Martin Goodman.

The Candy Man and Ol' Blue Eyes had plenty to bitch about during the mid-1950s. These classic crooners were steadily losing record sales and teenage fan bases to a style of music that did not exist 10 years earlier. Sinatra, Davis, and other musical stalwarts such as Irving Berlin were not alone in their contemptuous attitudes. Parents across America cringed as their teens shook and shimmied to the country's newest musical form, a hybrid version of African-American rhythm and blues and white rockabilly that the older generation scorned as "race music." "Rock and roll," as the genre came to known, was powered by thousands of independent record labels and free-swinging disc jockeys such as Alan Freed, who found a huge audience of white teens ready to rock and roll to the suggestive lyrics and pulsing beat.

"Rock and roll" was, in fact, a coded term for sexual intercourse, and the new generation was ready to shatter the mores of postwar culture. Teenagers had become "cats" and rebels, resplendent in their ducktails and denims, rocking and rolling in the back seats of their souped-up cars. Rock and roll may have appeared as a cultural phenomenon as early as 1951, but by 1954 it took over the United States, never to entirely relinquish its hold. The engine of conquest was one Elvis Presley, a white boy who served as the ultimate integrator of two racial cultures. Riding a path blazed by many black performers such as Chuck Berry, Presley (under the initial guidance of Sam Phillips) gave the youth of America their own unique style of music.

Because of its biracial origins and sly double-entendres, rock and roll was a transgressive art. It was the music of rebellion; millions of unsupervised teens rocked to jukeboxes, raced cars, met for secret trysts amidst broken curfews, and danced in ways that would have scandalized the most libertine of flappers. For perhaps two years -- all too brief a time -- rock and roll existed in its purest form. After Col. Tom Parker took Elvis' reins and sanitized the superstar, rock and roll became "whitened," toned down, and more publicly acceptable. Pat Boone, Ricky Nelson and, perhaps most of all, American Bandstand host Dick Clark tamed the beast. By 1958 (Gordy Berry's Motown sound notwithstanding), rock and roll was dead. Not until the Beatles would it arise again in a new and vital form.

Still, rock and roll made a deep and lasting mark on the culture. It was still remembered as a transgressive musical genre, the soundtrack for rebels, delinquents, and dance floor demons everywhere. Uninhibited and licentious behaviors were rock and roll's sidekicks, and until the music industry caged it, no one (not even Frank Sinatra) could deny the pulsing power of its attraction to the young. So... what has this got to do with animation? During the course of one single animated TV series, the early history of rock and roll was recapitulated. The subversive power of the music was briefly highlighted, then disappeared from the scene. When rock reappeared in animated television shows years later, it would be sanitized beyond recognition.

For a brief moment, Alvin and the Chipmunks incarnated the subversive power of rock and roll, with harried manager David Seville standing in for the adults struggling to control teenage music. © Bagdasarian.

The show that correctly pinpointed the subversive power of rock and roll did not come along until 1961, although the "stars" had been recording artists since 1957 and were very nearly named "The Butterflies." After several appearances on TV as a trio of puppets and in the pages of Dell comics, they were finally designed by the animation team at Format Films. Format was composed of UPA veterans who farmed out some of the work to Jack Kinney's studio, giving these nascent stars a pedigree background. When they finally appeared, in prime time, on October 14, 1961, three chipmunks named Alvin, Simon, and Theodore charmed a nation. They also brought a touch of James Dean, Elvis Presley, and teenage rebellion along with them.

How did a cheaply animated cartoon that ran for only 26 episodes accomplish this? Although too many mundane episodes featured the Chipmunks singing old parlor songs and many more were wasted on gratuitous characters such as Stanley the Eagle and Sam Valiant, Private Nose, there were several that sharply zeroed in on teenage transgression. Rock and roll may have died in the late '50s, but not in David Seville's world; the harried manager of this singing group replicated the adult struggle for control over their teenager's music. Not only did he lose, his Chipmunks sometimes inflicted other casualties as well.

In one episode, a harried Seville attempts to get the 'munks to sing a romantic tune, but Alvin insists on invading the song with his harmonica. An exasperated Seville finally tells Alvin "Go ahead. Make a fool of yourself. Play your harmonica." Alvin responds by riffing a variation on the original tune, much as the early rock and roll artists improvised around blues forms. In refusing to play composer Seville's original composition, Alvin changes its form through the rebellious use of a classic blues instrument.