Impresario: The Life and Times of Ed Sullivan

by James Maguire

  The Sullivan family, mid 1950s. From left: Sylvia, Ed, Betty (holding a very young Rob Precht), and Bob Precht, who would later become the producer of the Sullivan show. (Globe Photos)

  “Today, living on his 200-acre farm in Southbury, Connecticut, he’s a lonely man, feared, hated, and envied. He’s built walls around himself, such as his full-time bodyguard. Behind the façade, there’s a mighty unhappy, afraid man—the victim of his own consuming egotism.

  “Let’s face it: Sullivan is a Big Man in the American entertainment business, and big guys aren’t liked. The people who knew him when he was on his way up from his $10-a-week job as reporter for a hick-town paper are only a few of those who resent the success that has come to him.”

  As Exposed reported it, Ed’s ruthless practices—his tendency to push around others, from Arthur Godfrey to Frank Sinatra to Walter Winchell—made him feared across the industry. Even his own sponsors were afraid of him, the tabloid claimed: “They know that behind that frigid smile and glassy eyes there lies a raging blaze of ambition that keeps driving the ex-small-town kid to the top.

  “He’s at the top now, but he has bought the Trendex score and the big salary at the cost of fear. His march to the top has left a trail of enemies who would gladly sink their teeth in his throat—or a knife wherever they can.”

  NBC faced a challenge in 1956: finding a way to compete with Sullivan. Despite its leviathan budget, Comedy Hour had failed, and the network’s attempt to hire Ed himself had also come to naught. So now NBC cast around for a fresh challenge to the showman’s vise grip on Sunday night. The decision it made was creative and slightly risky. The network maintained the time slot’s variety format, but to host it they hired a performer who offered a vivid contrast with Ed, Steve Allen.

  Allen was a superb choice as an anti-Sullivan. While Ed played the reserved and stiff guardian of the status quo, Allen was witty and irreverent, and at age thirty-five younger and more forward looking than any previous national television host. His owlish mien and thick black glasses frames belied his gift for unpredictable off-the-cuff comedy. When substituting for Arthur Godfrey on Talent Scouts he made a point of forgetting contestants’ names, and he poked fun at the sponsor by brewing a cup of Lipton Tea with a package of noodle mix, then dumping the resulting concoction into Godfrey’s ukulele. His sharp taste for farce earned him a following as host of the late-evening Tonight Show, among other programs. He was also an actor, having starred in 1955’s The Benny Goodman Story, and an author and prolific songwriter. Allen’s cerebral wit and his tendency to tweak the powerful presaged 1960s comics like Mort Sahl and George Carlin. Shortly before launching his show opposite Sullivan’s, Allen wired Ed: “Dear Ed. Would you lend me ten Trendex points until payday? Love and kisses, Steve Allen.”

  Despite the jest, when The Steve Allen Show debuted in the summer of 1956, Allen immediately went for the jugular. For his second broadcast on July 1 he booked the one-man rock ’n’ roll tornado, the phenomenon who was thrilling teenagers but horrifying adults: Elvis Presley. The singer had only recently burst onto the national scene, having released the moody, noirish—but rhythmic—“Heartbreak Hotel,” in January. Its release had been a match thrown in gasoline. The song swiftly scaled the hit chart, fueled by five appearances on Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey’s CBS-TV program, Stage Show. (The Dorsey brothers, having led top swing orchestras in the war years, were now consigned to a back-of-the-pack television show.) In April, Presley sang “Heartbreak Hotel” on Milton Berle’s show; shortly thereafter the tune hit number one—a first for the singer.

  Elvis’ first guest spot on Berle was sedate, yet when he returned in June his hurricane hips went into action, swiveling in time to the backbeat. His fans swooned, but a good portion of the audience was deeply offended. Rock ’n’ roll was seen by many as promoting juvenile delinquency and antisocial behavior, and Presley was the worst of it. He exuded something not completely definable, an unsettling alembic of sex and longing and alienation; whatever it was, it was too primal, too direct, and certainly too rhythmic. And the way he moved as he sang—especially those pelvic gyrations—was lewd and lascivious, many protested. While his records flew off the shelves, letters of protest poured into newspapers and television stations across the country.

