Monday, July 21, 2014

Monday, June 30, 2014

The First Rock & Roll Record VIII: The White of the Ear



Okay, how does my choice of Bill Haley and the Comets’ “Crazy Man, Crazy” (1953) as the first rock & roll record look to me after almost two months?

Well, to begin with, I don’t expect any of my blogposts to have settled the issue once and for all.  Music fans will continue to dispute at what point the popular music circa the 1950s morphed into what we now think of as rock & roll.  And said fans would probably consider the musings of a musical neophyte as last on the list of voices to be heeded.  So, I’m well aware that my contemplations on the subject of any possible “first” rock & roll record carry as much weight as a feather in zero gravity.

Still, I’m struck by how the issue of race informed my own estimations of what constitutes rock & roll.  And as I said before, race, for better or worse, plays a very important role in the formation of rock & roll because the music was the result of a racially segregated entertainment industry (an entertainment industry that some may still criticize as racially segregated in a less overt way).  Moreover, the rock & roll era is still widely seen as the moment when large numbers of white teenagers began listening to backbeat-heavy music by African American artists and by white artists playing music inspired or written by blacks.  So, this widespread historical perception — which I have adopted in part — has a built-in racial bias. 

In particular, my criterion of the “first” rock & roll record not being a rhythm & blues cover, to reflect the music’s adoption by white audiences, automatically disadvantages a number of would-be candidates by black artists, since R&B was regarded as upbeat music primarily played by and for blacks. 

Goree Carter
If I wanted to limit my criteria to an (1) upbeat, (2) backbeat-heavy (3) song for teens (or at least non-adult-oriented song) (4) where no single foundational style of music — rhythm & blues, country & western, swing, mainstream pop — stands out from any of the others and (5) played in what is now regarded as a rock arrangement (in other words, without a non-R&B cover being a factor), I could just as easily have chosen Texas singer-guitarist Goree Carter’s “Rock Awhile” from 1949, four years before “Crazy Man, Crazy.”  While “Rock Awhile’s” lyrics aren’t explicitly targeted at teenagers, the 18-year-old Carter singing (in a non-race-specific context) about his “baby” coming home captures a youthful, romantic exuberance that would become a rock & roll mainstay. 


More importantly, Carter’s style of electric guitar playing helps to set the stage for the instrument’s importance to rock.  As Wikipedia puts it: “Carter's electric guitar style was influenced by Aaron ‘T-Bone’ Walker, but was over-driven and had a rougher edge which presaged the sound of rock and roll a few years later. His single-string runs and two-string ‘blue note’ chords anticipated, and may have influenced, Chuck Berry.  In fact, according to writer Larry Birnbaum, Berry’s acknowledged influence on his own guitar playing is Carl Hogan’s opening riff on Louis Jordan and His Tympany Five’s “Ain’t That Just Like a Woman (They’ll Do It Every Time)” (1946). 

All of this raises another issue: We can confidently say that Bill Haley and the Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock” (1954) was very influential on the development of rock & roll because of its enormous popularity.  However, while obviously prescient, “Rock Awhile” was not very successful commercially, nor was the song covered by a better-selling act.  So, we may presume that the record was not especially influential in its day.  In other words, “Rock Awhile” couldn’t have been the spark that lit the rock & roll fuse.  The song’s prophetic sound without any apparent progeny supports the idea that the combining of R&B, country, and postwar pop was coming from many different musical quarters — as Jim Dawson puts it in his numerous writings on rock & roll, “something was in the air” — making a “first” record of the genre all the more difficult to pinpoint.


But that’s only one way to reconsider my choice.  Another way would be to go in the opposite direction and designate the first rock & roll record as being made by a black artist after “Crazy Man, Crazy,” which is what Michael Campbell does in his textbook Rock and Roll: An Introduction (written with James Brody).  Because he views rock & roll as an aggregate of several specific musical elements, Campbell doesn’t argue for a single “first” rock & roll record, but rather sees a gradual accumulation of these elements over time.  And the person most responsible for shaping rock & roll, Campbell argues, is Chuck Berry, particularly in the guitarist’s shaping of the two-beat rock beat to replace the four-beat shuffle rhythm. 

A guitarist with the eclectic St. Louis ensemble the Johnnie Johnson Trio (headed by its namesake, a boogie-woogie pianist), Berry made his way north to Chicago and a contract with Chess Records in 1955.  Music historians agree that Berry was an uncommon figure because he was an African American artist who showed a genuine affinity for Euro-American country music, and since he played in a band specializing in boogie-woogie, Berry combined the two styles of music in his own way.  In fact, his first record, “Maybellene” (1955) was a reworking of the country record “Ida Red” (1938) by Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys. 


In Rock and Roll: An Introduction, here is how Campbell describes the elements that form rock & roll in Berry’s “Maybellene”:


An Aggressive Guitar Sound [:] The song [“Maybellene”] begins with an unaccompanied guitar riff.  There are two features of the riff that stand out.  One is the edge to the sound — not as distorted as [Willie] Kizart’s guitar in “Rocket 88” [1951; see Part V] but far from mellow.  It is a much more aggressive sound than that heard in pop, country, or even most rhythm and blues.  The exception, of course, is electric blues; Berry’s sound is closer to the guitar style of electric blues guitarists like T-Bone Walker and Muddy Waters than any other guitar style of the era.  This is one important area of influence.

The other is a Berry trademark: the use of double notes.  When Berry plays two notes simultaneously, it makes the sound thicker, which in turn gives it more impact.  His way of blending the notes (heard here mainly in the guitar solo) is reminiscent of the slide (or bottleneck) guitar styles of blues guitarists.

A Full Rhythm Section [:] Almost immediately, the other instruments enter: piano, [upright] string bass, drums, maracas….  Maracas aside, this is, with Berry, the instrumentation of the fifties electric blues band: full rhythm section but with no saxophone.  And as in the electric blues band, the electric guitar is the most prominent instrument.  That the recording would feature blues-band instrumentation is not surprising: Berry brought pianist Johnny [sic] Johnson, his longtime associate, with him from St. Louis; bassist Willie Dixon, who wrote Waters’ “(I’m Your’) Hoochie Coochie Man,” and drummer Fred Bellow were Chess house musicians during the fifties.

