Hope it hurt when he died.
Hope it hurt when he died.
In ascending order of awesomeness:
Let’s get beyond the irony of the sign on the right: it is basic and obvious, and it would lower us to belabor it.
It’s kinda perfect, though.
Oh, absolutely. It’s the type of detail only a hack novelist or real life could come up with.
Maybe it’s French.
Oh, the Lé Itimatê?
No. It’s just funny.
It is. They wanted to be classy so bad, and they did it so badly.
Right. What and when is this?
This is the International Hotel in 1969; Elvis started headlining there on July 31st of that year. He played the whole month of August–a dinner show at 8 and then another at midnight–and if you adjust for the time zones, then it’s likely the King was performing at the same instant that the Dead were onstage at Woodstock.
We are told this is culturally significant.
Enthusiasts–and I am sure you can see this coming–I would pick this over Woodstock in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Don’t get me wrong: my heart would be in a shit-strewn field without basic facilities listening to Joan Baez, but only metaphorically; my physical heart would be with the rest of my body in Las Vegas.
This is an opinion best argued in bullet points, Enthusiasts. TotD presents Reasons To Choose 8/16/69 In Vegas Rather Than Woodstock:
Fine. It is worth noting–as long as we’re discussing the narrative-induced juxtaposition of Woodstock/Vegas in a societal sense–that the Vegas lineup is far more diverse on a strictly numbers basis (33% to 15%) but judged by a metric of “southern lunatics” then the Vegas show is not diverse at all.
But look at that show! (Yeah, yeah: it’s two separate shows, but you could see them all in one night)
This is what the Ike and Tina Turner Revue sounded like in 1969:
Four songs–not lip-synced, real performances–and an interview with Hugh Hefner. Feel free to skip the interview if you don’t want to watch Ike get escalatingly more perturbed as Hugh directs all of his questions to Tina, but stick around for the Ikettes. Also, Hugh has invited every single one of his black friends to the taping, and the director is determined to let you see them having a good time.
And this is Wayne Cochran and the C. C. Riders from a few years later:
So there’s that.
There’s no film of Elvis at the International that first run, but this is what he sounded like the week after Woodstock on 8/24/69:
It’s a clear SBD, and uncut: you get to have fun with Elvis onstage as he babbles about whatever comes into his head, and also squirrels.
Then, when those three high-powered, house rockin’ bands are done, you can play blackjack or wear hats or have mob tie; whatever people did in Vegas late at night back then.
Or you could make a doody in a bush while Ravi Shankar sitars at you.
There is no choice.
Why are you still in there?
Oh, wow. The bullet points are their own separate reality? Never realized. Live and learn.
You’re on your own.
I never thought it was possible to wear your clothes tighter than Tina Turner, but Tom Jones figured it out. (If his shirt was yellow, he would be cosplaying as Luke Cage, but with more potato salad.)
Phil Spector is an overrated one-trick-pony, and also a terrible boyfriend. His wall of sound (note the pedestrian lowercase spelling) makes the studio version of River Deep, Mountain High* clunky and muddy, dragged into greatness through Tina Turner’s performance alone.
The live version has something to it.
*Tina may or may not know the exact name of the song, but it doesn’t matter because she is Tina Turner and can do whatever the hell she wants.