  Steve Allen, booking Presley for $5,500, downplayed his explosive charisma, instead playing the singer’s performance for laughs. Allen’s staff dressed Presley in a tuxedo and convinced him to keep his body movements to a minimum. They cast him in a drowsy comedy sketch in which he sang “Hound Dog” to a basset hound. It was closer to sleepwalking than rock ’n’ roll, and the singer’s fans were horrified. The next day a crowd of teenagers picketed outside the NBC studio in Rockefeller Plaza, carrying signs with slogans like “Bring Back the Grinds” and “We Don’t Like the ‘New’ Elvis, We Want the ‘Old’ Presley.”

  Nonetheless, that evening’s Allen show threw down a challenge to Sullivan. When Ed made his weekly call to the Trendex ratings service—he called every Monday morning without fail—he confirmed what he had suspected: Allen’s show had soundly beaten his, garnering a 20.2 rating compared with his own show’s 14.8. Ed, in an uncharacteristically lighthearted response to a competitor, dashed off a telegram to Allen: “Steven Allen Presley, NBC-TV, New York City. Stinker. Love and kisses, Ed Sullivan.”

  The kidding aside, Sullivan was smarting from the Presley drubbing. Earlier in the year, he had been alternately dismissive and condemning of the singer. Although he had a chance to book Presley while his price was still reasonable, Ed had scoffed at the thought: “$5,000 for some youngster known only in the south?” After Presley’s appearance on Berle ignited protests across the country, Ed told reporters that Elvis was unfit for family viewing. But being outpointed by the upstart Allen led the showman to reconsider his position.

  The other programs that had booked Elvis—Berle’s, the Dorsey brothers’, Steve Allen’s—faced less risk in presenting Presley. Berle by 1956 had faded, falling from the Top 20 to never again regain his ratings. The Dorsey show was even lower rated and Steve Allen was brand new. For them, controversy was desirable; they had little to lose. But The Ed Sullivan Show was the number three show on television; it wasn’t just another variety show, it was the variety show. Now in its eighth year, it had earned its coveted spot through Ed’s eye for talent and uncanny sense of American tastes. Getting booked on the Sullivan program was the show business equivalent of the Good Housekeeping seal of approval. As the unofficial Minister of Culture, he was the guide and the guardian for the American living room. Viewers expected him to disapprove of Elvis.

  Or did they? Presley, for the first time, created a division in Sullivan’s audience. The singer’s recordings were rocketing up the charts, yet authority figures were shaking their heads. Traditional vaudeville producers had never faced this kind of dilemma; they could book something for everyone while offending no one. But this new thing called rock ’n’ roll, like nothing before it, was splitting the living room asunder. What was a television producer who wanted an all-inclusive audience to do?

  For Ed, that question was answered the moment Allen trounced him in the Trendex matchup. Playing to win meant taking a calculated risk—and fast. Within the week of Allen’s ratings victory he called Presley’s manager, Colonel Tom Parker. It was time to make a deal. Not only would Elvis, the great corrupter of youth, appear on the Sullivan show—the sacrosanct bastion of American show business—he would be paid handsomely to do so. Colonel Parker, knowing he had Ed where he wanted him, extracted a whopping $50,000 for three appearances, far more than any previous Sullivan guest.

  On the day the Presley—Sullivan contract was signed in July 1956, rock ’n’ roll took a definitive step toward the mainstream. Ed explained his change of heart to reporters by saying he had been misled by news reports of Presley’s outrageous stage behavior, and after reviewing kinescopes from the Dorsey show he found the accounts to be wildly exaggerated. That might have been so,
yet he came to that conclusion only after his ratings loss. Steve Allen, poking fun at Ed’s about-face, said, “I hereby offer Ed Sullivan $60,000 for three appearances on my show, and if he accepts, I assure my viewers he will not be allowed to wiggle, bump, grind—or smile.”

  A twenty-one-year-old Elvis Presley hours before his debut on the Sullivan show, September 9, 1956. Sullivan resisted booking Presley, yet the singer’s volcanic charisma made him a ratings goldmine. (CBS Photo Archive)

  Sullivan still had to find a way to mitigate the Elvis backlash. Ed’s car accident that summer created a problem: he wouldn’t return in time for Elvis’ debut appearance on September 9, so he wouldn’t be there to reassure those viewers whom the singer would upset. Guest hosting that night was Charles Laughton, a classically trained English actor who introduced the evening’s performers with an ornate British accent. Ed made an unusual decision in creating the show’s running order: the rock ’n’ roller would not appear until three other acts had performed. This decision contradicted his longstanding practice of opening with his biggest attraction. Given the fee being paid Elvis and the excitement around his appearance, he was unquestionably the evening’s headliner. But Ed was burying him in the lineup, as if to say: I’m booking this kid, but he’s not taking over the show.

