Who Killed the Rockers and the Comedians?
Long ago, in an America far removed from its present facsimile, there used to be rock and roll. It was a great thing. It started my little seven year old feet tapping, when I first heard Ricky Nelson, Leslie Gore, Del Shannon, Motown, Gene Pitney, Bobby Vee, and all those Phil Spector girl groups. I loved the wall of sound.
And then I happened to be tuned in to Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, on the day the crowd rated a new single from a band from Liverpool, I Want to Hold Your Hand. I was in love. My seven year old legs and arms joined my feet, in wriggling about in an original amalgamation of the Twist, the Pony, the Swim, and other dance crazes of the day. Every new dance looked even better when pretty go-go girls were doing them. I’m pretty sure I was far younger than Dick Clark’s targeted teenage demographic, but I was simply smitten with rock and roll. Like millions of other young Americans, I became a Beatles fanatic, even getting a wig that I donned when I used wooden spoons to bang on some boxes in the basement. I won’t belabor the point I’ve made so many times before, about wanting a Ludwig drum set. Just like Ringo. I loved the early Beatles; Beatlemania. When John Lennon was clearly responsible for almost all of it.
As a grade school kid who was rapidly attaining obesity status, I loved the pop brand of rock and roll. The Beach Boys. Gary Lewis and the Playboys. Tommy James and the Shondells. Lou Christie. The Turtles. The Lovin’ Spoonful. Then, as a slimmed down teenager, my musical tastes grew more sophisticated. Or so they say. Were the Beatles’ later albums really better than She Loves You and Please Please Me? Was Pet Sounds- as remarkable as it was- really more memorable than I Get Around or California Girls? I know which kinds of music I more enthusiastically sing along to now. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! The critics were usually right, but not always in my estimation. Personal taste is personal taste. If someone likes Wayne Newton better than Wilson Pickett, that’s their prerogative. Musical taste is like food preferences; there is no “r
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