As a Canadian, I feel a bit resentful that I even know who Dick Clark is. A national treasure in the US he may have been but what does that have to do with the country I come from? American Bandstand meant nothing to me, my sister or any of my friends — yet we would occasionally watch Solid Gold — and I'm not sure it played a significant role among Baby Boomers north of the border either. My parents would talk about watching The Ed Sullivan Show, The Honeymooners, the Mary Tyler Moore Show, Bonanza and the Beverly Hillbillies but I never heard them say anything about seeing the Bee Gees or Gladys Knight on America's favourite pop music show. (For all I know, it wasn't even on Canadian TV back in the sixties) Clark's other notable cultural touchstone was his New Year's Eve show. Again, this was something I never watched and never even considered tuning in to. (Why else would we have local programming if not to see newcasters out of their element on a stage in downtown Calgary uncharismatically counting down the seconds to 1987?) Ultimately, the only reason I know of him is because he would regularly be referenced on favourite American sitcoms of mine — as well as his ghastly appearance in Bowling for Columbine.
Dick Clark got his start as a DJ during the early days of the rock 'n' roll era. While his more rotund and/or bespectacled contemporaries found the transition to be difficult, he managed to make the shift over to TV due in no small part to his boyish looks. But before that really started to happen, he was using his status as a radio personality to influence up and coming groups. On the one hand, this proved to be beneficial. When songwriters Artie Singer, John Medora and David White approached him with their composition "Do the Bop", he opined that it was a little late in the game for them to be jumping on the bandwagon of the latest dance craze of the same name. Instead, he suggested that their catchy number should be a celebration of teenagers getting together to dance at a school gymnasium which had come to be known as a 'hop'. So far, so helpful — or so it would seem.
But there was a price to be paid — literally. While Clark's input could have merited a songwriting credit (Sting contributed far less to the Dire Straits smash "Money for Nothing" and he's listed as one of its songwriters), he chose to demand half the publishing royalties. Not, mind you, for his creative input but for the seemingly herculean task of playing the record on his radio show. This practice would come to be known as 'payola' but it's fine by me if you prefer to use the term 'conflict of interest'. While not illegal in 1957, DJ's like Clark must have known that it was unethical to make such a demand. But, hey, where would rock 'n' roll be without guys with misplaced egos spinning records on the radio and concluding that it's all about them?
It's interesting to think what a single like "At the Hop" could have done without the help of an influential media mogul getting kick backs. On the one hand, it was a big hit in a number of countries where Clark's reach didn't extend; in the UK, for example, it spent seven weeks in the Top 5, peaking at number three. In addition, the fact that it spent five weeks at the top of the American charts as well as three in Canada indicates that plenty of young people liked it. Payola tactics resulted in records getting played a lot but it didn't do much to impact kids either requesting it or buying a copy of their own. That said, the boost it would have received from Clark made people aware of it in the first place. An equally good or better 45 made by people who weren't in cahoots with with shady disc jockeys wouldn't have stood a chance in this environment.
The fact that I could go either way on "At the Hop" sort of says it all. The tune is enjoyable with a hook that is strong enough to make for an annoying earworm which nearly makes up for the white-bred frat boy vocals. Then there's the fact that its lyrics trade on generalities and cliches about "chicks" and "cats" getting down to the latest dance sensation (a remnant of it originally being a song about bopping) rather than the lived experience of kids who were growing up in this era. This was the conundrum of fifties' pop: professional songwriters could be relied upon to consistently deliver a solid product but did gentlemen in their thirties really understand youths they were catering towards? Having said that, I'm clearly listening to it with a gulf of almost seventy years' worth of pop music history.
This benefit of hindsight, however, allows for a greater appreciation of the original "Do the Bop" as performed by Danny & The Juniors under their original name The Juvenairs earlier in 1957. In truth, there isn't a great deal of difference between the two except to say that the earlier stab renders the hit single "At the Hop" even less convincing. The Bop having already been popular over the past several months, it was obviously something that the youthful songwriting pair of Medora and White knew about; with most of the same lyrics then transferred over from "Bop" to "Hop", it suddenly seems awkward and there's a sense that the people behind it were delving into unfamiliar territory. It's difficult to understand why there was this need to alter it anyway, though a creepy disc jockey looking to rake in the cash is probably what it all comes down to.
Curiously, though, it would inspire at least one far greater pop song which more accurately captures teenage optimism. The Colin Moulding-penned "Life Begins at the Hop" was nearly a UK Top 40 hit for XTC and it ushered in an all-too brief period in which it seemed like the Swindon quartet would become hugely successful. Though described as "magical", this hop is still just a "church on the corner" that they go to for nuts and crisps and "c-c-c-cola on tap". Rock 'n' roll rebellion isn't present, rather it's a world of youngsters taking a peak at the world that lies beyond their quaint lower-middle class homes, rough comprehensive school and football pitch. This is where 'life begins' with fumbling on guitars, pubs, cheap drugs and sex all still way in the future. But by 1979 payola was long gone and all it had was British DJ John Peel in its corner. Influential though he no doubt was, he never had the reach of Dick Clark which meant it was only able to go so far.
Score: 5
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