Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: elvis presley (Page 11 of 13)

Pitched Fit

August 22, 2016 / / 8 Comments

Good things about Pitchfork: several of my innertube Rock Nerd friends write for them, and I would assume they get paid for their efforts; this is a wonderful thing.

Bad things about Pitchfork: everyfuckingthing else.

Go look at this. It’s their list of the 200 BEST EVAR songs of the 1970’s, and it’s a hoot. Ramones top out at #38, way under Patti Smith (who was the East Coast Jim Morrison), and Disco is as poorly represented as always, and–wait, what the fuck.

MY SWEET FUCKING LORD is on the list? That bearded weak link stole that song from The Chiffons! Jesus, Pitchfork. Okay, now you’ve got my full attention. We shall now go to randomized bullet points, and you brought this on yourself. (No one at Pitchfork is listening, as the new Frank Ocean album was just released, and it is three weeks long.)

  • American Girl is only #158? Kiss my ass.
  • Surrender is #142. Rockford’s favorite sons Cheap Trick are at #142, and Can is #54? NO ONE ACTUALLY LIKES CAN, PITCHFORK. Can is the German Captain Beefheart: if you don’t pretend to like them, you get thrown out of Bleecker Bob’s.
  • “Hey, do you know anything about country music?”
  • “No.”
  • “Me, either.”
  • “Just put a Dolly Parton song and a Waylon Jennings in there.”
  • “Done.”

Oh, fuck this, this whole list is fucked: you can’t compare Side Two of Miles Davis’ Jack Johnson and She’s Gone by Hall & Oates, and there’s no New York Dolls–Personality Crisis has a better chorus than any of this bullshit–and Kate Bush is obviously a Gilda Radner character, Jesus, Pitchfork.

And now I’m bored and this is pointless; this list is illegitimate, provably so:

If Another Girl, Another Planet (1978) isn’t on the list, then the list is wrong.

AND, fuckers, AND what about paying a little respect to the King?

1972: his last great single. Far be it from me to suggest that Lou Reed didn’t deserve all 83 slots he was awarded on your list, but I truly think there might have been a little room for Elvis. Jesus, Pitchfork.

…

…

…

Holy shit, there’s no Zevon. FUCK YOU, PITCHFORK.

Quien Es Mas Metal?

August 2, 2016 / / 5 Comments

Holiday Easter is by far the most metal holiday. There’s crucifixion, which is so metal, and there’s spears, which are also metal, and then Jesus himself is so metal that he fucks up Hell and then comes back to earth.

Month August is the most metal month because is it the sweatiest month. Sweating is metal; the sweatier you are, the more metal you are.

Planet This is a tricky one. You might think Mars, named for the God of War, would be the most metal planet, or hellish Venus with its silicon skies and 900 degree afternoons that last for three weeks. No: it is Mercury. All the other planets in our system are visitable, but not Mercury: its proximity to the sun (and the sun’s gravity well) makes it impossible for a ship or probe to drop into its orbit. You can’t get there from here; every 88 days, Mercury comes around again and gives us the finger, and that is metal.

War The Crimean, and quite frankly: I’m embarrassed we even had to discuss the matter.

Additionally, “Nicko McBrain” is most metal name a British drummer can have. (I do not make an unconsidered statement: I have thought of Cozy Powell and Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor.)

Former Soviet satellite Uzbekistan. It has better hair than Tajikistan, and headbangs better than Moldova. Kyrgyzstan is rather metal just because of the name, but Uzbekistan once sucker-punched Danzig, and that is the most metal thing you could ever do.

Guitar The pointier, the metaller.

Henry Rollins Young Henry Rollins was far more metal than old Henry Rollins, as he punched far more people and was sweatier. Also, no matter how good you look with your shirt off, eventually you turn fifty and should stop taking it off.

Elvis Presley Old Elvis is incalculably more metal than Young Elvis. Young Elvis was a bit of a simp and a dullard, but Old Elvis was not just crazy, but he had been crazy for a very long time. Metal.

Fish Sawfish. Look at this bullshit:

SMALLTOOTH SAWFISH 1.jpg.adapt.945.1

As fuck. That’s how metal that is. As fuck. What do those things even do? They’re called teeth, but they don’t look like they’d be any good at toothing. Does it just wave its death-nose in a school of little fish? Whatever: metal.

State Tough one. New Hampshire is in the running, as it’s the only state that has a suicide pact for a slogan. Alaska is very metal, in that it is the most lethal state; most states have areas within them that try to kill people, but all of Alaska wants you dead, plus there’s so damn much of it. While parts of Florida are technically inhabitable, they are all full of terrible monsters who eat people, and also alligators; cannibalism and reptiles are both metal.