A Souped-Up Honky-Tonk Beat [:] “Maybellene” features Berry’s two-beat rhythm used in honky tonk.  Except for the guitar solo, where the band shifts into a four-beat swing rhythm, the song features a two-beat rhythm.  The difference between Berry’s version of a two-beat rhythm and the one in general use is mainly in the backbeat, which is far stronger than in a pop or country two beat.  With both Berry and the drummer emphasizing it, it is more prominent than the beat.  It stands out more in the two-beat sections than it does in the swing beat sections because it is in opposition to the beat, rather than in addition to the beat.  The heavy backbeat would be one component of Berry’s revolutionary rock beat.

Verse/Chorus Blues Form [:] The title-phrase refrain frames several episodes in Berry’s humorous account of a car chase.  The refrain is a straightforward 12-bar blues.  The verses are also twelve bars in length, but the accompaniment stays on one chord throughout.  Almost all of Berry’s fifties hits use some kind of blues form.

Teen-Themed Lyrics [:] The refrain of “Maybellene” seems to set up a story about lost love.  However, the verses are strictly car talk.  We learn much more about the two cars — a Coupe de Ville Cadillac and a V8 Ford — than we do about their drivers, and we never do find out what happens when Berry finally catches Maybellene.  [pp. 110-11]


In Campbell’s view, Berry began shaping the rock beat with “Maybellene,” — often thereafter with his backing musicians still playing in a four-beat shuffle rhythm — but he continued to refine this new beat through such records as “Roll Over, Beethoven” (1956) and “Rock & Roll Music” (1957) before finally perfecting it with “Johnny B. Goode” (1958).


In the long nights at the Cosmopolitan Club [where the Johnnie Johnson Trio played], Berry must have heard hours and hours of Johnny [sic] Johnson’s boogie-woogie [piano].  What Berry did was transfer boogie-woogie left-hand patterns, similar to the ones heard in [Big Joe Turner and Pete Johnson’s] “Roll ’Em, Pete” [1938], to the guitar.  The repetitive boogie-woogie patterns became, in Berry’s adaptation, the first authentic rock-based rhythm guitar style; even in medium-tempo songs, he typically divides the beat into two equal parts.  In “Roll Over, Beethoven,” this pattern is very much in the background.  In “Rock-and-Roll Music,” it is more prominent, but there is no lead guitar.

Finally, in “Johnny B. Goode” (1958), Berry … puts the whole package together: great solo breaks, plus the boogie pattern prominent under both lead guitar and vocal lines.  This recording brings together some of the essential features of rock style: backbeat; the eight-beat rhythm, completely purged of any swing influence; strong rhythm guitar; and assertive lead guitar.  It was this sound, above all, that would inspire the next generation of rockers.  [p. 112]


So, would Campbell consider “Johnny B. Goode” to be the true first rock & roll record?  Again, Campbell doesn’t designate a first rock & roll record because he sees the music developing in several quarters.  Another contributor to the shaping of rock rhythm, in Campbell’s view, was pianist-screamer Little Richard.  After a series of unremarkable discs for other labels, Little Richard broke out in a big way with his first platter for Specialty Records, the wild, chaotic “Tutti Fruitti” (1955), a reworking of a bawdy nightclub foot-stomper, commanded by the singer’s raucous, falsetto-whooping voice.  Little Richard’s subsequent records, such as “Long Tall Sally” (1956) and “Good Golly, Miss Molly” (1958), followed in the same anarchic roller-coaster ride.  As Campbell describes the style:


The [subtle] changes in Little Richard’s music [over the years] are due mainly to the musicians behind him.  Unlike Chuck Berry’s backup band, they quickly adapted to Little Richard’s new rhythm.  In his first hits, such as “Tutti Fruitti,” the band plays in a rhythm-and-blues style: walking bass, heavy backbeat on the drums, and so on.  However, in some later hits, such as “Lucille” (1957), the entire band is thinking and playing rock rhythm.  Bass, guitar, and sax play a repetitive riff in a low register, while Little Richard hammers away [on his piano], and the drummer taps out a rock beat and a strong backbeat.  The contrast with Berry’s songs from the same year is clear: Berry is single-handedly trying to establish a new beat; in songs like “Lucille,” the entire band is on the same page as Little Richard.  [p. 116]


The arguments against my choice of “Crazy Man, Crazy” by Bill Haley and the Comets as the first rock & roll record go on and on, like an all-night jam session.  So, when it comes to disputes regarding the identity of the “first” rock & roll record, the caterwauling among the music critics will continue.  I have no illusions about putting an end to the discussion.  And I have just undermined my own argument for “Crazy Man, Crazy” by presenting some other possibilities.  But my hunt for a deserving candidate has been a fun look back to an intriguing moment for American popular music that’s too often overlooked by our current listening culture’s preoccupation with post-Beatles “rock,” music which is often over-produced in the mixing booth. 

Looking back, I’m struck by how the emergence of rock & roll was marked by a burst of energy and desperation that was instantly seized by a young audience discontented, often in an inchoate way, with the adult society around them.  When it broke out, rock & roll’s most recognizable feature — the unignorable drum beat throughout the songs — acted as a kind of propulsive agitator against the everyday, a pulsating spur that goaded its young audience to seize the moment.  It’s no wonder that rock music fueled the counterculture of the 1960s that protested the Vietnam War. 

But now that prominent drumming (or other forms of beat-keeping) played throughout a song have become the norm in popular music, the beat has lost its desperate drive and urgency — save for the ephemeral punk/new-wave movement of the late 1970s and early ’80s.  That beast has been tamed.  But a peek back into rock & roll’s history is an intriguing reminder of the possibility that the feral creature might escape its cage once more. 

Friday, June 20, 2014

The First Rock & Roll Record VII: My Interview with Charlie Gracie



As far as proto-rock & roll songs go, “Boogie Woogie Blues” by the 15-year-old electric-guitarist Charlie Gracie, recorded back in 1951, sounds especially prescient, both in the way he played his instrument and because of how young he was.  However, the histories of rock & roll that I’ve consulted don’t say very much about either the record or its writer-performer.  Because I wanted to learn more about both, I thought that my best option was to talk to the man himself.

Some background: Born in the Italian-American section of Philadelphia in 1936, Charlie Gracie started learning to play the guitar at ten-years old.  By the time he was a teenager, he had been entering and winning local talent competitions.  While appearing on the local television and radio broadcast The Paul Whiteman Show in 1951, a 15-year-old Gracie was heard by Graham Prince, the owner of the nearby independent label Cadillac Records.  Prince signed Gracie to a recording contract, and it was for Cadillac that Gracie recorded his own composition, “Boogie Woogie Blues” in 1951.  Gracie followed that single in 1952 with another self-penned proto-rocker “Rockin’ an’ Rollin’.”

