Train Time

What a night! I was nine years old and I had just watched Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers follow the Drifters onstage who had brought out their special guest for the evening, Clyde McPhatter, who was home on-leave in his U.S. Army uniform. 

We were waiting for Bo Diddley and the Platters; the Teen Queens and, of course, the headliners, Bill Haley and the Comets. Great goodness!

Suddenly the familiar riff from Tweedlee Dee wafted through the cavernous armory walls with that wondrous clang of the holy cowbell. The spotlight shone on the sequinned shape at the foot of the stage steps. LaVern Baker raised both arms and snapped her fingers. Two of the guys from the band dutifully dropped their horns and ran to the steps, lifting Ms. Baker by her elbows to the stage. Her dress, above the crinolinely flare, was too tight to walk up the steps.

If that wasn't the height of Western civilization up till then, it was close.