I Call on the Godfather: Reliving History With Dick Clark

I Call on the Godfather: Reliving History With Dick Clark

FEATURES

Toby Goldstein

When I was 12, I had a fantasy. No, we're not talking about the "grow up and become an actress" dream, or the "gee, I wish I lived in a big house and had my own room instead of this cramped apartment" entreaty. Not even some vague reward-thoughts about an extra dollar in the allowance if I brought home all A's—which, at least, usually happened. That meant I could rush out and buy two new 45s, which in 1961 cost 49 cents apiece.

This earnest prayer took the form of communication with the black and white console television that sat, monolithjc, in our living room. Every school day, at 3:30 p.m., the set would glow into life on the New York City ABC affiliate, Channel 7, and music familiar as the national anthem (and far more beloved) ricocheted off the apartment walls. Watching the clear-voiced, smooth-faced announcer welcome his lindying regulars, then greet "his kids," millions of other young people, I yearned, "Oh, if only I were 13, I could go to Philadelphia —the next best thing to the Emerald City —and dance on American Bandstand."

My friends and I wore out the rug practicing those steps which would endear us to Kenny, Arlene, Barbara, and all the other impossibly hip members of this enviable clique. And when we weren't ogling a particularly dishy sweater set or flip hairdo, we saw the performers. There were our heroes, from hie show's Italian neighborhood — Frankie Avalon or Bobby Rydell. Maybe the great black singers, such as Jackie Wilson and the early Miracles. Girl groups, like the Chantels and Marvelettes. This was the music that commanded the unfathomable loyalties of a lonely, too-brainy kid who needed to belong someplace. (I would later discover that there were millions of us all thinking the same thing.) Smiling through the music's roar, gently but firmly controlling his on-air sock hop so that no two camera-hungry couples would punch each other out, at least while the show was being broadcast—was a 32-yearold disc jockey named Dick Clark.

Survivor of the payola scandals which had almost destroyed the burgeoning rock industry (and did ultimately ruin the formative rock deejay, Alan Freed), Clark was the closest thing to a teenager's benevolent deity. His pleasant features and manner acceptable to all but the most ogre-ish parents, Dick Clark quietly, unobtrusively and steadily shaped the developing rock culture. The way his dancers dressed was immediately copied in high and junior high schools. The songs he aired on the show invariably became smash hits. The faces who sang those numbers were white, brown and black—frequently the only times teenagers in many parts of America even imagined relating to a differently-hued individual.

'One of the biggest mistakes i ever made was being unimpressed with the Beatles."

Before that decade would end, events in the real world would affect young people far more than the simple entertainment vehicle called American Bandstand. Philadelphia would give way to the golden configurations of Ffollywood for the show's home base. While "chosen ones" still danced on Bandstand, their clothes influenced each other more than they did the coast-tocoast school set. A daily event became relegated to midday Saturday viewing— and these days young students race home to watch soaps or play Pac-Man.

However, during the past few years, we have slowly become aware that we ought to be watching American Bandstand again, even if Barry Manilow (ugh) sings ifs theme song. While tightly formatted radio programmers of AOR stations were avoiding punk, new-wave and funk music as if they carried loathsome diseases, Bandstand was booking 'em, in technicolor. Prince, Joe Jackson, the Stray Cats, Blondie, the Go-Go's, ABC, Rick James, even PiL, finally had one important place in which to foment musical subversion. I don't know what seeing these acts means to a generation (you folks) who've been censored in your radio listening for years, but for me, Dick Clark is coming damn close to earning deity stature again.

Strange, but the awesomely youthful 53-year-old man who meets me in his midtown publicists' office doesn't act like a living legend. Dick Clark warmly extends his hand in greeting, groans in fun when I tell him about that old consuming desire to get to Philadelphia—''everybody's got a story," he says, and tries to wake up following his "red-eye" through flight from L.A. Dressed in a casual, but well-cut sport jacket, knit tie, conservative shirt and slacks, Clark looked as if he might have just stepped off the ABC set. Sure, the face that some jokingly say made a pact with the devil for eternal youth is starting to flesh out here, or droop a bit there. It's still ludicrous to think of fhis man as middleaged, especially since he refuses to let the calendar govern his life.