As he got older, Gracie moved from one independent label to another, landing at the Philadelphia-based Cameo Records.  While he was with Cameo, Gracie had his biggest hit, the chart-topping “Butterfly” in 1957.  He became especially popular in Britain and other parts of Europe.


The story goes that Gracie was tricked out of some of his earnings at Cameo, and when he initiated legal action to claim some of his lost money, Cameo, which was owned in part by Philadelphia’s musical king maker Dick Clark, blackballed him from the industry.  Consequently, Gracie never again rose to the heights of popularity that he achieved with “Butterfly.”  However, now approaching the age of 80, he still performs in both the United States and Europe to a devoted following.  Thanks to his son and manager, I was able to set up a telephone interview with Charlie Gracie about the days of “Boogie Woogie Blues.”


 Me: The reason I wanted to talk to you about “Boogie Woogie Blues” is because I’ve been writing a series of articles about the idea of the first rock & roll record.  I just heard about “Boogie Woogie Blues” last year, and it seems like it’s just one step away from being a prime candidate for the title.  I was very surprised that I hadn’t heard of it before.  Do you remember when you wrote the song “Boogie Woogie Blues”?

Charlie Gracie: Yes, I was just about to enter high school that year — this is, like, late 1951, and I think it was finally released early in 1952.  I was just about 15½, 16 years old.

What kind of song were you trying to write?  Who did you think the audience for song would be?

Appearing in the 1957 film ‘Jamboree!’
Well, at that particular point in my career — I started playing when I was ten-years old, so at this point, I was fairly accomplished as a musician — I wasn’t great, but I knew my instrument.  And I never was much of a songwriter, but at that point, you have a lot of dreams when you’re a kid.  I grew up during the big-band era, you know, the ’3os and ’40s, and my dad was into swing and be-bop, and my mom loved country music.  I listened to all of it.  I also used to put on what they used to call “race records” or [tune into] black [radio] stations or rhythm & blues stations, in those days, and listen to whatever I could to get a mixture of music. 

So, I sat down one day, and I put this tune together.  It was no masterpiece, but for a kid that age, I thought it was pretty good.  So, when I first got my recording contract from Cadillac Records, [label owner Graham Prince] said to me, “Have you written anything, Charlie?”  I said, “Well, I wrote this little song,” and I played it for him.  And he said, “Oh, that’s terrific; that’s good.  Let’s go with that.”  And the other side of the record was an old Fats Waller tune called “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter.”  That was my first record released on Cadillac Records.

So, you thought of “Boogie Woogie Blues” as a combination of swing, country, and rhythm & blues.

Yes.  You know, at that age, you’re very susceptible to what you’re surrounded by.  And, of course, there was no rock & roll at that time.  At least the phrase wasn’t coined, “rock & roll.”  But I used to listen to, I guess, house-rocking music.  That’s what they called it in those days.

Did you see rhythm & blues being a prime influence?

I would say yes.  I would say it was a prime influence along with the old big-band, swing arrangements in my head.  And when you put the two together, it came out like that.  For a kid at that particular point in my life, I think I did pretty good with it.  It was no masterpiece, but it gave me a start. 


“Boogie Woogie Blues’s” flip side, “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter,” is done in a more identifiably swing style.  It’s something you can imagine Frank Sinatra singing to.  Did you feel obliged to put something more conventional on the other side to balance out how unconventional “Boogie Woogie Blues” sounded?

Well, yes, we needed another side.  When I was a kid, I won $100 worth of records on a television show called The Paul Whiteman Show, and in that batch of records were some Fats Waller tunes.  Fats Waller was a very famous singer-pianist of his time, and I believe that was one of his first hits in 1936, a song called “I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter.”  So, I picked that, and we worked with those two sides.

I tried to adapt my own feel to [“I’m Gonna Sit Right Down”].  The fellow who recorded me at the time, his name was Graham Prince, who owned the company, who found me as a recording artist.  He said, “How would you like to do this, Charlie?” I said, “I’ll just do it on the guitar.”  [And I played it for him.]  He said, “That’s pretty good.  Let’s go with that type of arrangement.”  So, he put it all together, and when we finished with it, I thought it was — well, it was a great tune to begin with, so you couldn’t kill it.  And then, we had a nice version of it.  Don’t forget I’m only a kid at this point.  I was just about to enter high school, my three last years of schooling.

When you were learning to play the guitar, who were your role models?  Who were the people that inspired you?

Well, I’ll tell you, there weren’t too many guitar players around then that I knew of as a kid.  Of course, the guitar was not that popular in 1946, when I began playing, when I was ten-years old.  I used to hear guys like George Barnes and Barney Kessel, but they were more like jazz guitarists.  But there was one guy who played with the Bill Haley group; his name was Danny Cedrone, who played that very famous lick on “Rock Around the Clock.”  I used to try to listen to his guitar playing as much as possible.  I think he influenced me more than anybody else.


The recordings of Danny Cedrone that I’ve heard have been mostly to jazz arrangements, fairly conventional stuff.  Were you aware of him playing less conventional stuff?

Well, I thought his stuff was very unique.  Don’t forget, we’re on the verge of rock & roll at this point — when they called it “rock & roll” — so everybody’s playing a combination of musical styles.  I used to listen to people like Louis Jordan, Louis Prima; they were precursors to rock & roll; they were right there.  The tempo was there.  The lyrics had that southern New Orleans sound.  Louis Armstrong influenced me, too.

I just think that your guitar solo in “Boogie Woogie Blues” is unusual in that it has more of a strumming attack than a usual single-string guitar solo.

Well, if you listen closely, it was both.  I was playing the rhythm guitar — I played guitar on all my records, even up till today — and whenever they wanted to give me a solo, I would go into the single string and share it perhaps with Sax Thomas or the pianist.  And it was just a style that I developed by myself.


I notice that your follow-up to “Boogie Woogie Blues” was called “Rockin’ an’ Rollin’.”  That phrase at the time was usually used to describe a kind of dancing or religious rapture.  In your song, you simply mean it as “traveling.”  What inspired you to call the song “Rockin’ an’ Rollin’” and to use that phrase?

Well, you gotta remember once again I’m just a teenager, and when I wrote this song — once again, it was no masterpiece, but the arrangement, it was put together by Mr. Prince — it was pretty good, you know?  And then, we weren’t far away from the phrase “rock & roll” at that point.  So, you never know what’s coming in this business [laughs]. 

