A few days ago, the musical pioneer known as “Little Richard” Penniman died. In the mid-1950s, before Elvis, before Chuck Berry, before Jerry Lee Lewis or Buddy Holly, Little Richard combined elements of gospel, rhythm and blues, and boogie-woogie music to create something completely new—something that a Cleveland disc jockey named Alan Freed would later call “Rock and Roll.” In addition to his own career, Little Richard helped teach people such as Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger his unique style in the early days of their development. Despite these achievements, he never enjoyed the same level of commercial success as people who borrowed his style or learned from him. The reason, boys and girls, is the subject of today’s lesson.
Appearing in public from the time he was 14 years old, he became known as an exciting and unpredictable live performer. Developing his act in roadhouses, gin joints, and Blacks-only clubs across the South, he electrified audiences with an approach to music that exuded unadulterated joy. He played the piano standing up, using his hands, his feet, and even his ass while bouncing around the stage in front of screaming audiences. The problem was that recording studios could never capture the energy or magic of his live performances. Also, music producers tried to steer him toward gospel music or types of songs that they believed would be safer, more commercial options. His early recordings died quietly without reaching a widespread audience. Then in late 1955, while sleepwalking through another lethargic studio session, the producer called for a short break for lunch. To entertain himself and the band, Little Richard jumped into a vulgar song he had been performing live for years. The band joined in with frenzied accompaniment, and a new musical genre was born.
He started the raw, exuberant song with the memorable line, “A-wop-bop-a-loo-bop-a-wop-bom-bom!” To Richard, that’s what the drum beat to start the song sounded like in his mind. The tune was called Tutti Frutti, which was a pejorative term for homosexuals, and the rest of the lyrics contained ribald references to sex acts. The producer loved it, but knew it could never be played on the radio. A female writer was called in to clean up the lyrics, and “Tutti frutti, sweet booty,” became the nonsense line “Tutti frutti, aw rooty.” The song, with the sanitized lyrics, was released, and it enjoyed some success on Black radio stations. White teenagers began to discover the song, and sales began to grow in the niche category of “Negro Music.” It reached number two on the R & B charts in the days when “Rhythm and Blues” was a euphemism for music by Black performers. This was 1956, however, and the music industry—along with everyone else in White America—was terrified of Black people getting too wealthy or powerful. Richard’s version of the song never received much airplay on mainstream stations and achieved only modest success on conventional pop music charts. Here is Little Richard’s version of the song:
Within months, other performers lined up to record what they thought could be a major hit. About that time, a different singer was making waves in another new genre of music called “rockabilly.” Moreover, he had one attribute that made him more appealing to the music industry: he was White. Elvis Presley recorded his own version of the song, changing the last words of the onomatopoeic opening line from “bom-bom” to “bam-boom.” Here it is:
His version isn’t bad, but it almost sounds a bit like Dr. Feelgood had slipped him his first amphetamines, like he’s rushing through the song without allowing the beauty of the lyrics to resonate with the audience. (Yes, that’s sarcasm.) This version did a bit better than Little Richard’s, but Elvis had some problems too. Sure, he was White, but he still sounded Black. In addition, he touched another nerve with conservative Americans: he was too damn sexy. No one wanted their teenaged daughters getting any ideas from listening to that sort of music. That’s why ministers made public displays of destroying his records, and TV directors ordered their cameramen to film him from the waist up: they did not want the lascivious gyrations of Elvis the Pelvis to be seen by impressionable teens. Again, the song received only sporadic airplay and never reached the heights—or sales—of later Elvis songs.
What the industry wanted was a performer who was White and completely safe. They found him in the form of Patrick Charles Eugene Boone, better known as Pat Boone. A product of David Lipscomb, a Church of Christ school in Nashville, Boone was as white-skinned and white-bread as any record-company executive could desire. In terms of style, he owed more to crooners such as Bing Crosby and Perry Como than to the early rockers. His wholesome persona and lack of controversy made him the ideal purveyor of this new style of music. He had already had one hit by covering another Black performer’s song with his version of Fats Domino’s Ain’t That a Shame. By taking on Tutti Frutti, he forged a path to success that involved toning down good songs written by Black singers. His version is stripped down, lacking in energy, and extremely bland. Think of a Thanksgiving turkey that has been skinned, boiled, and served without seasoning. I love the background setting of this lip-synched television performance. Every cliché of the late 1950s is in place here. He sits at a soda bar in his trademark white-buck shoes while girls in poodle skirts materialize from nowhere and begin dancing around him for no apparent reason. Here’s the clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBzzlUIEWHA
Boone’s version, of course, was played on every radio station in the country, and it went on to become a major hit. He parlayed that success into a film career and his own network television show.
Today, it seems that pop performers only achieve success if they first appear on one of the multitude of “talent” competitions hosted and judged by celebrities. This process guarantees that pop music will be dominated by singers who all sound exactly like the performers who are already successful. Major labels simply don’t want to take a chance on a sound that is new and innovative. The system thus limits the opportunities for truly original singers and songwriters to rise to the top and receive the backing of major music labels. As my little story about the evolution of a hit song in the 1950s illustrates, as it was in the beginning, so is it now, and so shall it be in the future.
Still, listen again to the self-proclaimed “Architect of Rock and Roll.” The pure enjoyment of Little Richard’s performance screams off of the recording even today, 65 years later. I think we can all use a little joyful noise today.