Dean Paul Martin Jr.—everyone called him Dino—was 16 years old, standing in the wings of his father’s TV show, absolutely terrified. It was September 1965. *The Dean Martin Show* was one of the biggest shows on television, drawing 20 million viewers every week. And tonight, Dino’s rock band was performing. This should have been a dream come true, but Dino was scared because he knew something the audience didn’t know.

His father hated rock and roll—despised it. Dean Martin had spent months mocking the Beatles on TV, calling the Rolling Stones “homeless guys who wandered into a studio.” Dean represented everything traditional: Sinatra, big band, “real” music. And Dino played the exact music his father made fun of—Beatles covers, Rolling Stones–style rock, the music Dean dismissed as “organized noise.”

Now Dino had to walk onto that stage, in front of his father and 20 million people, and perform the music his father hated. He looked at his bandmates, Desi Arnaz Jr. and Billy Hinsche. All three were shaking. They had no idea what would happen. Would Dean mock them on live TV, support them, humiliate them?

Dino was about to find out. What happened next on that stage—and after the cameras stopped—would change everything between father and son. To understand why Dino was so terrified that night, you need to understand three things: what *The Dean Martin Show* was, how much Dean hated rock and roll, and what Dino, Desi, and Billy meant to teenage America in 1965.

*The Dean Martin Show* premiered on NBC in September 1965 and was an instant hit. The format was simple: a variety show with musical guests, comedy sketches, celebrity appearances, and Dean playing the lovable drunk who never took anything seriously. It was appointment television—Thursday nights at 10:00 p.m., families gathered around the set to watch. Dean made it look effortless: walking on stage with a drink, making jokes, singing a few songs, introducing guests.

He famously avoided rehearsals and scripts, relying on his natural charm. By late 1965, the show was pulling 20 million viewers per episode. It was one of NBC’s biggest hits, and Dean had complete creative control. If Dean didn’t want something on his show, it didn’t happen. Which brings us to rock and roll.

Dean Martin hated rock and roll—not in a casual “I don’t care for it” way, but with genuine disdain. He thought it was destroying music, talentless noise dressed up as rebellion. On previous episodes of his show, Dean had made his feelings very clear. When the Beatles appeared on *The Ed Sullivan Show* and broke viewership records, Dean joked, “I watched that Beatles thing. Couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls, couldn’t tell if they were singing or yelling, but teenage girls were screaming, so I guess it’s music.”

When the Rolling Stones released their early records, Dean played a clip and said, “I think my television’s broken. That can’t be music. That’s just noise with hair.” It was comedy, but underneath the jokes was real contempt. Dean believed in craftsmanship: learning to sing properly, orchestras, arrangements, real musicianship. Rock and roll, to Dean, was kids with guitars making noise—no talent, no skill, just volume and screaming.

Dean represented the old guard: the Sinatra generation, the crooners, the professionals. Rock and roll was the enemy—the barbarians at the gate, the end of “real” music. But Dean’s son didn’t see it that way. Dean Paul Martin Jr., Dino, was born in 1951, Dean’s son from his second marriage to Jeanne Biegger.

By 1965, Dino was 14, about to turn 15. He loved his father and idolized him, but he also loved the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Beach Boys. That was his music, his generation’s soundtrack. In early 1965, Dino decided to start a band.

His best friend was Desi Arnaz Jr., son of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz Sr. They had grown up together—both celebrity kids, both quietly rebelling against their famous parents’ music. They recruited Billy Hinsche, a talented guitarist and singer, and formed the band Dino, Desi, and Billy. They started playing Beatles covers, Rolling Stones songs, Beach Boys–style harmonies, rehearsing in Dino’s garage and playing at school dances.

And they were good—really good. Not just “good for kids,” but actually talented: tight harmonies, solid musicianship. When Dino told his father about the band, Dean’s reaction was exactly what you’d expect. “A rock band, son? Why? You’ve got a good voice. You could learn to sing properly. Why waste it on that garbage?”