I know that “Boogie Woogie Blues” and “Rockin’ an’ Rollin’” weren’t huge sellers, but after “Rock Around the Clock” and after rock & roll became a big phenomenon, did any rock stars say you influenced them back in the early ’50s?

Now that you mention it, over the years — of course, at that point, I didn’t really have many contacts with the outside world because I was just a kid — but as time went by and the years went by, I’ve had guys come up to me and say when they bought that record, it influenced them to play guitar and even copy my style of playing.  So, I was very astonished about that.  I didn’t think anybody thought that I was special in any particular way, but I think I did [influence people] to a point.  Not that everybody emulated me, but you gotta remember, at that particular point, we didn’t even have reverb units on the guitar; it was just a flat-sounding guitar. 

Well, it’s good to learn more about “Boogie Woogie Blues.”

Good.  Listen, you can always get more information on my website.  My son has a Facebook [page].  I don’t get involved in that because I’m a dinosaur [laughs].  When I was a kid, I didn’t even have a telephone in the house; I had to go to the drug store.  But [my son] has everything under control.  Anything you need like that, just contact him, and I’m sure he’ll be very happy to take care of you in any possible way he can.  

Charlie Gracie today

Monday, May 19, 2014

The First Rock & Roll Record VI: ‘Crazy Man, Crazy’



So, for the second time, I have stuck out my neck and named a “first” rock & roll record: Bill Haley and the Comets“Crazy Man, Crazy” (as the printing-error punctuation read on the original label), recorded and released in April 1953.  I’m sure that my decision will encounter the scowls and jeers of many a music maven.  But I have done my best in my previous blogposts to lay out the criteria for my layman’s decision, and I hope that it meets with at least some grudging respect.

Besides, no matter how far off the mark it may be, my decision isn’t an unreasonable one.  In his book Rock Around the Clock: The Record That Started the Rock Revolution, Jim Dawson writes:

Though recorded more than a year before what is now recognized as the rock ’n’ roll era, the backbeat-heavy “Crazy Man, Crazy” was fully rock ’n’ roll.  It also set a standard for rock ’n’ roll songs by recognizing that white kids were picking up black jazz slang left over from the twenties and thirties.  Haley sang about finding a band with a “solid” beat, so that he could start “rockin’” with his “chick,” ’cause “man, that music’s gone, gone.”  (p. 51)

(“Crazy Man, Crazy” is not included among the candidates in the book What Was the First Rock ’n’ Roll Record?  But in an e-mail to me, co-author Jim Dawson said that, in retrospect, he would like to have had a chapter on the song.) 

And Wikipedia says that “Crazy Man, Crazy” is “notable as the first recognized rock-and-roll recording to appear on the national American musical charts, peaking at #12 on the Billboard Juke Box chart for the week ending June 20, 1953, and #11 for two weeks on the Cash Box chart beginning for the week of June 13.”  So, objectively speaking, even if “Crazy Man, Crazy” is not the first rock & roll record of all time (as I think it is), it’s at least the first rock & roll record of something. 

Bill Haley (top) and His Comets in 1954
For my money, “Crazy Man, Crazy” stands as the first rock & roll record because it is (to the best of my limited knowledge) the first youth-oriented song, a non-R&B cover, by an ensemble of musicians approximating rock instrumentation (especially electric guitars and drums) and where no single foundational style of music — rhythm & blues, country & western, mainstream pop — stands out from any of the others.  From session drummer Billy Gussak’s seemingly out-of-control introductory skin-slamming to Marshall Lytle’s propulsive slapping of the double bass to the roisterous cries of the whole band on “go, go, go, everybody,” the record declares its independence from the politeness of postwar pop.  

And even though Comet member Billy Williamson plays his hillbilly-honed steel guitar on the track, the solo he picks out is missing a country saunter.  Williamson’s solo sounds more Hawaiian than hillbilly, and closer to the whimper of an electronic dog.  In fact, the steel guitar takes on the quality (at least in retrospect) of a visiting sound from outside the rock & roll universe — comparable to George Harrison’s sitar on the Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood” (1965).  So, even though the lyrics of “Crazy Man, Crazy” are not about any kind of revolt, the uncontainable explosion of music — by white performers spouting black slang, no less — sounded the first detonation of a cultural insurrection in a racially segregated society that prized soporific songs.

The raw rebellious impulse of “Crazy Man, Crazy” wasn’t lost on contemporary listeners because the song was featured on a television drama about disaffected young people.  As Wikipedia puts it: “In the summer of 1953, ‘Crazy Man, Crazy’ became the first rock-and-roll song to be heard on national television in the United States when it was used on the soundtrack of Glory in the Flower, an installment of the CBS anthology series, Omnibus.”  Glory in the Flower was written by veteran playwright William Inge and starred up-and-comer James Dean.  In his book Rock Around the Clock, Dawson describes the program:

To set an insouciant and unpredictable mood, the producers of Glory in the Flower used “Crazy Man, Crazy” as a frame for the story.  Omnibus host Alistair Cooke walked onto the cafĂ© set to introduce the play, then dropped a coin into the jukebox to stir its actors into motion.  The first person to hit the dance floor, swinging his shoulders and hips in a jitterbug, was James Dean; at the end of the program, “Crazy Man, Crazy” spun again as the scene faded to black.  (p. 54)

Of course, “Crazy Man, Crazy’s” use on the soundtrack of an audiovisual drama of disgruntled youth was a smaller-scale dry run for the song that would forever inscribe the names of Bill Haley and His Comets in rock & roll history, the song whose catchier tune and wilder arrangement would (understandably) overshadow its stylistically groundbreaking predecessor. 


Many music historians and critics say that the enormous commercial success of Haley and the band’s “(We’re Gonna) Rock Around the Clock” (to use the original full title) divides the pre-rock era from what came after.  As the subtitle to Dawson’s book Rock Around the Clock says, it was indeed “the record that started the rock revolution.”  I strongly recommend Dawson’s book, though now sadly out of print, to anyone interested in the history of the record, since the story behind it is filled with so many unexpected skips and scratches. 

