Elvis was my first musical hero, indisputably the King (though he wasn’t called that, yet. There was no need.) His smile was charming, and America, as straight as a thin string tie, reacted in horror at his rotating leg. And there were the others: Jerry Lee Lewis (with his thirteen year old bride; these boys really were southern) the Everly Brothers (with their mellow harmonies), the screaming Little Richard pounding the piano, and the duck-walking Chuck Berry.
My parents hated the music I found so exciting (and which my mother in particular was certain would never last). In turn, I found an afternoon spent in the car with them listening to Tony Bennett was more than I could endure. Their music – Cole Porter, Benny Goodman, wonderful music really – made no sense to me at all. (FROM AN AMERICAN STORY)
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