Chapter Seven
The music Alan Freed played on his nightly WINS radio program in 1954 was alarming parents from one end of Greater New York to the other. Some parents were unable to articulate precisely why they were fearful. Others heard their concerns expressed in hate-filled rants about the consequences of the crossover into “mainstream” (read: white) America of the songs, recordings, and dance moves of blacks. Such dire warnings played upon the already existing fears that malevolent forces outside their control would replace the values that the parents of kids my age had instilled in their offspring.
My introduction to Alan Freed’s music came through a fellow student at Shell Bank. When I met Joel Zwick* in homeroom I was delighted to discover that he was only a month older than I. Our shared affinity for music and theater was evident as we cavorted around the stage of the school auditorium in colorful costumes in extravagant productions of light operas by Gilbert and Sullivan. I had so much fun performing in The Mikado as one of several Japanese schoolgirls dressed in kimonos and wigs. It made me happy to be part of the enchantment my classmates and I brought to our audience, which consisted principally of parents, friends, and teachers. I loved transporting the audience (and myself) to another time and another country. I delighted in pirouetting and moving my handheld fan in synchronized choreography with the other girls while we sang this song:
Three little maids who all unwary
Come from a ladies’ seminary
Freed from its genius tutelary
Three little maids from school
Three little maaaaids—from school!
In 1955, Alan Freed announced his Easter Jubilee, a musical revue at the Brooklyn Paramount Theater that would run for a week. When Joel invited me to go with him I accepted with enthusiasm. When the day came, we got on the train at Sheepshead Bay and found it packed with teenagers. I thought, These kids can’t all be going to the Alan Freed show. But they were. Exiting the subway at Atlantic Avenue, we caught sight of and then became part of the teeming crowd forming outside the Brooklyn Paramount. The sense of anticipation rising in a hormonal crescendo was almost palpable.
Other than a friend of my dad’s from the firehouse, I had rarely seen people of color in my neighborhood unless they were there to deliver furniture, clean houses, or perform other menial tasks. In April 1955, not only was Alan Freed’s stage integrated, the audience was polychromatic. As Joel and I advanced slowly through the ticket line, the entry line, and up the aisle to our seats, it struck me that there were more black teenagers than I had ever seen. Before I had a chance to reflect further, the band started playing. Backed by Count Basie’s Orchestra (minus Count Basie), act after act came out to perform either their latest hit or the song that would soon become their latest hit.
The performance of a new song by one of Alan’s acts, reinforced by repeated plays on his radio show, was usually followed by a marked increase in sales. One could infer that the power and influence of a disc jockey with a sizable audience might be a factor in his ownership, credits, or royalties in connection with the products he promoted. This may not have been the case with Alan Freed when he was listed as a cowriter on the Moonglows’ “Sincerely,” or when he owned or co-owned an act’s record label. But in my teens I knew nothing of such practices, and had I been told that Alan was financially entangled with his artists, I wouldn’t have cared. I only knew that thanks to Alan Freed I was becoming aware of a new kind of music that spoke to and for me. He had assembled a parade of talented performers such as the Penguins, the Moonglows, the Clovers, Danny Overbea, Red Prysock, LaVern Baker, Mickey “Guitar” Baker (no relation to LaVern), and B.B. King.
Alan called his music “the Big Beat.” It was exactly the right name. The Big Beat was bigger, louder, and more sexually stirring than any music I’d heard before. It surely was not “Three little maaaaids—from school!”
During the show, as black and white teenagers danced in separate groups, each seemed to accept one another’s presence in the same audience without animosity. It’s possible that I’m remembering this racial harmony in 1955 through lenses turned rose-colored after more than fifty years, but I believe Alan Freed’s shows heralded the movement of my generation toward racial integration not only of popular music, but of American society.
After the show I felt exhilarated and exhausted. Joining the stream of people leaving the theater, Joel and I found ourselves in the middle of a group milling around the stage door hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the performers. Suddenly the door opened and we were swept along with a group being ushered in. Through a space between two taller kids I saw LaVern Baker sashaying up the stairs past B.B. King and the Moonglows. I assumed Miss Baker was making her way to her dressing room, but years of experience since then have educated me to the probability that she had applied her makeup in front of a mirror shared with other performers, and that she had probably changed into her costume in the bathroom. Moving farther in, we saw Mickey Baker talking to a couple of the Penguins.
At that moment I knew I wanted to mean something to these people. I didn’t want to be one of them. I just wanted them to know who I was and consider me worthy of respect. That ambition existed concurrently and in no way conflicted with my ambition to be an actress.
After that my fiscal priority became saving up to attend as many of Alan’s revues as I could afford. I couldn’t attend every show, but I always knew who was playing because Alan promoted his shows nightly on his radio program by touting the lineup and playing the music of those artists.
Over the next few years Alan presented many great acts, including Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Jackie Wilson, Fats Domino, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, the Cleftones, the Harptones, Joe Turner, Jo Ann Campbell, Mabel King, Shirley and Lee, and George Hamilton IV. He also introduced Screamin’ Jay Hawkins (a forerunner of Alice Cooper, Black Sabbath, and Marilyn Manson). Jay’s assertion of maniacally possessive love culminated in an agonizing shriek followed by a series of demonic groans and screams until he ended his turn onstage by collapsing into a coffin.
Alan had a particularly delightful treat in store for us at his 1957 Labor Day revue at the Brooklyn Paramount. I was in the audience when Little Richard burst onto the stage. He began to sing and play the piano with an eruption of energy that continued unabated for decades. Though I knew nothing about the gospel music that had informed him, Little Richard’s powerful presence that night was suffuuuuused with the Spirit. It was a remarkable experience for this Jewish teenager to hear him sing nonsense syllables with the full capability of an astonishing vocal range that complemented the blazing rhythm coming out of his fingers. Had I considered myself a good writer of lyrics, I would have had to stop right there. I mean, what lyric could possibly say it better than this?
A-wop wop-a loo-mop a-wop bam boom
Tutti frutti, aw rootie, tutti frutti, aw rootie
Tutti frutti, aw rootie, tutti frutti, aw rootie
Tutti frutti, aw rootie
A-wop wop-a loo-mop a-wop bam boom
Little Richard’s music and presentation would influence artists and songwriters from James Brown and Elvis Presley to Smokey Robinson and Michael Jackson—all exceptional songwriters and performers who themselves would influence future generations.