Sight and tactile stimuli (TV, film, dance crazes)

TV, film, and dance crazes—sight and tactile stimuli—powerfully push rock’s transformation.

We look at early-1960s roles for television, film, and dance crazes. Before TV and film, a note toward MTV in Part Two of the course: how music video materials—from TV or movies—help music move. MTV in the early 1980s remakes the industry, but it is not without ancestors. Here are some of those cousins.

Television first: rock on the box. Pride of place goes to American Bandstand. In 1952 it starts as a local show on WFIL in Philadelphia, grown from a radio DJ format—but instead of only spinning chart records, the DJ plays songs on camera while kids rush in to dance. Without a national feed, that is how local TV fills time. It mostly airs after school—not prime time, not national-slot hours. In 1956 original host Bob Horn runs into trouble. I tread carefully; I will not condemn what I do not know. Reports say he grew too close to some kids on the show; another has him arrested for drunk driving; other incidents swirl. True or not, a host under such clouds cannot stay—especially mid-1950s, when you need middle-class white parents to let kids watch. Fair or not, Horn is fired.

Dick Clark replaces him. He is already doing the radio Bandstand; he takes the TV chair and thrives—easy with the kids, not a stiff high-school teacher. By 1957 the show goes national, still taped in Philadelphia, into U.S. homes via ABC—then the weakest of the three networks, hungry for a hit. After school every day: home, TV on, current hits, peers dancing. Dance is the point. Records play all day; even when acts visit, they lip-sync—mouth along while the disc is the soundtrack. For teen idols that may be best; you might not want their live vocals. Talent is beside the point. Clark also hosts weekend Bandstand shows with real live singing; if you find non-lip-sync clips online, those are likely not the daytime show. When we finish dance crazes you will see how that dance focus leads to Chubby Checker.

First more on TV and film, then back to dance. In rock history, variety shows matter: real rock-style performances, mostly live—Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis never lip-sync there, and the energy shows. The longest-running landmark is The Ed Sullivan Show: Sunday night guests reach a national audience. Later we meet Ricky Nelson on the hugely popular 1950s Ozzie and Harriet. For pure suburban middle-class white life, see Leave It to Beaver, Father Knows Best, or Ozzie and Harriet. Ozzie Nelson—big-band leader; Harriett a singer—boosts Ricky’s career (more later). Ricky’s late-1950s/early-1960s TV work marks how pop and rock grow on television. For now Bandstand is the key show.

Rock in film: we have mentioned Alan Freed’s thin, lip-sync-heavy movies that still show performances; 1956’s The Girl Can’t Help It; late 1956 Elvis’s first film Love Me Tender after TV (Dorsey Brothers, Steve Allen, Milton Berle, Ed Sullivan); 1957’s Jailhouse Rock, with Leiber/Stoller scores. Search the famous Jailhouse Rock dance—men in stripes; the pianist in that scene is Mike Stoller himself, filling in when the scheduled player is out. Before army duty in 1958 Elvis shoots many films; after service the company wants him back in view, so more movies. Fans love seeing him; even they admit the films are not great. Elvis wants to act well; scripts are mostly bad-boy-meets-love. Colonel Tom Parker holds the contracts; Elvis finally breaks free by the mid-1960s and returns with the 1968 Comeback Special—seek clips if you can.

Early-1960s Elvis music lives in film songs and soundtrack LPs—marketing essentials. Among the better: 1961’s Blue Hawaii and 1964’s Viva Las Vegas. Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello’s beach-party films (1963 Beach Party with Dick Dale as surf guitarist; 1965 Beach Blanket Bingo) show a teen-film market forming—and a channel for teen music. 1980s MTV single marketing has roots here. Next chapter: Beatles films A Hard Day’s Night and Help!—U.S. teen movies are their forerunners.

Finally Bandstand, Chubby Checker, the Twist, and dance crazes. Oddly, crazes are less about musicians, performers, or even the songs than about the dance—akin to late-1970s disco that many rockers hate because music quality is secondary to a beat you can move to. Rock-raised listeners prize song craft and live playing; disco feels opposite. By 1960 the spark is “The Twist,” a No. 1 by Ernest Evans, staged as Chubby Checker (think Fats Domino—same “fat” nickname joke). It is also a near-copy of Hank Ballard’s original. Covers are normal; when your cut is this close, criticism sticks. Ballard’s story: on tour, by a hotel pool, he hears “his” song on a white station—then the DJ names Chubby Checker. Dick Clark is involved: little money from Ballard’s disc, so he ensures a cut of Checker’s release, then plays it—payola-type pressure. Legal or not, the record lights the Twist craze; every club “twists,” then other steps and matching records follow. Bandstand is the place to find them. Clark later says “The Twist” may be the most important early-rock song because even adults admit they like it. He thought Bandstand was kids watching kids dance; older viewers watch too. “The Twist” lets people say “I love rock”—no longer dirty thrill but basically clean fun. Clark pushes that shift; “The Twist” is the tool. White covers had already turned sexual R&B into dance music; with Bandstand and “The Twist,” that turn is complete: clean, still fun.

That is this stretch: dance without the sex hint—what teens here are thinking. Next video: older peers. Once childish things are set aside and college begins, what pop remains? One answer is folk. That is where we go.