By Ray d'Entremont —— Bio and Archives--August 14, 2026
Lifestyles | Comments | Back To Full Article

They said it wouldn’t last. Back in the mid-fifties, when the first electric guitars started snarling out of small Southern studios and teenage dance floors began to quake, the “old folks” were almost unanimous: this noise--this hormone fueled craziness--was a passing fad.
A moral lapse, perhaps. Something the kids would mature out of as they settled down. Disc jockeys in suits called it jungle music. Preachers called it the devil’s din. Newspaper columnists assured their readers that the kids would soon be back to Perry Como and foxtrots. Like my bandmate, who said of the early Beatles, “They’re not going to get anywhere playing that Chuck Berry crap,” the skeptics were wrong in the most spectacular way.
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