In particular, Dawson locates the rough-hewn power of “Rock Around the Clock,” somewhat ironically, in the recording’s two musicians who were not members of the Comets: session guitarist Danny Cedrone and session drummer Billy Gussak.  Because the Comets didn’t get to the studio on time (long story), the group ended up having only 40 minutes to record the song.  For the Comets themselves, this was not the problem it might have been, since they had been playing and refining the song as part of their live act for the last year or so.  But veteran producer Milt Gabler (who had worked with Billie Holiday and Louis Jordan, among others) insisted on having Cedrone and Gussak in the session, and ten minutes were eaten off the clock familiarizing them with the song.  Without time to come up with a new guitar solo, Cedrone simply played the same one he did as a session musician on Haley’s version of “Rock the Joint.”  And because he had been playing rigid percussion arrangements on other songs, Gussak let himself go with a more feral — but still controlled — style of drumming.  According to Dawson, Cedrone and Gussak were only a couple of steps away from winging it, but their unfamiliarity with the song lent the finished record a raw energy that was absolutely vital. 

The startling and unlikely success of “Rock Around the Clock” has become the stuff of rock & roll legend.  For one thing, Haley’s original label, Essex Records, wouldn’t let him record the song because of a feud between the company head and one of the song’s purported writers, and the Comets had to move to Decca Records to commit the song to wax.  (Ironically, after “Rock Around the Clock” became a hit, Essex released a pirated version by Haley and the group.)  For another, it was originally intended as the B-side to its disc (as was the case with Haley’s “Rock the Joint”).  Perhaps the best known quirk in “Rock Around the Clock’s” history is that the record went nowhere when first released in 1954 but shot up to #1 on the charts a year later when used on the soundtrack of the juvenile-delinquent movie Blackboard Jungle (1955).  Once again, even though the song wasn’t about rebellion, its rebellious spirit made it a logical choice for a film about discontented youth.  To give an idea of how rebellious its spirit was, the record it displaced from #1 on the charts in 1955 was a sedate version of “Unchained Melody” by Les Baxter. 

Thanks to the success of “Rock Around the Clock,” rock & roll — at least as represented by white teenagers developing a taste for the black rhythm & blues played on the radio by people like Alan Freed — went from an underground fringe sound to a widely recognized mainstream phenomenon, even (maybe especially) among bewildered Caucasian adults who didn’t understand or care for the music. 
 
One sign of ‘Rock Around the Clock’s’ phenomenal success:
the record inspired an eponymous film featuring Haley and the Comets

I mention “Rock Around the Clock” because Michael Campbell devotes a paragraph to the record in his textbook Rock and Roll: An Introduction, a paragraph that draws a further distinction between rock & roll and rhythm & blues:

“Rock Around the Clock” might be characterized as a lite [sic] version of rhythmic R&B: it has the shuffle beat that we associate with so much fifties rhythm and blues, but the tempo is faster, and the beat keeping is more subtle.  The sound is also less aggressive: the vocal style is not rough, and the instruments play in a higher register; the saxophonist doesn’t honk a solo — the electric guitar is the featured instrument.  Overall, it’s a brighter sound.  (p. 102)

Campbell doesn’t name a “first” rock & roll record (in fact, he problematizes the idea), but his description of the “brighter sound’s” breakaway from rhythm & blues in “Rock Around the Clock” comes mighty close.  He also says: “For the first half of the fifties, rhythm and blues and rock and roll were the same.  They began to diverge with the emergence of white performers working in this new [brighter’] style — artists such as Bill Haley, Elvis [Presley], and Carl Perkins” (p. 98).  Of course, this emergence was made possible by the commercial triumph of “Rock Around the Clock.”  Campbell goes on to mention the “musical differences” between rhythm & blues and rock & roll (discussed in Part IV) to remind readers that the most important difference isn’t racial. 

In his book Before Elvis: The Prehistory of Rock ’n’ Roll, Larry Birnbaum also discusses Haley’s musical development and how it relates to the genesis of the new music genre.  Birnbaum’s paragraph begins by pointing out the influence of a country-music genre, the hillbilly boogie, on Haley’s early sound:

Bill Haley’s “Green Tree Boogie,” from 1951, and “Sundown Boogie,” from early 1952, are typical of the [hillbilly-boogie] genre, and both prefigure “Rock Around the Clock.”  “Sundown Boogie,” Haley’s last record before “Rock the Joint,” opens with the words, “Takes a rockin’ chair to rock, takes a rubber ball to roll,” a line that appears in Ma Rainey’s 1924 recording “Jealous Hearted Blues” and on “Jim Jackson’s Kansas City Blues” (Jackson’s song also shares its twelve-bar verse-and-refrain structure with “Rock Around the Clock”).  The main differences between Haley’s songs before and after “Rock the Joint” are the addition of drums and the increasing use of words such as “rock” and “gone,” as in “real gone.”  Still, these incremental changes, if only for a lack of anything more substantial, can be interpreted as marking the approximate moment when white rock ’n’ roll was born.  (pp. 12-13)

Birnbaum uses the qualifier “white” because he (unlike Campbell) considers black rock & roll to be the music Freed played, especially those upbeat songs with “rock” in the titles and lyrics that followed in the wake of Wynonie Harris’ cover of “Good Rockin’ Tonight” (1948).   I, however, subscribe to Campbell’s view and consider the earliest “true” form of rock & roll to be the “brighter sound” he writes about above.


Of course, the Big Event in rock & roll history between the release of “Crazy Man, Crazy” in 1953 and the success of “Rock Around the Clock” in 1955 was the beginning of Elvis Presley’s recording career in 1954.  Although it was recorded and released two months after “Rock Around the Clock” — and was only a regional hit — Elvis’ first professional platter, his cover of Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup’s “That’s All Right (Mama),” has its strong supporters as the first rock & roll record.  (Depending on the record label, the song is alternately titled “That’s All Right” and “That’s All Right, Mama,” thus my use of parentheses.)  One of those supporters is Rolling Stone magazine, which in 2004, to mark the disc’s 50th anniversary, crowned the King’s first commercial recording as the first rock & roll record.  I haven’t seen the article where Rolling Stone makes the case for its decision, but I’m told that the magazine says Elvis’ version of “That’s All Right” (as the label read) was the moment where “everything came together.”  (A bluesy, upbeat cover of Bill Monroe’s bluegrass hit “Blue Moon of Kentucky” was the flip side.)  If what I’m told is true, I have to wonder what, exactly, was missing from “Crazy Man, Crazy” and “Rock Around the Clock” to relegate them to also-rans. 

