Before Texas Changed: A Fort Worth Boyhood

Chapter 11

11. In addition to sports, music was also becoming a big part of my days. Though still unable to play anything, I was an avid listener. Music was a constant. The record store was next door to Ernie’s and had almost as much business. Its windows were covered with posters of the latest singers, and its shelves filled with 45s. Back in the corner was a little area where I could listen to a record before making the big decision to buy or not to buy. New singers were appearing almost weekly. Elvis had set the pace, but was far from alone. One day Leo sat me down in his bedroom and said: “Listen to this.” It was a sound I would never forget —a new singer named Johnny Cash, backed up by the Tennessee Two. Cash had a country sound, but the beat was strong and different . “What do you think?” said Leo. “Isn’t that great?” Music was changing fast, and its new stars drawing plenty of attention. In fact, by this time the beat of these larger-than-life people was pulsating around and through our lives: Chuck Berry, with his hard driving guitar and his jerking across the stage on one foot with the other leg pointed straight ahead, to the strains of “Johnny Be Good” and “Memphis, Tennessee”; Fats Domino, the round little man from New Orleans who sat at a piano and pounded out such classics as “Blueberry Hill” and “I’m Walkin’”; and Jerry Lee Lewis, “The Killer,” who usually began seated at the piano but was soon up on his feet and then up on the piano. Jerry Lee was all motion and beat, and by the time he was barely into “Great Balls of Fire,” had large crowds on their feet yelling and dancing. This was a remarkable array of characters: Jackie Wilson with a high voice and strutting style; Roy Orbison with his dark glasses and 169 even higher voice, probably the best ballad singer of the lot; Little Richard, Sam Cooke, Paul Anka, Bobby Rydell, Fabian, Frankie Avalon, Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon, Bobby Darin—all with one hit after another and each with his own following and fan club. And, of course, Ray Charles, whose sound was solely his own, blues and more blues. Blind, he wore dark glasses and swayed his head from side to side as he played the piano and poured his soul into whatever he was singing. And there were the groups, which seemed to appear almost overnight. Many of their singers wore suits and ties (narrow lapels, thin ties) and coordinated not only clothes but body movements as well. Hand gestures and dance steps were synchronized as singers glided through one sha-na-na and do-wop, do-wop after another in perfectly harmonized tones and moves. They had names like The Drifters, The Coasters, The Platters, The Four Freshmen, Little Anthony and The Imperials. I cannot picture those days without those people and their music. It became my music. I kept my record player beside my bed along with an ever-growing stack of 45s. In fact, I was beginning to amass a sizable collection. My father did not really appreciate these sounds, referring to most of them as little more than screaming and shouting. I thought Jackie Wilson might have a chance to win him over. Wilson had one of those not-to-be-forgotten voices, high and strong. I could not imagine a better ballad singer and thought that even if my father couldn’t stand the rock-and-rollers, he would appreciate Jackie Wilson. “You’ve got to come hear this,” I told him one day as he came in from work. “I know you don’t care for most of these singers, but I think you’ll like this one.” “You think so, huh?” He followed me into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sit back,” I told him, “and listen to the master.” I began playing “Lonely Teardrops,” one of Wilson’s biggest hits, b e f o r e t e x a s c h a n g e d 170 and waited for his reaction. He sat there expressionless. I kept looking , watching for some clue, but none came. He sat quietly and blankly through the whole song. “So what do you think?” I asked. “You must be...