raise her skirt dame, when her generation had their day, was looking on in parent/teacher/cop/priest/authorities distaste and dismay. She, the advance guard, obviously, of that parentally-driven reaction to all that the later 1960s stood for to us baby-boomers, as the generations fought out their epic battles about the nature of the world, our world or theirs.
But see that is so much “wave of future” just then because, sullen old prudish dame or not, what Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and dress, yah, don’t forget that knee-showing dress and those guys dreams about what that meant, meant even for not fit ins) is preening for is those previously mentioned guys who are standing (barely) in front of said apartment entrance and showing their approval, their approval in the endless boy and girl meet game.
And these guys are not just of one kind, they are cool faux “beat” daddy guys, tee-shirted corner boy guys, and well, just average 1964- style average plaid shirt, black chino loafer guys out of some American Graffiti dream guys. Now the reality of Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and a wig hat on her head) proved to be a minute thing and was practically forgotten in the musical breeze that was starting to come in from Europe (British invasion led by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones) but it was that harbinger of change that the old dame (prudish assumed) dreaded and we, teenagers, especially we teenagers of the Class of 1964, were puzzled by. All we knew for sure, at least some of us knew, was that our generation, at least for a moment, was going to chase a few windmills, and gladly. Little did we know, and perhaps it would not have changed our course not it should have, that we would fight, some of us anyway, a forty plus year cultural war based on that slight breeze we sniffed.
That is the front story, the story of the new breeze coming, but the back story is that the kind of songs that were on that CD with that British invasion coming full blast were going to be passé very soon. Moreover, among my crowd, my hang-out crowd, my hang-out guy and girl crowd of guys who looked very much like those guys pictured on the artwork, if not my school crowd (with a slightly different, more nerdy look) also dug the folk scene, the Harvard Square at weekend night, New York City Village every once in a while folk scene, the Dylan, Baez, Van Ronk, Paxton, Ochs, etc. scene which was still in bloom and competitive (although that scene, that folk scene minute, ironically, would soon also be passé).
Thus 1964 was a watershed year for a lot of the genres, really sub-genres, featured on that CD. Like the harmony-rich girl groups (The Supremes, Mary Wells, The Shangri-Las, Martha and the Vandellas, Betty Everett) and the surfer boy, hot-rod guys of blessed neighborhood memory (Ronnie and the Daytonas, The Rivieras, and The Beach Boys, a little). But it was also a watershed year for the guys pictured in the artwork (and out in the neighborhoods, the hard-bitten working-class neighborhoods where I came of age). Some, like a couple of guys down the end of my street now chiseled in black marble down in Washington, would soon be fighting in Vietnam, some moving, for a time anyway, to a commune to get away from it all, and others would be raising holy hell about that war, the need for social justice and the way things were being run in this country.
And Ms. Hi-heel sneakers? Maybe, just maybe, she drifted, mini-skirt and moccasins, or jeans and buckskin jacket, headband to hold her hair (and head) on, name changed to Butterfly Swirl, or some such, into that San Francisco for the Summer of Love, 1967 version, night, going barefoot into that good night. And maybe, just maybe she ran into my old merry prankster yellow brick road friend, or his one of his ilk, Peter Paul Markin, and survived to tell the tale. I like to think so anyway.
Watershed year or not, there were some serious non-British invasion stick-outs in that CD. Under The Boardwalk (great harmony), The Drifters; Last Kiss, Frank Wilson and The Cavaliers; Dancing In The Streets (lordy, lordy, yes), Martha and the Vandellas; Leader Of The Pack (what a great novelty song and one that could be the subject of a real story in my growing up neighborhood filled with motorcycle boys looking for kicks, and respect), The Shangri-Las; Hi-Heel Sneakers, Tommy Tucker (thanks for the lead-in, Tommy), and, the boss song of the teen dance club night, worthy of its own sketch or illustration, no question, no challenge, no competition, Louie, Louie by the Kingsmen.
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Martha and the Vandellas performing Dancing In The Streets (lordy, lordy, yes).
I had several months ago been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in an extensive classic rock ‘n’ roll series from the 1950s and early 1960s(now classic, then just our coming of age music). A lot of those reviews had been driven by the artwork which graced the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may, to the themes expressed in these artwork scenes. Here we have the latter, the not fit in part, for this reviewer anyway.
