The needle drops, and suddenly, the room shrinks. The cavernous sound of the London Palladium, an echo of a thousand variety nights, collapses into the intimacy of a cheap microphone and three chords. This isn’t the lush, orchestrated pop of the mid-fifties; it is the glorious, joyful noise of skiffle, a musical rebellion waged with salvaged instruments. Lonnie Donegan, the man they called the “King of Skiffle,” stands at the microphone, a cheerful, slightly manic force, and launches into the infectious, live-wire stomp of “Putting On The Style.” The year is 1957, and this piece of music, released as a double A-side with “Gamblin’ Man,” isn’t just a hit; it’s a foundational tremor that reshaped British popular culture.
The Context of the Three-Chord King
Donegan’s success with “Putting On The Style” in 1957 places him at the absolute zenith of the skiffle craze, a uniquely British blend of American folk, blues, and jazz. Skiffle was a lifeline for teenagers who found the polite, rationed pop music of the post-war era insipid but couldn’t afford the imported, electric roar of rock ‘n’ roll. Donegan, initially a banjo player in a traditional jazz band (Ken Colyer’s, then Chris Barber’s), was a Trojan horse. He snuck the rough-and-tumble energy of Lead Belly and Woody Guthrie into the staid UK charts, first breaking through spectacularly with “Rock Island Line” in 1956.
The 1957 single, released on the Pye Nixa label, was recorded live, reportedly at the London Palladium, on May 9th. This wasn’t a calculated studio creation; it was captured spontaneity, a key element of skiffle’s charm. The track—a traditional tune adapted with new lyrics by Norman Cazden—became Donegan’s second consecutive UK Number 1, spending two weeks at the peak of the singles chart. Crucially, it was the last record to top the charts that was issued only in the 78rpm format, marking a poignant end to a technical era even as its sound heralded a new one.
It’s important to distinguish the 1957 single from the 1978 album of the same name. That later album was a star-studded tribute, a reunion with his disciples like Rory Gallagher and Elton John. The original 1957 track, however, is pure, unadulterated essence—a sonic snapshot of the moment when DIY enthusiasm conquered industry polish. The single was reportedly produced by Alan Freeman and Michael Barclay, figures whose task was less about sculpting the sound than simply capturing the performance’s raw heat.
The Scrappy, Cinematic Sound
What immediately grabs you is the arragement’s glorious sonic grit. There is no brass section, no string swell, no attempt at Hollywood gloss. This is garage-band austerity decades before the garage band was a recognized archetype. The primary texture is the bright, percussive clang of Donegan’s acoustic guitar work. His strumming is relentless, establishing a driving, frantic rhythm that gives the song its forward momentum. It’s simple, yes, but it’s played with an attack that hints at genuine excitement and a touch of mania.
The band, Lonnie Donegan & His Skiffle Group, builds an almost cartoonishly fast structure from minimal parts: the aforementioned guitar, a second guitar played by Jimmy Currie, Micky Ashman on upright bass, and Nick Nicholls on drums. The bass provides a thudding, woody anchor, while the drums are more of a rhythmic punctuation than a foundation. Listen closely, and you can hear the splashy, high-end timbre that many sources suggest comes from a biscuit tin or washboard, the emblematic percussion of the skiffle movement. The overall dynamic is one of constant acceleration, almost speeding into joyous chaos.
Donegan’s vocal delivery is a masterclass in theatrical folk-pop. He switches voices, employs a slightly mocking, slightly swaggering tone perfectly suited to the lyrics about superficial display. He sings, “Look at me and tell me ain’t I grand,” and you can almost see him preening on the stage. The energy is so palpable, so alive, that it transcends the simple harmonic structure. The mic technique, likely crude by today’s standards, gives the vocal a close-up, slightly distorted proximity, as though Lonnie is shouting right into your ear. For a modern listener interested in how a simple three-chord structure can be the basis for a thrilling musical journey, a deep dive into the original sheet music might even reveal the subtle rhythmic variations that give the song its kinetic pulse.
The Contrast: Grime and Glamour
The brilliance of “Putting On The Style” lies in its inherent contradiction. The subject matter—”putting on the style,” or showing off—speaks to a desire for glamour, for the flash of rock ‘n’ roll’s expensive home audio systems and flashy cars. Yet, the music itself is the sonic opposite of glamour. It is utterly humble.
“The greatest songs are often born not from orchestral ambition, but from the urgent necessity of minimal means.”
This track is the sound of kids making do, of a culture claiming a voice with whatever it could find. It’s the sound of rebellion made accessible. You didn’t need a Fender Stratocaster and a Marshall stack to play this; you needed a borrowed guitar lessons manual, a tea chest, and the willingness to shout. This very simplicity is what made it a launchpad. It wasn’t Elvis, but it was possible.
Imagine the young John Lennon, who reportedly formed his first band, The Quarrymen, in early 1957, hearing this very single. This was the blueprint, the proof that a British boy could top the charts with raw, American-inspired folk-blues. The skiffle movement, led by Donegan, became a massive, country-wide training ground for the musicians who would later fuel the British Invasion. Without Donegan’s raw-boned guitar and the spirit of this track, there is arguably no foundation for The Beatles, The Stones, or The Who.
Micro-Stories and Lasting Resonance
I remember playing this track for a group of musicology students last semester. Their initial reaction was a mix of confusion and amusement—it sounded so fast, so tinny. But by the third listen, one student was tapping the rhythm on his desk, another nodding at the sheer audacity of Donegan’s vocal acrobatics. It’s a track that demands participation.
In an era defined by slick production, the amateur aesthetic of this 1957 live recording remains invigorating. It’s a reminder that authenticity—that frenetic, sweat-on-the-stage sound—trumps studio polish every time. The lack of a piano or sophisticated arrangement simply means there’s nowhere for the energy to hide. It’s all out there, unvarnished and glorious.
For a generation, this song was the soundtrack to first attempts, to splintered fingertips on cheap fretboards, to the discovery that a new kind of freedom could be found in a few guitar chords. It’s the sound of a cultural dam breaking, a raucous, beautiful prelude to the rock ‘n’ roll explosion that was about to follow. Listen to “Putting On The Style” not as a historical artifact, but as a living document of where British popular music truly began its own independent journey.
Listening Recommendations
- Lonnie Donegan – “Gamblin’ Man” (1957): The frenetic, rockier double A-side to “Putting On The Style,” showing Donegan’s range within the skiffle genre.
- The Quarrymen – “In Spite of All the Danger” (1958/released later): The earliest surviving recording by John Lennon’s group, a direct product of the skiffle sound Donegan championed.
- Wabash Cannonball – Roy Acuff (1940s): An example of the American folk/country material that Lonnie Donegan and other skiffle artists adapted.
- Chas McDevitt Skiffle Group – “Freight Train” (1957): Another huge UK skiffle hit from the same year, demonstrating the movement’s widespread commercial success.
- Lead Belly – “Rock Island Line” (Recorded 1940s): The blues/folk source material for Donegan’s first major hit, showcasing the genre’s American roots.
- Bill Haley & His Comets – “Rock Around the Clock” (1954): Offers a contrast in 1950s energy—the electric, polished American rock ‘n’ roll that skiffle prepared the UK for.