One thing missing for me to make Elvis’ “That’s All Right” a rock & roll record is a drummer to pound out the backbeat (not that it needs one): the beat is kept solely on Bill Black’s acoustic double bass; the only other instruments on the record are Presley’s strummed acoustic rhythm guitar and Scotty Moore’s electric lead guitar.  In Before Elvis, Birnbaum says that Presley wouldn’t begin using drums until his last two recordings for Sun Records (before he signed with RCA), recordings which the writer classifies as “country.”  In fact, Birnbaum sees Elvis’ “That’s All Right” as firmly within the tradition of country covers of rhythm & blues songs (like Haley’s “Rocket 88”), not as something revolutionary.  Birnbaum basically makes the argument that Presley’s country version of “That’s All Right” is tagged by listeners as “rock & roll” only in retrospect, with full knowledge of his later post-Sun career.  

Before Elvis also goes a step farther and proposes that Presley, based on his known pre-Sun musical tastes, wasn’t that big an aficionado of rhythm & blues, suggesting that he was turned on to the African American music by producer Sam Phillips (a confirmed fan).  So, Birnbaum casts doubt on the well-known story of Elvis bursting into “That’s All Right (Mama)” during a recording break at Sun studios: the impromptu blast of energy that salvaged a previously unsuccessful session, the legendary session that would ultimately launch the career of the King of Rock & Roll.
 
Elvis Presley (left), Bill Black, Scotty Moore, and Sam Phillips at Sun studios

However, I would say that Elvis’ cover of “That’s All Right,” while perhaps not instrumentally revolutionary, was a game-changer in terms of its vocals.  The pioneering element of “That’s All Right” is Presley’s unique voice.  Before Elvis, no other popular singer (that I can think of) had his distinctive tonal richness and range of character; after Elvis, the marketplace was flooded by would-be sound-alikes.  Simply put, no other popular singer in 1954 sounded quite like Elvis Presley, and 60 years later, his “That’s All Right” harbors a haunting resonance that still sounds fresh after all this time.  But just as “Rock Around the Clock” wouldn’t find a following until a year after its 1954 release, it would take another year and a half (January 1956) for Presley to break out of the South and, thanks to his new home at RCA Records, become a national figure. 

Before then, Elvis Presley, whose regular engagements included appearances at the Grand Ole Opry and stints on the radio show Louisiana Hayride, would be classified as a country singer.  Only when he started recording for RCA did Presley begin making music that was unambiguously rock & roll (although Campbell makes the heretical argument that Elvis technically never sang rock & roll [pp. 106-08]).  

All of this raises the question: Would Presley’s music have taken a different direction if it hadn’t been for the success of “Rock Around the Clock”?  Without Bill Haley’s greatest hit establishing backbeat-heavy, electric-guitar-driven songs by white artists as a form of (massively) popular music, would Elvis have made records in this mold?  If not, this is one more reason not to confer the title of first rock & roll record on Elvis Presley’s “That’s All Right” and give it instead to Bill Haley’s first platter to chart: “Crazy Man, Crazy.”  

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

The First Rock & Roll Record V: The Philadelphia Factor


Ike Turner (left) and Jackie Brenston recording ‘Rocket 88’ in 1951

According to the ten-part documentary mini-series Rock & Roll (1995), co-produced by the BBC and PBS, the titular music started in the American South.  The series begins its narrative with postwar Southern radio stations that played rhythm & blues music, before shifting its focus to the emergence of Little Richard in Georgia and the emergence of Sam Phillips’ Sun Records and Elvis Presley in Tennessee.  Rock & Roll doesn’t turn its attention to Northern performers until several more minutes have passed, with the emergence of St. Louis transplant Chuck Berry in Chicago. 

One Southern song that several music historians and enthusiasts credit as the first rock & roll record is “Rocket 88” from 1951.  The song was recorded by another Southern act, Ike Turner’s Kings of Rhythm, a Mississippi ensemble, in Sam Phillips’ Memphis studio before he founded the Sun label.  Since Phillips didn’t press his own records at the time, he sold the master to Chess Records in Chicago (the company that would later become Chuck Berry’s label), which, much to the pianist Turner’s ire, rechristened the band after the song’s vocalist as Jackie Brenston and His Delta Cats. 


“Rocket 88” is favored by so many (and self-proclaimed by Phillips) as the earliest rock & roll record because of its then-uncommon intentional use of distorted sound.  The record’s backstory has become well known in music circles: how guitarist Willie Kizart’s amplifier was damaged on the band’s trip to Phillips’ studio; how Phillips patched it up with paper, which gave the amp a buzzing quality; and how Phillips recorded the song to emphasize that quality.  But in his book Before Elvis, Larry Birnbaum says that “Rocket 88” was proclaimed the first rock & roll record by music aficionados in the mid-1960s because the sound of Kizart’s broken amplifier foreshadowed the then-fashionable fuzzbox (as heard, for example, in the Rolling Stones’s 1965 “[I Can’t Get No] Satisfaction”), and that this alone shouldn’t determine the title. 

“Rocket 88’s” reputation among several fervent fans as the “first rock & roll record” aids the idea of the music’s provenance below the Mason-Dixon Line.  Like the PBS documentary mini-series, a number of other rock chronicles locate the epicenter of the musical earthquake at Sam Phillips’ Memphis recording studio, which first waxed “Rocket 88,” Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis.  But I think that rock & roll, as distinct from rhythm & blues, had its earliest stirrings a little farther north, somewhere above the Yankee-Rebel divide. 

Not only is rock & roll’s most important genesis, I believe, to be found in the northern United States, but in a single state.  And not only in the same state, but — intriguingly — in the same general area, and I don’t mean New York City.   

Jimmy Preston
It’s fascinating to me that the three artists who perhaps did the most to shape nascent rock & roll into a distinct musical genre were all raised (if not born) in roughly the same place: the Philadelphia area.  One county over from Pennsylvania’s largest city is Delaware County, home to many of the metropolis’ outlying communities.  One of these is the city of Chester, Pennsylvania, on the Delaware River.  A native son of Chester was Jimmy Preston, born in the municipality in 1913, and later raised in Philly.  An unpretentiously studious-looking man, Preston went on to form a jump-blues ensemble, the Prestonians, in the 1940s. 

In 1949, the latest dance craze among African Americans was “The Hucklebuck,” a twelve-bar blues instrumental by saxophonist and bandleader Paul Williams.  (Interestingly, “The Hucklebuck” was based on a portion of the 1915 composition “Weary Blues” by Artie Matthews, the first published music to feature a boogie-woogie pattern, as Birnbaum says in his video.)  “The Hucklebuck” inspired a number of copycat records (including the Delmore Brothers’ 1949 country song “Blues, Stay Away from Me”), and Jimmy Preston and His Prestonians were able to jump aboard the hucklebucking bandwagon later that year with their first hit, “Hucklebuck Daddy.” 

