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One of the first white disk jockeys to play these "race records," as they were known in the industry, was Cleveland's Alan Freed, a flamboyant, rapid-fire pitchman who sang along with the records, slamming his hand down on a telephone book to accentuate each beat. Borrowing a phrase used in several rhythm-and-blues songs, Freed christened the music "rock 'n' roll." Gradually, the big beat began to take hold.
Then, in the fall of 1956, came Elvis Presley with his flapping hair, three-inch sideburns, and gyrating hips. "Ah wa-ha-hunt yew-hoo, Ah nee-hee-heed yew-hoo," he sang, and millions of teenagers flipped.
"C'mon, Baby." There was obviously something visceral about Elvis and his music. Because soon there were riots in Hartford, Atlanta, and San Jose, Calif. Theaters were demolished in London and São Paulo, Brazil. Sociologists began to view the phenomenon with alarm. Studies showing that Elvis fans had a below-C average were circulated. A Senate subcommittee started to investigate the link between rock 'n' roll and juvenile delinquency. Pablo Casals condemned rock 'n' roll as "poison put to sound," Frank Sinatra called it a "rancid-smelling aphrodisiac," and Samuel Cardinal Stritch labeled it "tribal rhythms."
Then, in 1959, the payola scandal struck. Freed was indicted for accepting $30,000 in bribes from six record companies for pushing their releases. Rock 'n' roll faltered; record sales fell off 30%. Crooned Bing Crosby: "My kind of music is coming back."
But it didn't. Instead, rock 'n' roll did. Rejuvenation came in 1960 on the wings of a king-sized twister named Chubby Checker. A onetime Philadelphia chicken plucker, Chubby threw his tubby hips into high gear, and issued an invitation: "C'mon, baby, let's do the twist!"
From Noise to Style. The twist did not seem like much of an invention at the time. The participant merely planted his feet opposite his partner, started churning his arms as if shadowboxing, while rotating his hips like a girl trying to wriggle out of a tight girdle. But it transformed rock 'n' roll from a noise on the transistor radio into a teen-age style. For the first time since the decline of the jitterbug, teen-agers had a new dance, and soon, at Manhattan's Peppermint Lounge, the famous and near famous discovered its uninhibited joys. Fashion reacted dexterously. To provide freedom of motion, dress designers shortened skirts and loosened waists to turn out what soon came to be known as the discotheque dress. Nobody, but nobody, went to a mere nightclub any more.
Even then, rock 'n' roll was still dismissable among the sophisticates as a curiously persistent fad. But then came the British. U.S. parents had weathered Pat Boone's white-bucks period, the histrionics of Johnnie Ray, and the off-key mewings of Fabian, but this was something else again—four outrageous Beatles in high-heeled boots, undersized suits and enough hair between them to stuff a sofa. When they appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show in February 1964, 68 million people, one of the largest TV audiences in history, tuned in to see what all the ruckus was about.