He coined the term “Rock and Roll” and yet few people remember the disc jockey Alan Freed. In his Eckhartz Press book “Turn it Up,” author Bob Shannon chronicles Freed’s contributions. On the 99th anniversary of Freed’s birth, we present this free excerpt from Shannon’s book…
Alan Freed: Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll
Rock ‘n’ Roll was a verb, not a noun. In the beginning, more than almost 60 years ago, the words didn’t describe a type of music. Instead, in the black community, they were used as a euphemism for sex. In 1951, The Dominoes, with Clyde McPhatter singing lead, recorded Sixty Minute Man and, according to rock mythology, it was in the song’s suggestive lyrics that Freed first heard the words rock ‘n’ roll. What he did with them rocked the world.
Radio wasn’t Freed’s first love or even an early attraction, but he did have a jones for music.
He was born in Johnstown, PA in 1921 and, in 1933 his family moved to Salem, OH. It was during high school, in the mid ‘30s – when Benny Goodman’s band was hotter than a pistol – that Freed picked up the trombone and formed a combo he called The Sultans of Swing. From the start he saw himself as the band leader. He thought it a glamorous role and, onstage and off, he adopted a certain swagger that might have lasted years had it not been for an ear infection, which abruptly shattered his music making dreams. Bad news, yes, but the silver lining was it kept him out of the Army. (Freed’s 20th birthday was a week after the attack on Pearl Harbor).
In his late teens Freed traded his trombone for a microphone and, by 1946, when he hit 25, he’d already worked at WKST/New Castle, PA, and at WAKR/Akron – as an announcer, newsman and sportscaster – generally a jock of all trades.
At 28, Freed left Akron for the big city and a television job at WXEL-TV in Cleveland. He had nine years radio experience under his belt and had been hired to do a “disc jockey” show on TV. At the time, Freed wasn’t thinking about playing records on the tube; he thought that was a dead-duck approach and that’s exactly what he told the local paper. “I’d like to do away with records and depend entirely on live acts.”
But, it was television that got him noticed. “Friendliness makes more friends and that’s the ticket in television,” he said. (By the way, as a TV personality, Freed still spelled his first name with two “ls” and one “e” – Allen.) But, his fling with television was short lived and, in 1951, Freed returned to radio, when he landed a late night job playing classical music at WJW in Cleveland. In his book “The Fifties,” historian David Halberstam describes Freed as being “somewhat of a vagabond” and suggests that classical music was hardly Freed’s first love; this was just another way of saying the job was all about the money.
Then, along came record store owner Leo Mintz. Halberstam tells what happened this way: “Young white kids with more money than one might expect were coming into his store and buying what had been considered exclusively Negro music just a year or two before.”
What he means is that the lilywhite world of Cleveland, if not the entire United States, was about to be rocked on its axis.
Mintz convinced Freed that something new was happening and Freed agreed. The two men then convinced WJW management to give Freed a new show featuring this new music. Freed was jazzed about the idea and management was swayed by the money Mintz was willing to pay for sponsorship.
Freed decided to call the program “Moondog’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Party” and he proclaimed himself “The Moondog.”
On July 11, 1951 the show hit the air. In his new persona, Freed sided with the kids, professed his love for the music, and though he probably didn’t realize it, began to lead a revolution. “An entire generation of young white kids had been waiting for someone to catch up with them,” wrote Halberstam.
Nine months into the show’s run Freed decided he wanted to reward his loyal listeners – and, perhaps, put a little money in his pocket – so, he organized what (has since been identified as) the first live rock ‘n’ roll show, “The Moondog Coronation Ball.” He booked the top black acts in the country into the Cleveland Arena, a facility that held 10,000, and sold tickets for less than two dollars a piece.
Then, he held his breath.
On May 21, 1952 20,000 kids – white and black – showed up at the arena ready to party. The energy level was high and so was the body count, acerbated by hundreds of counterfeited tickets. It was, truly, a night to behold. The concert began. But, after only one song, fire authorities shut it down.
Still, a statement had been made: rock ‘n’ roll was here to stay. Freed, however, was getting itchy feet and while it didn’t happen overnight, within two years he left Cleveland and headed for New York City.
In the fall of 1954 Freed’s radio show debuted in New York on 1010/WINS and, within months, it was the #1 radio program in New York. WINS paid him $75,000 a year (about $450,000 in today’s dollars) and he added to his earnings by throwing live concerts at The Brooklyn Paramount.
The following year Hollywood caught on (to the discretionary money teenagers had to spend) and Freed, the Pied Piper, appeared in a series of low-budget rock ‘n’ roll movies, including “Don’t Knock The Rock,” “Rock Around The Clock” and “Rock, Rock, Rock.” Then, in 1957, The ABC Television Network gave Freed his own national TV show. Things began well enough, but when young Frankie Lymon (“Why Do Fools Fall In Love” – 1956) was seen dancing with a white girl, affiliates in the South went ballistic and the show was quickly cancelled.
This was the beginning of the end. The next year, WINS opted not to renew Freed’s contract. The reason, they said, was Freed’s indictment for inciting a riot at a Boston concert. Out at WINS, Freed crossed the street and joined competitor WABC. But, when he refused to sign a letter stating that he’d never accepted payola – he said it was a matter of principal – WABC fired him, too.
What happened to Freed next is essentially the tale of a career and a life in a tail-spin. Because he was so visible and so personified the music, a New York grand jury, convened in 1960 to look into irregularities in the record business, charged him with income tax evasion. (Before 1960, payola wasn’t illegal. But not reporting the payments as income was.) With no radio work to be found in New York, Freed moved to Los Angeles to work for KDAY, but the job didn’t last long and, dejected, he settled in Miami, where his career ended.
I could continue to focus this story on nasty little details that don’t paint a very positive picture of Mr. Freed, but I won’t, because they don’t matter. What does is that Alan Freed – in the face of a racially divided society – chose to play and champion rhythm and blues records. By doing so, he helped to usher in the dawn of the first rock age. No, he didn’t invent rock ‘n’ roll, but he was the first to use the term in the context we use it today.
There have been several movies made about Freed – most notably “American Hot Wax” and “Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll” – but neither pays much attention to the facts and, from our perspective here in the 21st Century, that may be acceptable. Why? Because the spirit of Freed’s accomplishments transcend the details and he should be remembered, not for his failures, but for his successes and for what he did right.
In 1986, for his contributions to American culture, to rock ‘n’ roll and to the radio industry, Alan Freed was inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame. It happened in Cleveland, where it all began, and as it should be.