"I have a favorite story," he easily recalls, settling into a comfortable chair. "I was doing one of those rock V roll concerts and was backstage with a young man. 1† was November, and I was celebrating my 30th birthday, and this kid was about 18. He says, 'Today's your birthday? You look pretty good for a guy your age!' I thought that was pretty funny fhen. Now I'm 53, fhis fellow's losf all his hair, he's gof three or four kids, and he doesn't look so good for his age!

''It is totally unimportant what you look like. It's what's inside you that really makes it count. Your mother and father fold you that, your teachers. Unfortunately, you never really grasp it 'til you get older and say, 'Gee, I better not turn into a prune mentally.' A lot of people do."

"Goo, I hotter not turn into a prune mentally."

Maybe Dick Clark just doesn't have time to age. For a man who's so successful he could retire whenever he wishes, Clark works as hard as the proverbial boy in the William Morris Agency mailroom who needs fo become a big shot. He describes his most recent work week as " 10 shows on Saturday and Sunday, a State Fair yesterday (it's now Tuesday), the Bloopers show the day before. And we're shooting a movie in Rhode Island." Not to mention that Clark is in New York to promote the Broadway musical Rock and Roll; The First 5,000 Years, a pet project of his, in which he invested some $200,000. As one of the producers, Clark helped select the 60-odd songs which try to define rock's most significant moments.

Filled with optimism as we spoke, Clark had no idea that the show would close soon after its gala premiere week, and a hit musical would not yef be added fo Clark's comprehensive achievement list. Not to worry—there's still the annual New Year's Rockin' Eve (which Clark hosts from Times Square, only a few blocks away from the room in which we chatted), the game shows, the TV specials, the possible major motion picture, and of course. Bandstand, still number one on Clark's hit parade.

In what soon becomes apparent as a pattern, Dick Clark has a personal anecdote to accompany the explanation of his long-running commitment to the show. Everywhere this man must go, nosy reporters, fellow industry giants and just plain folks want fo know the motivations behind each step Clark takes. Whatever Dick Clark may be like after the cameras have stopped rolling, he was extremely gracious when answering, for what must be the umpty-ninth time, the basic Bandstand queries.

"I don't know how to put this," he candidly admits in a brief lapse from smooth-flowing composure. "If I wasn't interested in rock V roll, I wouldn't be doing fhis. The making of money is very important fo me. I always use that for a yardstick. I'm never ashamed of making money. But it's not the driving force that gets me involved. I like the stimulation of things that are new and interesting, all those nice little esoteric things.

"Somebody said to me the other day, 'Why on earth do you still do Bandstand? Aren't you tired of it?' I said, no, I like it, it's very simple. I'm devoted to it. I love it. I'll do it as long as they let me.

"Nothing I ever did in my life won any awards, but it did make a lot of money. That meant somebody out there liked it,

The Bandstand was an incredible experience to learn how to get a thick hide, 'cause it was universally condemned. There wasn't anybody your age in the business who was writing. They were all the geriatric set, and they hated every minute of it. To see that succeed, despite them, is one of those few wonderful, gratifying things that happens in your life and you say 'nyah, nyah.' " (Just like the Waitresses.)

The story of how an appealing local show host turned his teenage dance parties into a 30-years-long national phenomenon, is fascinating—a creative success story within an industry filled with failure and mediocrity. Clark discusses the birth and growth of American Bandstand fully in his autobiography, Rock, Roll and Remember (co-written with VIDIOT'sown Richard Robinson). Available in paperback, it's recommended reading for those who want a lot more of Dick Clark than the hour he was able to give me. Whether in reading the book, watching Bandstand even now, or listening to Clark's remembrances, one well known facet of his progressivism stands out: Against staggering odds, Dick Clark institutionalized the ideal of rock 'n' roll as a music for all young people. In the mid-1950's, you could easily land in the hospital, or worse, for cultivating such thoughts.

Says Clark, "There's a poster in my office that I cherish. In those days, when we did the rock 'n' roll shows, we used to drag along in buses. And 60-70 percent of the people on the bus were black. And the poster says, 'Don't buy Negro records.' The rest of it was just this extraordinary copy. And right above that, I have a photo of a man backstage with a Confederate cap on, and on the stage is a black man who is singing.