Know what, though? I’m going with Nebraska. Nebraska never gets anything: it’s not even the shorthand for boring, that’s Kansas and there’s absolutely no difference between the two places. No love for Nebraska. Not even ire, really; no one ever thinks of it. Dead never played there. I’m giving this one to Nebraska. There you go, buddy. You won something. Proud of you, Nebraska.

Breakfast Runny eggs, toast, and black coffee at the counter of a working-class diner in Reading, PA, on a Tuesday in Febrauary; it may snow later. That shit right there is metal, son.

If You Don’t Know By Now

July 27, 2016 / / 1 Comment

Elvis once gave a fantastically inarticulate speech (run on a loop nearby the glass case containing his Vegas costumes in the basement of Graceland ) in which he reminisced about reading comic books as a kid and wanting to be the hero; I wanted to be Elvis as a kid, still do. One of my first memories is mispronouncing his name–Elvis Parsley, probably–trying to express to my parents that I had discovered that the meaning of life was a pilled-up hillbilly in a jumpsuit. Elvis is everywhere, still is.

Listen to this: it’s Elvis doing an Elvis impression, high out of his mind, and only in possession of one-tenth of the lyrics to the song. But the guitar player is doing his best mandolin imitation the whole time, and it turns out that Elvis fucking around sounds better than the rest of humanity trying its hardest.

(Seriously: Elvis did not learn the words, and no one bothered to write them down for him.)

In Which Things Deteriorate, And Bobby And Sir Paul (Who Are Still Lego) Encounter Old Friends And New

July 22, 2016 / / 5 Comments

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“Bob, I don’t feel good.”

“Yeah, you look bad. Like a Chinese knockoff of yourself.”

“Would be lovely to be sobering up some time soon.”

“You late for something?”

“No, no. Just like to stop being a Lego. Feeling a bit freaked out.”

“Huh. Mr. ‘Y’know, the Beatles took a lotta acid’ is freaked out? How ’bout that?”

…

“Really, Bob?”

art pins band lego

“Just a bit of friendly rivalry.”

…

“Which one are you?”

“In the shorts with the guitar.”

“That doesn’t look anything like you.”

“You’re one to talk, Beatle Hitler.”

“Don’t call me Beatle Hitler, Bob.”

“What’s that on your face, then?”

…

“Okay, yes, yes: it is a Hitler mustache.”

“There ya go.”

“But please don’t…top right, Bob.”

“Huh?”

“The toppermost fellow to the right. Playing a little keyboard.”

“Sure, sure. I wanna say his name is Victor.”

“His head is on upside-down, Bob.”

…

“Huh.”

“I want to go home, Bob. Or, at the very least, to the nearest five-star hotel.

“Five? Sure, yeah. This tour, we’re only staying at seven-star hotels. The beds are enormous.”

“Bob.”

“There’s a king bed, but these are called emperors.”

“Bob.”

“It’s the size of the entire room, which is actually not great.”

…

“I want to go home, Bob.”

“AH’LL RESCUE YOU, YER HIGHNESS!

Elvis-Trooper-Lego

“Bob, am I hallucinating, or is Elvis in a Stormtrooper outfit?”

“Those questions aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“YOKO! HAIRY GARCIA! AH WAS FEELIN’ UNWELL AND DR. NICK ATTENDED TO ME. AH WOKE UP AT COMICON IN SOME DANG WEIRDO SUIT, AND NOW AH AM HERE TO RESCUE YOU AND AH WILL ALSO SHARE MAH PILLS, BECAUSE AH AM THE KING.’

“Stop calling me that.”

“I’m actually not Hairy Garcia. I just look like him now.”

“NO TIME FOR THAT HORSEPUCKY! COME WITH THE KING AND HIDE BEHIND MY KARATE AND NUMBER ONE HITS! AH WILL DEFEND YOU FROM THAT THERE GIANT LION!”

“Giant lion?”

lego katy perry superbowl

“Bob, have you seen John?”

“Oh, hey, Katy Perry. Do you know Elvis?”

“MA’AM.”

“Oh, hey, Elvis. We’ve met. Dr. Nick is Dr. Gary’s brother.”

“That makes sense.”

“Where’s John?”

“Portland.”

“Fly, Kitty Purry!”

THE SOUND OF A LEGO LION FLYING TO OREGON, WHATEVER THAT SOUNDS LIKE

…

“That was unexpected.”

“Sure.”

In Which Bobby And Sir Paul, Who Remain Lego, Examine Their Situation, Meet New Friends, And Are Challenged To Karate By Elvis (Who Is Also Lego)

July 21, 2016 / / 3 Comments

beatles lego

“Bob, this is getting out of hand.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. All of it, really. The dosing, the legofication, all of it. Me friends are here now, and two of them are supposed to be dead.”

“There might be a little bit of Time Sheath involvement here, I think.”

“Time what?”

“Sheath.”

“Sheath?”

“Yeah, but it’s capitalized.”

“Sheath.”