The1964 art cover piece I want to comment on here had as its subject an illustration of a high school girl (the guy, the heads turned guy backdrop used let you know, just in case you were clueless, that the rock scene was directed, point blank, at high school students, high school students, especially girls, with discretionary money to buy hot records, or drop coins in the local juke box), or rather since her top part was not shown her high heel sneakers (Chuck Taylor red high tops, for sure, no question, although there is no trademark present no way that they can be some knock-offs in 1964, no way, I say). The important thing, in any case, is the sneakers, and that slightly shorter than school regulation, 1964 school regulation, dress, a dress that presages the mini-skirt craze that was then just on its way from Europe. Naturally said dress and sneakers, sneakers, high- heeled or not, red or not, hell, Chuck Taylors or not, against the mandatory white tennis sneakers on gym days and low-heel pumps on other days, is the herald of some new age. And, as if to confirm that new breeze, that sniff of a breeze even those who did not fit in could sense, in the background scouring out her properly lonely prudish window, a sullen, prudish (oops, I said that already) old dame, an old dame who probably never was a jitterbug dame, never a raise her skirt dame, when her generation had their day, was looking on in parent/teacher/cop/priest/authorities distaste and dismay. She, the advance guard, obviously, of that parentally-driven reaction to all that the later 1960s stood for to us baby-boomers, as the generations fought out their epic battles about the nature of the world, our world or theirs.
But see that is so much “wave of future” just then because, sullen old prudish dame or not, what Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and dress, yah, don’t forget that knee-showing dress and those guys dreams about what that meant, meant even for not fit ins) is preening for is those previously mentioned guys who are standing (barely) in front of said apartment entrance and showing their approval, their approval in the endless boy and girl meet game.
And these guys are not just of one kind, they are cool faux “beat” daddy guys, tee-shirted corner boy guys, and well, just average 1964- style average plaid shirt, black chino loafer guys out of some American Graffiti dream guys. Now the reality of Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and a wig hat on her head) proved to be a minute thing and was practically forgotten in the musical breeze that was starting to come in from Europe (British invasion led by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones) but it was that harbinger of change that the old dame (prudish assumed) dreaded and we, teenagers, especially we teenagers of the Class of 1964, were puzzled by. All we knew for sure, at least some of us knew, was that our generation, at least for a moment, was going to chase a few windmills, and gladly. Little did we know, and perhaps it would not have changed our course not it should have, that we would fight, some of us anyway, a forty plus year cultural war based on that slight breeze we sniffed.
That is the front story, the story of the new breeze coming, but the back story is that the kind of songs that were on that CD with that British invasion coming full blast were going to be passé very soon. Moreover, among my crowd, my hang-out crowd, my hang-out guy and girl crowd of guys who looked very much like those guys pictured on the artwork, if not my school crowd (with a slightly different, more nerdy look) also dug the folk scene, the Harvard Square at weekend night, New York City Village every once in a while folk scene, the Dylan, Baez, Van Ronk, Paxton, Ochs, etc. scene which was still in bloom and competitive (although that scene, that folk scene minute, ironically, would soon also be passé).
Thus 1964 was a watershed year for a lot of the genres, really sub-genres, featured on that CD. Like the harmony-rich girl groups (The Supremes, Mary Wells, The Shangri-Las, Martha and the Vandellas, Betty Everett) and the surfer boy, hot-rod guys of blessed neighborhood memory (Ronnie and the Daytonas, The Rivieras, and The Beach Boys, a little). But it was also a watershed year for the guys pictured in the artwork (and out in the neighborhoods, the hard-bitten working-class neighborhoods where I came of age). Some, like a couple of guys down the end of my street now chiseled in black marble down in Washington, would soon be fighting in Vietnam, some moving, for a time anyway, to a commune to get away from it all, and others would be raising holy hell about that war, the need for social justice and the way things were being run in this country.
And Ms. Hi-heel sneakers? Maybe, just maybe, she drifted, mini-skirt and moccasins, or jeans and buckskin jacket, headband to hold her hair (and head) on, name changed to Butterfly Swirl, or some such, into that San Francisco for the Summer of Love, 1967 version, night, going barefoot into that good night. And maybe, just maybe she ran into my old merry prankster yellow brick road friend, or his one of his ilk, Peter Paul Markin, and survived to tell the tale. I like to think so anyway.
Watershed year or not, there were some serious non-British invasion stick-outs in that CD. Under The Boardwalk (great harmony), The Drifters; Last Kiss, Frank Wilson and The Cavaliers; Dancing In The Streets (lordy, lordy, yes), Martha and the Vandellas; Leader Of The Pack (what a great novelty song and one that could be the subject of a real story in my growing up neighborhood filled with motorcycle boys looking for kicks, and respect), The Shangri-Las; Hi-Heel Sneakers, Tommy Tucker (thanks for the lead-in, Tommy), and, the boss song of the teen dance club night, worthy of its own sketch or illustration, no question, no challenge, no competition, Louie, Louie by the Kingsmen.
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