During the most recent long, cold Covid-19 spell, I came upon a stash of records. Those old, dust-covered black vinyl 33s, 45s and 78s gave me pause to reflect on the glory days of the fifties. Yes, those days have come and gone, but honey, I was there when they happened….
By the 1950s, Alberta had survived the end of prohibition, women in the workplace and the introduction of television, but was this province ready for the cultural revolution that was Rock n’ Roll?
To be a teenager in the fifties was to be in the vanguard of a new culture, and music was fueling that culture. As teenagers, we were ready. Our parents were not. We wanted excitement and new freedoms and rock n’ roll would lead the way!
When Elvis Presley, the King, hit the scene, adults were incensed.
Alarming! they said.
Outrageous! He should be banned! The more they complained, the more we loved the King. We swooned over his black ducktail hairstyle, long sideburns and seductive sneer. We bought his records – Heartbreak Hotel, Hound Dog and Blue Suede Shoes – and felt wild and rebellious as our parents condemned us to a life of degeneracy. Soon, we were branching out, be-bopping to Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis and many others.
Move over world, these Alberta kids were going to rock n’ roll with the best of them! We taught ourselves the new moves. We swivelled our hips, knocked our knees, zinged through our partners’ legs and rolled over their backs. The older generation raised their eyebrows and shook their heads in dismay.
Radio stations were a major influence in our lives. One year, our high school held a big dance and we rocked with CJCA’s Wes Dakus and their station band, the Club ‘93 Rebels. We called them Line Dance Parties because schools from ‘down the line’ bussed in for the dances.
For our generation, rock n’ roll was more than music. It was a look. For the boys, the ultimate outfit was strides/drapes (pants that were baggy at the knees and narrow at the ankles) and a pink dress shirt with a charcoal collar. Their hair was slicked back into an Elvis-style ducktail, put in place by heroic effort and a bucket of hair cream.
Girls wore sweaters or white blouses with full skirts, typically aided in their fight against gravity by crinolines. On our feet: bobby socks with saddle oxfords, penny loafers or pedal pushers – styles that made it easy to dance.
Our little local café, later known as Andy’s, was the gathering place after school. There, we plugged our money into the jukebox, learned to smoke in the back booth, and drank cokes. Occasionally we would even try to dance, but the proprietor would emerge from behind the swinging doors, looking annoyed and uttering what we could only assume were threats in Chinese. In retrospect, we must have sorely tested his patience.
In the fifties, cars became critical for our teenage lives. We began to cruise on Saturday nights. Radios blared the Hit Parade as we’d loop up and down Castor’s main street endlessly, enjoying each loop as though it was the first.
Then, before we knew it, life took charge. We got older, went on to school, married, worked and raised our families. But when the days were busy and times were hard, we could stop and hear the music in our heads. A smile would cross our lips and our step would seem lighter. Sometimes, when our babies were sleeping, we’d kick off our shoes and dance in the living room.
Back in the fifties, our parents wondered what would become of our generation. Now, we’re the top half of the generation gap and we wonder why our teenagers wear jeans with half the legs torn out, or why they would listen to songs with words that make no sense. But when the kids ask me about the ‘old days,’ I think, how could they be the old days? It was just yesterday, wasn’t it?
See you later Alligator. After a while Crocodile.
- Beth
