Ed Sullivan’s Rock ‘N’ Roll Classics, Rhino Home Video, 2002
First ran on WBUR arts pages, October 14, 2002
When Ed Sullivan died in 1974, the joke was that he’d been dead for years—how could you tell? Born in Harlem on September 28, 1901, 125 years ago, the stiffness was legendary, the punch line permanent. Then, Netflix’s Sunday Best landed last year and the double-takes started: planted in the middle of mainstream America was a committed integrationist who booked more Black acts than anyone in the era’s most powerful medium. Rock fans had the evidence all along. Rhino’s 2002 compilation plays like a straight flush, and from this late vantage you can feel history do the frug. Like a lot of prime-timers, Sullivan chased young demos to keep advertisers happy—but that was the payoff of a world so limited by broadcast outlets; Sunday night carried a sacred hush. Sullivan provided the perfect foil: the father-figure who made smiling look painful. Young’uns take note: Stephen Colbert’s May retirement closed down sacred turf.
ED SULLIVAN, A CELEBRITY columnist for New York’s Daily News, was the unlikeliest of TV stars—an inept impresario, wooden in posture, delivery, and sensibility. Audiences must have enjoyed feeling superior to him in every way. And yet, even though he was known as the “corpse” among comics, his variety show was an important part of Sunday night in America’s living rooms from 1948 to 1971. Along with the usual puppets and celebrity songsters, tumblers and big-time comedians, he booked many of the era’s most insurgent rock acts. He knew how a popular act could spike ratings. Now, Rhino has collected and released Ed Sullivan’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Classics, nine DVDs of music that not only present the appearances of giants and obscurities, but also chronicle the civil rights struggle in song.
Immersing yourself in this handsomely packaged box set is like skinny-dipping in a more naive era, with Sullivan as the old-guard anchor to the burgeoning color and illicit thrill of cultural revolt. The sets are the dated pastiche of a medium scurrying to catch up with a trend it couldn’t fathom, but the costumes and sounds are magnificently classic.
Sullivan takes credit for introducing America to the Beatles, but his integrationist booking policy also deserves praise. Without his platform, the Supremes might have faded away like many other girl groups. But the troupe’s finesse won Sullivan over, and they became the most often booked Motown act (at one point, forgetting their name, he introduces them simply as “the girls!”).
The look of the performers in their ‘60s garb seems dramatically dated. Yet, many of their outfits, spunky hairdos, fringe vests, and leather pants wouldn’t look out of place on today’s stages.
And the Supremes’ tide lifted such Motown acts as the Four Tops, the Temptations, Martha and the Vandellas, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, and Stevie Wonder, who all appeared as mainstream showbiz acts at a time when marches and freedom rides prompted Bull Connor’s fire hoses. This Motown clout helped bring into the spotlight non-Motown soul singers like James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Lou Rawls, and others. Of course, later on, Motown would spring its biggest act on the Sullivan stage: the Jackson 5, featuring a young Michael Jackson. Most of these performers exude a freshness and naïveté compared to the corporate savvy of today’s Madonna and Britney [sic].
Michael Jackson makes his debut on Sullivan at the age of 11, and there’s something unbearably poignant about this footage, considering the celebrity freak he’s become. Seeing him belt out his early hits like “ABC” and “The Love You Save” reminds you that this kid measured himself against Elvis Presley and the Beatles.
Surprisingly, most of the acts performed live, as Sullivan retained a superb house band. The emotional difference between hearing these songs—which we still hear every day on the radio—and seeing them performed live can still provoke. The look of the performers in their ‘60s garb seems dramatically dated. Yet, many of their outfits, spunky hairdos, fringe vests, and leather pants wouldn’t look out of place on today’s stages.
Having said that, certain novelty acts haven’t aged well at all. Just when you think nobody could be squarer than Sullivan, along comes Freddie of Freddie and the Dreamers, who surfed in from Manchester on the British Invasion wave for two hits. Both of their appearances here (“I’m Telling You Now” and “Do the Freddie”) feature crushingly ridiculous arm-and-leg waving. Freddie’s yelps are anything but hip.
The DVDs are organized according to genre and period, with sections for annual hits between 1965 and 1970, alongside special blowouts for Elvis, Teen Idols, The British Invasion, and Motown. Even though this makes for some repeats, you can still cue up the Doors’ incendiary “Light My Fire” next to the Animals, Tom Jones, or Gary Puckett. Standouts include a triumphant performance from Janis Joplin doing Eddie Floyd’s “Raise Your Hand” with her friendly San Francisco outfit, Big Brother and the Holding Company; James Brown cooking up “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag”; the Beach Boys cruising through “I Get Around”; as well as Buddy Holly, Sly and the Family Stone, and weird sideshows like Vanilla Fudge doing the Supremes’ “You Keep Me Hangin’ On.”
At the time, of course, nobody imagined we’d be listening to most of this music for our daily oldies fix, never mind clamoring for more of the same in deluxe, digitally mastered reissues (as with the refurbished Rolling Stones 1960s catalog on ABKCO). This edition of The Ed Sullivan Show reminds us how far away the ‘60s can seem—and how much they’re still with us.
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Sunday Best: The Untold Story of Ed Sullivan (Netflix, 2025)
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Check out the archives: “Por destino soy americano,” how Los Lobos’ The Neighborhood Predicted Bad Bunny’s “Nuevayol”; Jimi Hendrix, Lonely For Robert Johnson; George Clinton’s One Nation Under a Groove… And We Still Ain’t Free (But the Funk Helps)
Coming soon: James Gleick’s The Telephone: A New History (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)
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