  So that evening’s audience first saw an acrobatic team, the Amin Brothers, one of whom spun the other into a virtual blur; Dorothy Sarnoff, a star from Broadway’s The King and I, who sang “Something Wonderful”; and the Vagabonds, a four-man comedy-music team who goofed through a mock Hawaiian number.

  Colonel Tom Parker, Elvis, and Sullivan, backstage before Elvis’ second Sullivan show appearance. Parker, realizing Sullivan needed an Elvis booking, charged the showman an unprecedented $50,000 for three appearances. (CBS Photo Archive)

  Elvis’ segment was broadcast from a soundstage in Hollywood, where the twenty-one-year-old singer was filming Love Me Tender. He stood in a spotlight by himself on a darkened stage, dressed in a checked sport coat, armed with a guitar and a glistening pompadour and extravagant sideburns. He was clearly nervous, as if uncomfortable with all the attention. He mumbled a hello with an aw-shucks humbleness, then launched into the mid tempo “Don’t Be Cruel,” as his male backup group, the Jordanaires, doo-wopped along. When he introduced his next song, the slow ballad “Love Me Tender,” he stammered, getting the words out on his second try. His two-song set was restrained, even tentative, yet his female fans were enraptured; they voiced their affection with high-pitched screams.

  The hips that shook a nation: Elvis’ second appearance on the Sullivan show, October 28, 1956. Adults were horrified, and Elvis was burned in effigy. (CBS Photo Archive)

  Later in the hour Elvis performed again, this time with his band around him: drums, bass, and rhythm guitar, with the Jordanaires clapping and harmonizing. The tune was “Ready Teddy,” not much more than a straight rhythm and blues workout, yet its foot-tapping immediacy seemed to set him free. The camera pulled away as he turned into a dervish, revealing all of him, dancing to the rhythm with his guitar in one arm. To viewers not used to seeing rock ’n’ roll dancing he may have appeared possessed, his hips thrumming back and forth with the beat. His fans sounded almost crazed as they screeched with helpless adoration.

  When the tune ended he had to pause to catch himself. “Thank you very much— whew!” He was relaxed and warmed up, a dangerous combination. Before continuing, he did a little business: “Mr. Sullivan, we know that somewhere out there, you’re looking in, and all the boys here and myself and everybody out here are looking forward to seeing you back on television.” With that, he set up his final number: “Friends, as a great philosopher once said.… You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!” And here he leapt into the song like a man hurling over Niagra Falls, letting go of his guitar to snarl-sing “Hound Dog.” The girls erupted and he was in full motion, swiveling, dancing, all the way loose, driving every part of his body to the beat.

  In response, the camera pulled up to show only his upper torso—the operator had been readied for this moment, and viewers were not given a direct shot of the volcano. Yet the limited camera angle didn’t dampen the effect—if anything, his facial expression, the abandon on his face, was more potent than even his gyrating hips. This was untamed beatific energy, the definition of charisma, a bolt of white-hot energy. The all-girl cheering section sounded like it was on the verge of storming the stage. Never before had so much female sexual desire been broadcast into so many American living rooms.

  The evening was a decisive ratings triumph, garnering a 43.7 Trendex rating, translating to some sixty million people, or about a third of the country—the largest television audience to date. Indeed, Elvis’ performance of “Hound Dog” that night would be one of a small handful of moments that defined the decade. However, the ratings win was a Pyrrhic victory for Sullivan; the Trendex number masked a deep unhappiness.

  Critics, predictably, kept the singer at arm’s length. “From his extensive repertoire of assaults on the American ear, Mr. Presley included ‘Hound Dog, ’ ” sniffed The New York Times’ Jack Gould. More worrisome for Ed, viewers were upset. Gould’s paper printed a raft of letters about Presley’s debut on Sullivan, most of them profoundly outraged. Typical of the responses was that of Howard Spalding, a high school principal in Mount Vernon, New York, who wrote, “If the adverse public reaction that follows an unfortunate performance such as this were directed at the sponsor, would it not cause advertisers to consider more carefully what they wished to present to the public?” Harry Feldman, a high school music teacher, complained, “One shudders to contemplate the cultural level of the next generation.”

