***Out In The 1950s Be-Bop Night- With Eddie Bond And The Stompers'  Rockin' Daddy In Mind  

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

The night was clear almost cloudless, the moon blazing in the heavens or trying to blaze against the fading day sun, the weather a little sultry for an early summer Memphis night, an early Memphis summer night in that great 1956 crested night. Crested ever since local boy made good Big Jack McGee had busted out on the Moon label and on the  Rockabilly charts with his flat-out flail I’m A Good Rocking Daddy that had all the girls, hell some women, some very married women, thinking some thoughts, some private thoughts maybe they should not be thinking in that 1950s night when all thoughts should have been on eternal grace, fear of the end of the world, and if nothing else about working like seven devils to beat those damn Russkies who wanted to take the American dream away. But there you have it those young women, girls, getting wet and sweaty about Big Jack. And here is the beauty of the thing, the guy beauty of it, those same girls, young women, women were as likely to be crazy for, be wet for if you want to know, other guys who could either be-bop bop like Big Jack or who could dance themselves into whirling dervishes on the other side of those females on the dance floor and, uh, walk home with them.

Hence this moony night, this a little sultry for early summer Memphis night in the year of our lord 1956 the Bluelight Ballroom is putting on a dance contest to find out who is, or is not, the good rocking daddy of the region. And hence that is why one Johnny Sparkill (the girls at old Memphis North where he had graduated a few years before had called him Johnny Sparkle when they had their eyes set on him but he never liked it, thought it sounded kind of faggoty, kind of homo and he was glad the women at work (J.D. South‘s Textile Mill, the biggest in town) had never caught on to that moniker was standing at the entrance to the ballroom. Yes, Johnny had worked himself up into standing in front of that ballroom door and was beginning to gather himself together enough to enter and win the dance contest. The decision to enter, to put himself out there, to see if he had what it took to be the be-bop rocking daddy and make the women sweat (he, older now, was not longer interested in girls, like he was some high school goof  but only women, and he was not particular as his recent track record indicted whether they were married or not although strictly speaking he favored single women since it cut down on irate and looking for him husbands) had caused him some sleepless nights, some tossing and turning.

It wasn’t that Johnny, all snarly and surly good looks in that way working class boys and men were facing the world just then and which many women found, well, found intriguing, all white tee-shirt, blue jeans, wide black belt and engineer boots, cigarette hanging from the lips adding to the effect like some god figure out of  Marlon Brando’s The Wild Ones, didn’t have the desire to do the deed but he had one problem, one big problem if one wanted to be the rocking daddy-he couldn’t dance a lick. Had, in fact, something like two left feet. Worse he had no sense of rhythm, no sense of rockabilly rhythm, since he could not pivot well, and his hips seemed welded to his torso. Enter one Jenny Sparkill (the boys at old Memphis North where she was a sophomore called her Jenny Sparkle when they had their eyes set on her and she liked it, liked it especially when Claude Lee called her that, she thought it sounded kind of dreamy), Johnny’s sister who among her set was considered one of the best be-bop be-bop dancers around. It was Jenny (sworn to death-dealing secrecy or else) who painstakingly gave Johnny a left and right foot and unwelded those tragic hips, and showed him a few girlish moves (that he thought too faggy but he bought into it) that she said would give him an edge when the judges were weeding out the wheat from the chaff.           

Johnny then threw away his inhibitions as he entered the battle zone and his slight swagger as he surveyed the ballroom, the competition, and more importantly, the women who would be watching and participating and who would perhaps sway thing if something caught their eyes, said he had made that transformation from doubt that Jenny had told him to lose before he got going. He was ready. He went to the entry table, paid his fee, and received his number. Number ten. He looked around the room to see what woman had that same number, which was his partner. (The numbers were issued on an arbitrary basis to avoid any combined hot-dogging.) He spied a thin, tall woman (almost as tall as he) with full frilly dress, kind of plain of face, and his heart fell. A lot of what his sister had told him about chemistry between partners evaporated right there. He walked over to him, introduced herself as Cindy and said she thought they had a very good chance what with his looks and her skill.  Johnny thought no way they fit, arbitrary matches or not. Already he saw eights that looked like something out of Hollywood’s idea of the perfect dance pair, some rockabilly Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Well he was in, come hell or high water.      

In the event Johnny Sparkle, yes Johnny Sparkle fit now, fit now that he and Cindy had won the contest hands down and they were working some local dances and bars as the good example dancers hired by management to show the young and clueless what was what in the be-bop be-bop rockabilly night. See Cindy had some moves, some moves like Jenny, and so that egged him on, made him unweld those hips, and so before the night was out he was in a groove, the women were whistling, whistling for more. Best of all Cindy, very married and not looking for any Johnny one night stand, introduced him to her younger sister, Betty Ann, who very definitely was. And who was nothing but a fox. Yah, he was the rocking daddy, the max rocking daddy of the Memphis night…