“Right.”

“Like a time machine?”

“No, not really. Nothing like a machine.”

…

“It’s a Sheath.”

“Bob, I’m a patient man, but you’re getting me angry.”

“WHO YOU TALKING TO, QUEENFUCKER?”

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“Good one, Lego Billy.”

“Thanks, Lego Branford.”

“Motherfucker, I will kick your lego ass you call me that one more time!”

…

“Is that your new band, Bob?”

“Appears to be, yeah.”

“This is very good acid, Bob. It is just acid, correct?”

“There might be some other stuff in it.”

“Such as?”

“Magic.”

“Mm, yes.”

“Little bit of turmeric.”

“I was going to say that I was feeling very anti-inflammated.”

“Fellow named Doctor Gary is doing some of our work for us now.”

“Oh, Katy Perry’s man?”

“Yup, yup.”

“Bob, this is it, right? As weird as it’s going to get, I mean?”

“Uhh, yeah? Maybe. Could be. Definitely could be.”

“AH CHALLENGE BOTH BEATLE AND GRATEFUL DEAD TO COMBAT IN MAH LEGO DOJO.”

“Or, you know: not.”

elvis lego karate

“FIGHT WITH THE KING, HARRY GARCIA AND YOKO!”

“Everyone has to stop calling me that.”

“AH WILL KICK YOU WITH MAH HANDS AND PUNCH YOU WITH MAH FEET. AH C’N DO SHIT LIKE THAT CUZ AH’M ELVIS.”

“Do you know him, Bob?”

“Of course I know him: he’s Elvis.”

“No, no. Personally.”

“We’ve not been introduced.”

“Why is he here, then?”

“T’KICK HIPPIE ASS!”

…

“He’s here to kick hippies ass, I guess.”

“Do we have to fight him?”

“Well see next post?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Rando War Never Dies

July 17, 2016 / / 1 Comment

jeff chimenti rando hotties

“Ahhhhh, yeah.”

Slow your roll, Jeff Chimenti.

“Randos.”

All of you need to stop presenting me with your randos. You’re like cats bringing dead birds into the house.

“Gonna show ’em my power.”

Oh, God, not all of it?

“At once.”

They can’t take that much power, Jeff Chimenti; you have so much.

“So much power.”

“Is one of my backup musicians getting delusions of grandeur again?”

jm rando hottie

Dammit. We are not continuing the Rando War.

“Tell piano boy to go comb his hair.”

I like her hair.

“She’s like Thor, with boobies.”

Yeah, but here’s the thing: she might be not be a rando. That looks more like a stone-cold fox.

“Still a rando.”

Can’t be both.

“Rando.”

“YOO TELL THAT YANKEE TO SEND THAT BLONDE OVER TO MAH HOTEL ROOM, ‘LESS SHE’S HAD A BABY. KING DON’ BANG NO MAMMAS.”

elvis 76 hotel

Why are you here?

“GOT ME SOME RANDOS LIKE YOU WAS TALKIN’ ABOUT. ”

That’s the Memphis Mafia and a cop. Not randos.

“THEN I WILL FIRE THEM ALL, USING KARATE, AND THAT WILL RANDOMIZE THEM!”

Not how it works. And I don’t think you’re allowed to fire cops, Elvis.

“AH CAN ASK FOR THEIR RESIGNATIONS.”

True. Go away.

jeff chimenti milfs

“I got more.”

Jeff Chimenti, this is beneath you.

“Was that Elvis?”

Don’t worry about it. What happened to the randos we started with?

“They couldn’t handle my power. I showed it to them, and they were overcome.”

…

“By my power.”

Are they still alive?

“They’re so much more that that now.”

Did you kill more randos, Jeff Chimenti?

“They’re so fragile!”

Dammit.

“Can we just stuff ’em into Garcia’s Briefcase of Infinite Felonies?”

Again?

Everyone’s A Winner

June 18, 2016 / / 3 Comments

Generated by IJG JPEG Library

“So, where was I?

“Right: Les Paul had killed two teenaged underground wrestlers in the basement of a hardware store in Staten Island. I believe they were both Italian-Americans, but it was not a racially-motivated crime. Those kids should’ve known: you step in the ring with Les, and you enter his dojo. Dojo can only have one sensei, y’know? Those are the rules.

“So, uh, Les let ’em have it. He gave one of them a How High the Moon. That’s a body slam, but Les would pick people up with his ass. Me and Phil were just flabbergasted. Well, I was. Phil would have been, but he, uh, had befriended an off-duty firefighter and was in the parking lot doing donuts in a ladder truck.

“And then Les, you know: recognizes me. So now I gotta help him get rid of the corps–”

“WHASS THIS ALL ‘BOUT? SOMEBODY GIVIN’ OUT AWARDS? AH WILL ACCEPT THESE GARLANDS. AH DESERVE THEM.”