Preston and his band followed up “Hucklebuck Daddy” that same year with what had to be one of the most startling, most roisterous records to have been released up to that time: “Rock the Joint.”


Well, the ceiling is fallin’, I’m high as a kite
Keep on drinkin’, we’re gonna ball tonight

 

We’re gonna blow down the walls and tear up the floor
Until the law comes knockin’ at the door

  
With lyrics like these, Preston and the gang ear-splittingly shout about a music party that (at least in the hopes of one celebrant) demolishes its enclosure and puts its partiers at odds with the local constabulary.  As Jim Dawson and Steve Propes describe “Rock the Joint’s” recording in What Was the First Rock ’n’ Roll Record?: “When Preston and his band got the song into a studio, they turned it into a raucous, hand-clapping, sax-screaming, rockin’ piece of excitement that sounded like nothing they, nor anyone else, had recorded before….  Jimmy Preston and His Prestonians did indeed rock the joint” (p. 53).


With its strong boogie bass line, clap-timed backbeat, and sheer explosion of wild noise (not to mention the R word in its title), “Rock the Joint” clearly presaged the rock & roll to come.  But in its jump-band orchestration, sax-centered arrangement, and adult-oriented lyrics (who wants to exhort teenagers to “keep on drinking” or to get on the wrong side of the law?), the record was very much in a rhythm & blues tradition.  Unfortunately, Preston produced only a few other modest hits and, by the mid-1950s, had traded his saxophone for a career as a clergyman.  But by that time, another son of Chester, Pennsylvania, had made something of a name for himself in the music biz. 

Country musician Bill Haley in 1946
Born in Highland Park, Michigan, in 1925 and raised in the neighboring town of Boothwyn, Pennsylvania, Bill Haley settled in Chester as a disc jockey and sometime country & western musician with his band the Saddlemen.  In 1951, the boss of a start-up record label in Philadelphia wanted to do a country cover of a recently released rhythm & blues record (a common practice of the time, as I exampled with Link Davis’ cover of “Good Rockin’ Tonight” in part IV).  What was the song he wanted covered?  A tune titled “Rocket 88.”  Yes, the same “Rocket 88” that many regard as the first rock & roll record.  He was put in touch with Bill Haley, a seasoned “hillbilly” performer at 26, and the Saddlemen.

Recording for a more conservative country listenership, Haley removed the line about taking “a little nip [of something alcoholic]” and replaced it with more innocuous lyrics.  As other country musicians had done before them, Haley and the Saddlemen drew from country-music conventions like western swing and the “hillbilly boogie” to make their version of “Rocket 88.”  Haley’s rendition of the song wasn’t the first record to bring together a confluence of country and R&B, but it did so in a very intriguing way.


With its slippery steel guitar, loping rhythm, and a hint of twang in Haley’s voice, the Saddlemen’s cover of “Rocket 88” was grounded firmly in a traditional country-music style.  However, unlike the typical country record, Haley’s quick-paced “Rocket 88” featured solos from an electric guitar (played by session musician Robert Scaltrito) and an especially heavy backbeat slapped out on the acoustic double bass. While it may not have been anything startling, Haley’s “Rocket 88” didn’t sound like your average country record from 1951.  But something was also going on one county over, in Philadelphia. 
 
Charlie Gracie

In the histories written of rock & roll that I’ve read, I haven’t seen the name of Charlie Gracie mentioned very often or his career chronicled in much detail.  But in 1951, this 15-year-old Italian-American Philly native was putting together a sound very close to rockabilly, a term that hadn’t been coined yet.  That year, on a small, independent label, he recorded his first single: “Boogie Woogie Blues” (or as the title was misspelled on the label, “Boogie Boogie Blues”).


Gracie’s song, an original composition — fascinatingly — already contains some of the hallmarks of rock & roll, especially his style of guitar playing.  Most record-making popular-music guitarists at this time concentrated on accentuating a single string, or picking, with any simultaneous plucking or striking of additional strings kept at a lower volume than the primary one being picked.  This describes the playing style of guitarists like T-Bone Walker, John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, and Les Paul. 

However, Gracie picks his primary strings while at the same time striking other strings that are equally loud, especially in his guitar intro.  And for his solo, Gracie features a strumming attack that highlights the main melody on the highest articulated string.  His style has more in common with a strummed Dixieland-jazz banjo than with electric-guitar playing on popular records.  Gracie’s guitar seems to foretell the multi-stringed sound of Chuck Berry’s famous song introductions, first recorded in 1955, and the sound of rockabilly, such as the solos in “Heartbreak Hotel” and “Blue Suede Shoes,” both released on records five years after “Boogie Woogie Blues.” 

In the documentary Charlie Gracie: Fabulous! (2006), the film’s subject, approaching the age of 70 but still musically spry, describes the development of his guitar-playing style:

The reason why my guitar style might be a little different than other people is: I always worked alone [in the 1950s] as a single artist, and I needed not only to play the guitar, but I needed a backbeat while playing the guitar.  I had … [to] play and slap [the body of the guitar] so it’d sound like two instruments instead of one.  And that’s my style of playing.
In “Boogie Woogie Blues,” Gracie seems to be treating his guitar strings in a similar manner to his slapped guitar body: by playing them all at once, rather than the traditional single string, he makes the sound fuller, more like several instruments are playing at once, instead of only one guitar.

Also, Gracie’s singing style is very akin to Elvis Presley’s.  Obviously, Gracie’s voice doesn’t have the depth and richness of Presley’s, but he sings in that “hiccup” manner — seeming to aspirate each syllable (most pronounced in Elvis’ “One-Sided Love Affair” [1956]) — that the King of Rock & Roll would make so famous throughout his career.  However, Presley wouldn’t start cutting records professionally for another three years.  Non-expert that I am, I can’t think of an earlier vocalist who sang this way.  “Boogie Woogie Blues” didn’t sell that many copies, so the record is unlikely to have been an influence on Elvis.  Therefore, the Gracie record’s prefiguring of rockabilly, both in terms of singing and guitar playing, seems especially remarkable.  If “Boogie Woogie Blues” were arranged with a drummer loudly pounding out a strong backbeat, it might have walked away with the honorific of “the first rock & roll record,” but the sound isn’t all the way there yet. 
 