  Mrs. Rhoda Frank attempted something of a defense of Presley: “Adults who forever misunderstand the desires of these teenagers immediately took up the cries of ‘suggestive performance,’ ‘degrading routines,’ and ‘sexual gyrations.’ Believe me, the teenagers were not aware of this interpretation until it was presented to them by the unhealthy few.” But Mrs. May Zeoli gave notice: “The few studios that welcome rock ’n’ roll and vile characters should be warned that a license to operate a TV station is a privilege that can be taken away by the authorities.”

  At this point Ed sought to navigate two opposing currents. He wanted to assuage his audience’s fears, and he also wanted to keep riding the Presley ratings tidal wave. For the singer’s second appearance on October 28, Ed, now recuperated from his car crash, attempted to play both sides. He spaced Elvis’ appearances at three points in the program—ensuring that Trendex ratings stayed high throughout the hour—but again did not allow the singer to open. Instead, he began the show with a dose of pure virtue, an Irish children’s choir, thirty kids singing a sweet Gaelic folk tune accompanied by piano. Their performance was churchy, with slow tempos and plenty of close-ups of their angelic faces. Clearly, the Sullivan show had not been overtaken by the forces of licentiousness. As Ed led the applause, he made light of the tensions underlying this evening. “Some people have wondered if that little boy in a kilt is Elvis Presley—it’s not,” he intoned, getting a solid chortle.

  When he introduced Elvis, the girls screamed as if they had glimpsed an apparition. Dressed in a light-colored blazer and a skinny tie, the singer seemed to have grown more comfortable with an audience even in the weeks since his first appearance. But the camera didn’t share that comfort: it shot his rendition of the finger-snapping “Don’t Be Cruel” mainly from the shoulders up. Again, though, the singer couldn’t be contained. He projected physical exuberance with a head shot alone, and when he added seductive little vocal twists to his melody line, while sending a knowing smile out to his fans, they deluged him with shrieks.

  Before Elvis’ second number Sullivan walked on and shook his hand, having to labor to stop the female screaming for a little chitchat. Ed told the audience that Elvis sang this next number, the theme song to the film Love Me Tender—his first film, released just seven weeks earlier—in a scene i
n which “his three brothers come home from the Confederate armies … and he sings this song to his mother and his young bride.” Certainly, Ed’s comments implied, this boy’s heart was in the right place; based on Ed’s setup the song was almost sanctimonious. The studio audience clearly agreed that Elvis was adorable. As he crooned the moody “Love Me Tender,” with minimal movement, it seemed a riot was about to break out, with spontaneous shrieks at melodic pauses. Frantic “shushes” were heard, producing temporary quiet, yet as he finished the final chorus an intense burst of female energy overwhelmed the studio sound system.

  As the screams subsided, Ed joined Presley on the set. He tried to talk about the singer’s next song—“Now Elvis is going to be back in just a few minutes …”—yet the girls cut him off. He and Elvis chatted for a few moments while waiting for the wave to crest, but it wouldn’t, so Ed gave up. “All right, c’mon!” he shouted, gesturing with his arms to let the screams loose.

  To calm the audience, Elvis had to walk offstage, leaving Ed to address the older folks at home. “I can’t figure this darn thing out. He just goes like this”—and here Ed did his own little hip shake, earning a few stray female shrieks—“and everybody yells.” The showman was placing himself on the side of the reasonable adults in the audience, who couldn’t figure it out either.

  Before Sullivan went to commercial, he told viewers of Elvis’ recent visit to his Delmonico apartment. The singer had startled Sylvia and her friends during an afternoon card game. Ed said that in his conversation with Presley that day, he mentioned to Elvis that he liked the melody to “Love Me Tender,” to which the singer replied, that’s no wonder, it’s based on a Stephen Foster tune. Again, Ed’s story attempted to offer a life raft to his older viewers: this wild rock ’n’ roller’s song was actually based on something as square as a nineteenth-century folk song.