“Elvis, can you gimme a min–”

“ON BEHALF OF MY SAINTED MOMMA, WHO AH CALLED MAH SATNIN, AND MAH WAYWARD DADDY, VERNON, AH HUMBLY ACCEPT THIS AWARD FOR MAH GREATNESS.”

“It’s not for you, man. I won the–”

“EVER SINCE AH WAS A YOUNG BOY, AH WANTED TO BE THE HERO OF THE COMIC BOOK, AND WEAR CAPES AND GET AWARDS. AH AM DOING BOTH TONIGHT AND IT IS A SPECIAL OCCASION. TO HONOR MYSELF, AH WILL NOW PERFORM KARATE.”

“Precarious!”

“Yo?”

“Have you been standing there the whole time?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Sure. Can you do something about the King?”

“Like what?”

“Well, you know, man: are you on the road crew or not? What happens when people start screwing around?”

“Violence.”

“There ya go.”

…

“I’m not tackling Elvis, Bob.”

“You tackle people all the time. It’s a function of the job.”

“He’s Elvis, Bob. Just not gonna do it. Besides…”

KICK

PUNCH

JUMPSUIT

“…he knows karate.”

“Do something. I’ve got a lot of story left: me and Phil end up taking the bodies of the teenaged wrestlers to Studio 54 and throwing them at Steve Rubell.”

“I love that story, boss.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“AH SEE MANY PEOPLE IN THIS TENT WITH FINE HAIRCUTS, AND IT MAKES ME THANK GOD FOR AMERICA.”

“Get this jackass out of here.”

“How?”

“No idea, but if you can’t do it, then get someone who can. Wally’ll do it.”

“I dunno about that. They both do the all-caps thing. It would be confusing.”

…

” All of you have ruined my award. I’m going to my tour bus.”

“Oh, oh, ohhh. No. Not the bus. Maybe not right this second? Give it a minute?”

“You better not tell me that Soup got in my bus.”

…

…

…

“Soup got in my bus?”

“Little bit.”

“MotherFUCKER.”

“YOU WILL REFRAIN FROM FOUL LANGUAGE IN THE PRESENCE OF THE KING.”

“Ah, fuck you, Elvis.”

My Father, My Uncle, And Muhammad Ali

June 4, 2016 / / 9 Comments

TNT made a documentary about Ali; it seems to have been mostly forgotten, and I’m among the forgetful. It was six-hours long and, obviously, expansive; the reason why is that it shows big chunks of fights, almost all of the first Frazier fight, in addition to the politics and religion and celebrity and everything else that came with Muhammad Ali.

My father and my uncle got along because they had to; my father thought my uncle was a deadbeat, and my uncle thought my father was a little prick; both were mostly right, but for an entire evening, they were best friends watching this documentary. Neither had been one of the Champ’s title fights–they were not fancy men–but had trooped out to the local Loews to watch the closed-circuit feed with the rest of the masses, and maybe that’s why they loved him so much: to my father and my uncle, Ali was larger-than-life.

From Louisville to Rome to Miami Beach to Vegas to the Garden to Zaire to Manila, and these two aging Jews were there with him, cheering the Champ on. Mostly. Neither got the Muslim thing at the time, but neither of them wanted to go to Vietnam at the time, either. They had taken dates to the fights, or gone with friends; these people had names like Donna Hufnagel, and Shushy Flakowitz. Afterwards, there may have been tuggers, or auto theft. (Every male member of my family from the generation before mine has at least one story where he stole a car, or was arrested for stealing a car he owned, or some other car theft-related nonsense.) It’s a long film, but neither of them moved, and my father smiled a lot. He would forget to do that some weeks.

Ali was a mirror-image of Elvis. (He was bigger than Elvis, or any singer, could ever be. You can only sing in one language, but Ali fought, and that could be universally understood.) They had their best years taken by the government, and returned to even greater fame and success; they were surrounded by thieves, weasels, and goons; they were both at least half-crazy.

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There, were, however major differences: Elvis was–let’s face the truth–one of the dumbest fucks you’ll ever meet, whereas Muhammad Ali believed some dumb shit at times, but was in fact an intelligent and thoughtful man. And though they were both Sons of the South, they were from different sides of the family.

Muhammad Ali was post-war America; when they write the book, he has to be in it. He meant something, and he even stood for something once or twice, and though the world threw punch after punch, he leaned back into the ropes and came back stronger. But, 2016 is the year that the 20th century dies.

Ali was bigger than us. He was glorious. I like chopping people down to size, but the axe hasn’t been made that could bring Muhammad Ali down. His value will be debated by men and women lesser than he, and for a long time, but that doesn’t matter. I sat there with my father and my uncle watching the Champ fight, and my dad smiled as he remembered his youth, as the crowd cheered for Muhammad Ali, who was the Greatest of All Time.

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