It’s 1975. Television is a wasteland of variety shows hosted by guys in bad tuxedos and laugh tracks that sound like they were recorded in a tin can. Then, a bunch of Canadian radicals and National Lampoon rejects show up at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. They had no idea what they were doing. Honestly, that’s why it worked. When people talk about the Saturday Night Live founding fathers, they usually just think of Lorne Michaels, but the reality is much messier, sweatier, and more miraculous than one guy with a vision.
It was a controlled riot.
NBC was desperate. They had a gap in their late-night Saturday slot because Johnny Carson wanted to move his "Best of Carson" repeats to weekdays. Into this void stepped a 30-year-old Lorne Michaels and a group of writers and performers who looked like they’d just rolled out of a van at Woodstock. They weren’t just making a show; they were dismantling the very idea of what "good" TV looked like.
The Architect and the Anarchists
Lorne Michaels is the obvious lead in the story of the Saturday Night Live founding fathers. He was the diplomat. He was the one who could talk to the "suits" at NBC while secretly harboring a group of writers who wanted to set the building on fire. Michaels understood something crucial: if you want to capture the counterculture, you can't just hire actors. You have to hire voices.
But Lorne didn't do it alone. You’ve gotta look at Herb Sargent. Sargent was an older writer, a veteran of the industry who became the "Zen master" of the writers' room. He was the one who pushed for the political edge that eventually became "Weekend Update." Without Sargent’s grounding influence, the show might have just been silly sketches instead of the cultural weapon it became.
Then there’s Dick Ebersol. People forget Ebersol. He was the executive at NBC who actually secured the time slot and the funding. He was the "Founding Father" in the corporate sense. While Lorne was the soul, Ebersol was the shield. He fought off the censors and the nervous affiliates who thought these kids were going to ruin the network's reputation.
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The Writers’ Room: Where the Real Power Sat
The writers were the engine. Michael O'Donoghue, the first head writer, was a dark, cynical genius from National Lampoon. He wasn't interested in making people laugh in a comfortable way. He wanted to shock them. His "Mr. Mike" persona was a direct middle finger to the wholesome TV of the 50s and 60s. O'Donoghue famously said he wanted to make "the first show for people who grew up with television."
Anne Beatts and Rosie Shuster were also there at the jump. In a time when comedy was a massive boys' club, they were essential Saturday Night Live founding fathers—or mothers, if you want to be literal. They brought a specific, biting perspective that kept the show from becoming just another frat house. Shuster, who was married to Lorne at the time, was a key scout for talent. She had an eye for the weird.
- Michael O’Donoghue: The "dark prince" of the room.
- Herb Sargent: The political conscience and mentor.
- Anne Beatts: The sharp-tongued subverter of gender roles.
- Al Franken & Tom Davis: The "apprentice" duo who brought a weird, experimental energy.
The writers' room was a pressure cooker. They worked 20-hour days. They lived on caffeine, cigarettes, and things we probably shouldn't mention in a polite article. This exhaustion fueled the "Lorne Michaels School of Comedy," which basically meant: if it’s 3:00 AM and you think a singing bee is funny, put it on the air.
The Not Ready For Prime Time Players: Lightning in a Bottle
You can’t talk about the Saturday Night Live founding fathers without the original cast. They weren't just "actors." They were a troupe. Dan Aykroyd was the technical wizard, the guy who could play a fast-talking pitchman or a weird alien with equal conviction. John Belushi was the raw, physical power. He was the guy people tuned in to see because they didn't know if he was going to follow the script or literally eat the set.
Chevy Chase was the first breakout star. He was the "straight" guy who was secretly a klutz. His "Weekend Update" was the prototype for everything from The Daily Show to Weekend Update today. But the dynamic was fragile. When Chevy left after the first season, everyone thought the show was dead.
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Gilda Radner, Laraine Newman, Jane Curtin, and Garrett Morris filled out the ranks. Gilda was the heart. She wasn't just funny; she was lovable. Her characters like Roseanne Roseannadanna weren't just jokes—they were people. That’s the secret sauce of the founding era: the audience felt like they were part of a secret club.
Why 1975 Still Matters in 2026
The reason we still talk about the Saturday Night Live founding fathers isn't just nostalgia. It's about the format. Live TV is terrifying. Most networks today are terrified of it. But in '75, that "live" aspect meant anything could happen. If a performer forgot a line, it stayed in. If a prop broke, they dealt with it.
This rawness is what created the "Must See TV" phenomenon long before NBC branded it. You had to watch it on Saturday night because by Monday morning, everyone at work or school was going to be talking about it. There was no YouTube. No streaming. You were there, or you were out of the loop.
The show also pioneered the "musical guest" as a cultural event. Having Patti Smith or The Band on the same stage as a guy in a bee suit was radical. It bridged the gap between high art and low-brow comedy.
Misconceptions About the Early Days
A lot of people think Lorne Michaels has been there every single year. He hasn't. He left in 1980, and the show almost collapsed. The "founding" spirit was so tied to his specific brand of management that without him, it turned into a mess of bad 80s tropes. When he returned in 1985, he basically had to "re-found" the show.
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Another myth? That the first season was an instant, polished hit. It wasn't. The first few episodes were clunky. They had Muppets (seriously, Jim Henson’s Muppets were in the first season, and the SNL writers hated them). It took months to find the rhythm. The lesson here? Innovation takes time to fail before it succeeds.
Actionable Takeaways for Comedy Fans and Creators
If you’re a fan of comedy history or someone trying to build something new, there are actual lessons to be learned from the Saturday Night Live founding fathers.
- Hire for Voice, Not Just Talent. Lorne didn't hire the best actors; he hired the most interesting people. Look for people with a unique perspective, even if they're "unpolished."
- Embrace the Constraints. The "Live" part of SNL was a constraint that became its greatest strength. Use your limitations to force creativity.
- Build a Shield. Every creative team needs a Dick Ebersol—someone who handles the logistics and "suits" so the artists can be weird.
- Kill Your Darlings. The founding era was famous for cutting sketches minutes before air. If it isn't working, let it go.
To truly understand the show today, you have to go back to those grainy, 4:3 aspect ratio clips from 1975. You’ll see a bunch of people who were genuinely afraid they were going to be fired every single week. That fear created the greatest comedy institution in history.
Next Steps for Deep Diving:
- Watch the 2024 film Saturday Night, which dramatizes the 90 minutes leading up to the first broadcast. It captures the frantic energy of the Saturday Night Live founding fathers perfectly.
- Read Live From New York by Tom Shales and James Andrew Miller. It’s an oral history that lets the founders speak for themselves without the corporate filter.
- Seek out the "lost" episodes of the first season on streaming platforms to see the evolution of the sketches before they became "classics."
The legacy of the founding era isn't just about the sketches; it's about the fact that they convinced a massive corporation to let them play in the dark for 90 minutes. That spirit of rebellion is still the North Star for anyone trying to make something that actually matters in pop culture.