Bill Haley and the Saddlemen

After “Rocket 88,” Bill Haley and the Saddlemen continued waxing records for the same label, Essex, but more in their original country style.  Looking for a B side to their 1952 hillbilly single “Icy Heart” (one of Haley’s twangier tracks), the band decided on a countrified arrangement of an R&B song that they would play during their live gigs to get the audience on their feet and dancing.  What was the song?  None other than the hit by Haley’s fellow Chester musician, Jimmy Preston’s “Rock the Joint.”  (Although both lived for a while in the same relatively small town, there’s no evidence that Haley and Preston knew each other personally.) 

For their version, Haley and the group followed the tradition of scrubbing the lyrics and making them more country-friendly.  Out went the city dances of the Preston record, while Haley inserted ones more familiar to a rural audience.  Also, the Saddlemen — who primarily saw what they played as dance music — changed the beat from a shuffle to 2/4 time to quicken the pace and make the tune more danceable.  And the hard-driving beat of the song was whacked out on the acoustic double bass by Saddleman Marshall Lytle.  Once again, an electric guitarist was brought in to punch up the sound, session musician Danny Cedrone.  And for the vocals this time around, Haley would drop his country twang entirely.


The song’s slipping and sliding steel guitar, played by Saddleman Billy Williamson, and the new lyrics’ country references are what mark Haley’s “Rock the Joint” as a specifically “hillbilly” song.  But the rest of it?  None of the record’s ingredients are especially novel: as I said before, country artists frequently covered rhythm & blues numbers.  Electric guitars had been used before on country songs, but mostly to pick boogie-woogie riffs in the fashionable “hillbilly boogie” songs of the era or to otherwise support the main melody.  Seldom did they sound so conspicuous.  And Philadelphian Danny Cedrone, the session musician that played the electric-guitar solo, performed with his own jazz band, not a country group. 

Other country covers of R&B usually played up the performers’ hillbilly conventions in order to put their own rural stamp on the song and meet the audience’s expectations.  Haley’s “Rock the Joint,” intentionally or not, jettisoned a number of the characteristics that audiences would have expected from an R&B cover by a country act and replaced them with ingredients drawn from rhythm & blues and jazz.  The result was a record that wasn’t entirely country — but not R&B, jazz, or mainstream pop either.  The sound was different.  Consequently, when the record’s intended A side, the Hank Williams-inspired “Icy Hart,” was passed over for its B side, Haley knew that the band had to ditch its identity as a country ensemble and adopt a new one to fit this emergent sound. 

Charlie Gracie
That same year, 1952, Charlie Gracie released another record, another original composition, that was as much of a step back as a step forward.  His song was named “Rockin’ an’ Rollin’” — not the first time a record used the phrase as a title, but still intriguingly prescient.  And in the tradition of white artists removing any salacious connotations, “rockin’ an’ rollin’” in Gracie’s lyrics merely means traveling, by some unspecified form of locomotion, so that the singer can see his “baby.” 


This time, Gracie’s song had a louder shuffle rhythm played in an overt — but not attention-hogging — way on a drum set.  A similarly conspicuous acoustic double bass also sounds out the rhythm, while a piano follows the boogie bass line.  And Gracie’s electric guitar solo is single-string this time.  But the song is slower in its pace, and it doesn’t have any of the hard-driving energy that we usually associate with rock & roll.  Also, in what I can only guess is an attempt to capture a mainstream music audience, Gracie’s voice is backed up by bland Ray Coniff-style vocalists who make the Jordanaires sound downright ghetto.
 
Bill Haley and His Comets in 1953

By 1953, Haley had adopted a new name for his group: the Comets, after a common mispronunciation of Halley’s (rhymes with “ally”) Comet.  However, the band still consisted of the same country-seasoned musicians, the only exception being the addition of a full-time drummer.  The success of the Sadlemen’s beat-heavy “Rock the Joint” persuaded Haley to add a drummer to the group.  Although drums had been played on hillbilly records before (such as Hardrock Gunther’s 1950 “Birmingham Bounce”), they were still an anomaly, and the Grand Ole Opry, that Mecca for country-music performers, forbade them at the time.  By including a drummer in the Comets’ line-up, Haley was choosing an artistic identity separate from the country & western that inspired him to become a musician in the first place, a musical style that he clearly loved.  And Haley himself appeared uncertain about the right ingredients for this embryonic R&B-meets-C&W sound. 

In his book Rock Around the Clock: The Record That Started the Rock Revolution, Jim Dawson says that Haley had already noticed the power and importance of the syllable “rock” to the songs “Rocket 88” and “Rock the Joint,” and that he continued to experiment with it.  The B side of the group’s last record as the Saddlemen was “Rocking Chair on the Moon” (1952), and the B side to their first as the Comets was “Real Rock Drive” (1953).  But like the latter record’s A side, “Stop Beatin’ ’Round the Mulberry Bush,” these songs — despite the noticeable beat and conspicuous use of the boogie bass line — were still very much in a country idiom.  Perhaps still dreaming of country-music stardom, the twang had returned to Haley’s voice.  Although a drummer had been added, the skin-pounding was lost among the other instruments, and the percussion was still dependent on Lytle’s acoustic double bass.  Also the Comets had retained the Saddlemen’s steel-guitar player, Billy Williamson, whose ambling strings gave a bucolic atmosphere to everything they played.

Haley’s breakthrough came when the lyrics of his next song left the country milieu all together.  Although jazz musicians had their own hipster slang dating back at least to the turn of the 2oth century — and codified in 1939 by Cab Calloway’s Hepster’s Dictionary — the lingo had started to catch on with white American youths by the 1950s.  Haley made a note of the white teenagers using expressions like “groovy” and “real gone” at the high-school concerts the Comets played.  Haley and Comets bassist Lytle cobbled the sayings together into a song. 

To record it, Essex brought in the non-country session musicians Art Ryerson on lead guitar and Billy Gussak on drums.  Now, all of the elements were in place: impactful drums, a featured electric guitar, an insistent rhythm, a self-authored song with teen-targeted lyrics (i.e., not an R&B cover), and this time, the steel guitar lost its hillbilly flavor.  The song was about the band’s music, and the lyrics may have reflected Haley’s own uncertainty of how to characterize or what to call whatever it was that the Comets’ played.  But through all of this — a full year before Elvis Presley recorded professionally, two years before Chuck Berry, and three years before the music style was given an official name — the first rock & roll record came to life.