Dino tried to explain. “Dad, this is what kids my age listen to. This is our music.” “It’s not music,” Dean replied. “It’s noise.” Dino stood his ground: “You don’t have to like it, but I’m doing it.” Dean didn’t forbid it. He could have, but he had a parenting philosophy: let your kids make their own mistakes.

So Dean shrugged and said, “Okay, let him waste his time with this rock band. He’ll grow out of it.” Except Dino didn’t grow out of it. Dino, Desi, and Billy got better and started getting noticed. A record producer saw them at a school dance and offered them a deal. In June 1965, they released their first single, “I’m a Fool.”

The song was pure 1960s pop-rock—Beatles-influenced, catchy, upbeat—and it became a hit. Not a massive hit, but it charted and got radio play. Teenage girls started buying the record. By September 1965, Dino, Desi, and Billy were becoming famous.

They weren’t the Beatles, but they were famous enough to be recognized, to appear in teen magazines, to draw screaming fans. NBC had an idea: put Dino, Desi, and Billy on *The Dean Martin Show*. On paper, it was perfect—Dean’s son’s band performing on Dean’s show. Great publicity, great ratings, a heartwarming family moment.

The producers pitched it to Dean. He said, “No. I’m not putting a rock band on my show.” “Dean, it’s your son’s band.” “I don’t care. It’s still rock music, and I’m not promoting that garbage.” NBC executives pushed back: this would be great for the show, the father–son angle would drive huge ratings.

Dean resisted for weeks. But eventually he realized that if he kept saying no, he’d be publicly rejecting his own son. And Dean, despite hating the music, loved Dino. So he finally agreed—but he made it clear: “I’m doing this for my son, not for rock and roll.”

September 23, 1965: taping day. Dino, Desi, and Billy arrived at NBC Studios in Burbank, excited but nervous. This was national television, *The Dean Martin Show*, 20 million viewers. Dino hadn’t told his bandmates how much his father despised their music. He’d kept it vague: “Dad’s old-fashioned. He doesn’t really get rock and roll.”

But standing in the wings, watching his father’s show, Dino realized how badly this could go. Dean’s opening monologue that night included several jokes about rock music, long hair, and loud guitars. The audience laughed; Dino felt sick. Then came their introduction.

Dean walked to center stage, drink in hand, wearing his easy smile. “Ladies and gentlemen, our musical guests tonight are a young rock and roll band that’s very popular with teenage girls. They’ve got a hit record, and I have absolutely no idea why.” The audience roared. Dino’s stomach tightened.

Dean continued, “Now, I’m told this music is called rock and roll. I’ve been listening to their record, trying to understand it, and I think my record player might be broken, because it just sounds like noise to me.” More laughter. But then Dean’s tone shifted, became softer.

“But you know what? These three young men work very hard. They practice. They write songs. They perform. And even though I don’t understand their music—even though it sounds like organized chaos to me—I respect that they’re doing something they love.”

Dean paused and looked straight into the camera. “One of these young men is my son, Dino. And I gotta be honest: when he first told me he wanted to start a rock band, I said, ‘Son, are you sure? Because I’ve heard that music, and I’m not convinced it *is* music.’ But he was sure. He loves it. And you know what I learned? Just because I don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It just means I’m old.”

The audience laughed again, but this time it was warm, appreciative laughter. “So tonight I’m going to do something I never thought I’d do. I’m going to introduce a rock band on my show, and I’m going to smile, and I’m going to clap, and I’m probably not going to understand a single word they’re singing, but I’m proud of them—especially the one in the middle. So, please welcome Dino, Desi, and Billy.”

The audience applauded enthusiastically. When Dino walked onto that stage and saw his father standing there clapping and smiling, he had tears in his eyes. Dean Martin—the man who hated rock and roll more than anything—had just publicly supported his son in front of 20 million people. Dino, Desi, and Billy performed their hit song. The audience loved it.