Now, that was the very first integrated black and white television show, done live in the city of Atlanta, Georgia. Under the threat of serious problems, we did that show. And the man on the stage was the late Sam Cooke. So I have the photo of Sam, to remind me that things change a hell of a lot in 20 years.

"People will say—the Bandstand doesn't have any sociologically redeeming values. Bullshit! It's become part of Americana." According to Clark, who is an amateur historian as a hobby, his office vaults are overflowing with so many tapes, films, photographs and personal documents that any sociologist would be forced to name Dick Clark an official archivist of a genuine contemporary culture.

Although Clark's Broadway rock venture was not'successful, its message is certainly applicable to any of rock's several generations—that, as he says, "the big wheel keeps on turning." Music which Presley fans shook to has the power, in a bit different form, to shake up those who follow the Stray Cats. And if there is a sin in being a rock V roll fan, it's to condemn some new style wholehog, without attempting to find even one worthwhile example of the form.

"One of the biggest mistakes I ever made," confesses Clark, "was being unimpressed with the Beatles. 'Cause I heard it all before! It was Chuck Berry and Little Richard, Buddy Holly and the Everly Brothers packaged with a slightly strange Liverpudlian accent. So what else is new? And, they had long hair. And I missed that, because that's what happens when you become old and jaded. But kids are like that today. They have built-in prejudices.

"That's one difference from the early days. We were too naive to be prejudiced. On the same record spindle, they'd put Little Richard and The Penguins, Pat Boone, Kay Starr, and the Ray Anthony Orchestra doing the 'Bunny Hop' and Fats Domino. It slowly evolved into little areas of snob taste, depending on your age, your gender, your sexual preference, your geographical locations. Any older person will tell a younger one —sample a lot of stuff, enjoy as much as you can before you can't stop the process of becoming prejudiced. People my age long for the big band days to come back! But that's sad, if you hold on to it and say, 'These were the best days of my life.' The best days of your life ought to be right now."

Perhaps because he has always considered openness more important than his personal taste regarding Bandstand's guests, Clark is able to successfully place a songwriter like Burt Bacharach and a wild funkmeister such as Rick James on the same show. After so many years, new sounds and styles are expected from him.

I might've been stunned when John Lydon careened all over the set, driving the cameramen crazy, while a Public Image Ltd. tune played in the background, but to Clark's avuncular eye, it was just "poor John. Y'see, he was very ill that day. He had the flu. So he said, I'm going to be rather bizarre, I can't lip-synch, so I'm just gonna go crazy. That wasn't the first time," Clark says amusedly. "You have to relate that to the first time I saw Little Richard—a black man with white silver-sprayed hair, and a gold lame suit."

What impresses me most about Dick Clark is that his unflappable nature offers enough room to welcome artists whose very existence poses a threat to his fellow so-called media magnates. At one time, during the late '60s drug-oriented era, Clark retreated from the scene, frankly admitting that the acid days were incomprehensible to him. On the other hand, Clark will book any type of artist on Bandstand, as long as they understand that an "act" is meant for the stage. Performers who get their jollies by making anyone else uncomfortable (Ozzy, take note) do not and will not find a place before the 8 to 12 million steady American Bandstand viewers.

"The only thing that bends me out of shape is, after an artist appears on television, they mistreat the staff, tear up the dressing room, urinate on the walls, or do any of those outrageous things.

"I'll do Bandstand as long as they let me."

Then, I don't really want to have a lot to do with them. I don't give a damn how you make your living, but don't carry the act off the stage. It's really not mature."

Without doubt one of America's most recognizable gentlemen, Dick Clark wears a cautious smile as he poses for pictures in the midst of the Times Square sleaziness. Several people acknowledge him. One man hands Clark a religious tract. He takes the paper, and keeps on smiling. A few weeks later, I read about a dinner given for Dick Clark in Washington. Several guests thought the fgte was for a former senator of the same name, and abruptly cancelled out of the party. Quoted in the New York Times, the Bandstand host claimed he had a perfect right to use his own name. As in so many other cases, Dick Clark was the first one there. The Times, in closing the item, commented simply, "When the political Dick Clark successfully ran for the Senate in 1972, the entertainment Dick Clark had been host of the network program, American Bandstand for 1 5 years." I rest my case.