Girls in the studio screamed. It was everything a 1960s TV rock performance was supposed to be. Dean stood in the wings, watching. His expression said it all: I still don’t understand this music, but my son is good at it.

When the song ended, Dean walked back onstage, put his arm around Dino, and cracked a joke. “Well, my ears are still ringing, but I think you boys did great.” The audience laughed. Dean shook hands with Desi and Billy and made a quip about their hair being too long—classic Dean Martin comedy.

The director called cut. The cameras stopped. The studio audience began to leave, and Dean pulled Dino aside—away from the cameras and crew, just the two of them. Dean put both hands on Dino’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Your music is terrible, son. I mean that. It’s noise. I don’t understand it. I don’t like it, and I probably never will.”

Dino’s face fell—but Dean wasn’t finished. “But you? You’re wonderful. And I’m so damn proud of you. Not because of the music, but because you found something you love, and you’re working hard at it, and you’re good at it. That’s all that matters. I don’t have to like rock and roll to be proud of you for doing what makes you happy.”

Dean pulled Dino into a hug. “I love you, kid, even if your music gives me a headache.” Dino laughed through his tears. “I love you, too, Dad.” That moment, that private conversation after the cameras stopped, defined their relationship for the next 30 years.

Dean never learned to like rock and roll. He kept making jokes about it on his show, kept calling it “noise.” But he never stopped supporting Dino. Never stopped being proud. Never stopped showing up.

When Dino, Desi, and Billy released more records, Dean bought copies, played them once, and said, “Still terrible—but congratulations.” When the band performed concerts, Dean sometimes turned up backstage and told Dino, “You were great out there. I still don’t know what you were singing, but you were great.” The episode of *The Dean Martin Show* featuring Dino, Desi, and Billy aired in late September 1965.

The ratings were huge—over 22 million viewers, one of the highest-rated episodes of the season. The mail NBC received was overwhelmingly positive, not about the music, but about Dean’s introduction—a father supporting his son even when he didn’t understand his son’s choices. Parents wrote, “Thank you for showing us how to support our kids even when we don’t agree with them.” Teenagers wrote, “My dad hates my music, too. But watching Dean support Dino gave me hope that my dad might come around.”

Dean never responded to the letters publicly, but privately he told his writers, “Maybe we should do more of that. Less jokes, more heart.” Dino, Desi, and Billy continued as a band until 1970. They had several more hits, toured extensively, and were genuinely successful. Dino eventually moved on from music, becoming an Air National Guard pilot and later an actor, building a career somewhat like his father’s—but in his own style.

Dean and Dino remained close until Dino’s tragic death in 1987, when his F-4 Phantom jet crashed during a military training flight. Dean never recovered from losing him. That loss contributed to Dean’s decline and his death in 1995. But in the years between 1965 and 1987, father and son had something rare and special.

Their relationship was built on mutual respect and on the understanding that love doesn’t require agreement. Dean never learned to like rock and roll, but he learned something more important: being a good father means supporting your kid’s dreams—even when those dreams sound like noise to you. Years later, in the 1980s, a reporter asked Dean about that 1965 episode and introducing Dino’s rock band even though he hated the music.

Dean’s answer was classic Dean Martin. “I hated the music, still do. But I loved my son, still do. And between loving your kid and hating their music, loving your kid wins every time, even if their music gives you a headache.” That’s the lesson of Dean and Dino.

It’s not really about rock and roll or even about generation gaps. It’s about parenthood. You don’t have to understand your kids. You don’t have to like what they like. You don’t have to agree with their choices.

But you do have to support them, show up for them, and be proud of them. Dean Martin did that on national television in front of 20 million people, and then again privately when the cameras stopped. “Your music is terrible, but you’re wonderful.” Five words—the perfect summary of unconditional parental love.