Whether today turns into another celebration of The Greatest American Of All Time is yet to be seen; for now, this is the King (with the great Ronnie Tutt) at MSG in ’72.
Fun Fact: My dad (DotD) was in the audience.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: elvis presley (Page 12 of 13)
- Nudie suit.
- Jumpsuit, NASA.
- Jumpsuit, Elvis.
- Three-piece, bespoke. (A wider pinstripe is in now. Perhaps a dark blue with the proper shoe.)
- Racing suit, old school.
- Wetsuit worn by incredibly hot person that has been tailored for them to look hot in.
- Racing suit, modern. (The new suits are made of fifteen layers of nomex and kevlar and have all sorts of electronics woven into them; too bulky.)
- Batsuit.
- Spacesuit. (The actual going-out-into-space outfit with the fishbowl helmet. The designers weren’t thinking about being fashion-forward, but still: not sexy.)
- Wetsuit worn by normal human.
- Orange prison jumpsuit, unless you have the right complexion to pull it off.
- Bomb disposal suit.
- Hazmat suit.
- Bright-yellow atmosphere suit worn by the CDC doctors gathered at your bedside.
New theory: everything’s not connected to the Dead, it’s all connected to Ronnie Tutt.
Stop being weird.
Nothing weird about loving the Tutt.
True. You just phrase your compliments so oddly.
Yeah. Anyway, it’s the King singing Neil Diamond, with King Tutt on the drums. Of note is the song’s length: a little over two-and-a-half minutes. Elvis got bored if a song lasted three minutes, and would start doing karate. Also, like all of Elvis’ Vegas arrangements, the tune doesn’t end so much as it stops. It’s great regardless.
Plus, the sound of Ronnie Tutt’s drums is “thrump.”
Good call. Well-spelled.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DK25FgSOEs
I’ll stand up for Neil Diamond’s songwriting, and the voice he had as a young person (Neil Diamond was never a kid), and his Semitic Prince Valiant haircut, but he was never cool and has only gotten schmaltzy with age. I cannot recommend watching the above video, but–again proving that the Dead is everywhere, maaaan–Neil’s drummer (for many years now) is the Ronnie Tutt of drummers, the actual Ronnie Tutt.
After Elvis and Garcia, perhaps Ronnie was looking for a more predictable and/or sober bandleader. (Elvis and Garcia could be predictable as hell when they wanted to be, but it wasn’t the good kind of predictable.) No more lunatics or junkies or British wastrels on piano: professional management, top-notch travel, great pay. Sure, Neil wouldn’t stand for half the bullshit he used to get up to with Elvis–Ronnie pretty much soloed for the whole show with the King–but he’d never have to have another conversation with Red or Joe Esposito. Elvis hung out with some dumb motherfuckers.
I’d ask if he misses the chaos at all, but I don’t think Ronnie Tutt does, not in the slightest. Interviews with the man reveal an insanely low tolerance for foolishness; even lower for fucking up the time. To drop a beat while playing with Ronnie Tutt was an insult: it was implying you disagreed with Ronnie Tutt about where the one was, and Ronnie motherfucking Tutt knows where the one is.
THE KING DONE DEMAND HIM SOME EQUAL TIME, YESSIR.
Oh, c’mon: not you. It’s getting off-puttingly weird in here.
THASS YOUR BUSINESS, NOT MINE. AH’M GONNA SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT ‘BOUT THAT ROY HEAD BIDNESS. AIN’T NONE OF IT TRUE.
I can totally see him biting you.
AW, NAW: HE CHOMPED ON ME LIKE AH WAS A DEEP-FRIED PORK CHOP WITH PEANUT BUTTER ON IT.
I can’t believe you died young.
BUT NONE OF THE REST OF IT IS TRUE, MAN. NOT A WORD. THE KING REACHED OUT HIS HAND TO ROY HEAD. AH INVITED HIM TO MY PENTHOUSE SUITE AND OFFERED HIM TRUE SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY, NOT THAT TEXAS BULLSHIT.
What’s Texas hospitality?
GIVIN’ YOU A HEADSTART ‘FORE THEY SHOOT YOU.
Ah.
DON’T INTERRUPT THE KING.
Sorry.
YOU ARE FORGIVEN. AS AH WAS SAYING, ROY HEAD WAS MAH GUEST: HE WAS OFFERED GIRLS IN ANY COLOR PANTIES HE COULD IMAGINE. DOCTOR NICK PRESCRIBED HIM THINGS, AND WE SHARED COGNAC AND DISCUSSED SEQUINS AND THE WUNNERFUL THINGS OUR FREAKY LEGS COULD DO.
That sounds nice.
WE PRACTICED KARATE FOR HOURS, AND AH DID NOT MURDER HIM, EVEN THOUGH AH COULD HAVE AT ANY TIME.
That’s really what the martial arts are about.
SEE, MAN: YOU GET IT. AH LIKE YOU. AH’M GONNA BUY YOU QUIZNO’S FRANCHISE.
No, thanks.
HAVE IT YOUR WAY. THE OFFER WILL NOT BE REPEATED.
You were telling a story?
NOT MUCH MORE TO IT. WENT TO DO MAH SHOW AND THE CRAZY BASTARD TRIED TO EAT ME. I TOLD SONNY AN’ RED TA BEAT HIM UP A LITTLE.
That’s kind of you to specify “a little.”
AH AM THE KING.
With enough willpower, you can do anything. With willpower, cash, and a flamethrower, you can do everything.
Go climb your mountain.
This is 12/13/75 from the Las Vegas Hilton. It was the Midnight Show, and if there’s a more salubrious and enchantingly decadent phrase in the English language than “Midnight Show in Las Vegas,” then I don’t know it. It is, though, very odd to describe any show other than the Dead’s using the date.
The King’s still got his shit surprisingly together this late in the game and is in fine voice. As always, his band is one of the greatest ever assembled and puts up with him stopping and restarting songs, and making them do the endings two and three times, and just doing random pilled-up nonsense.
It doesn’t open, like all Elvis performances, with the greatest intro in musical history: the enormous band (that was actually so large it was made up of three or four smaller bands) BLASTING away at Also Sprach Zarathustra while the King assumed karate poses. No, this release opens a couple bars into C.C. Rider because–and this is not based on any reading or research, simply from a night of listening to Elvis live records–not one person in the entire TCB organization either knew or gave a shit how to put a live performance on tape. History shows that the culprit is probably the Colonel spending $35 to do it.
So, the opener was not recorded.
There was also no editing and all of Elvis’ banter with the rowdy audience is kept, even though none of it makes any sense.
True Elvisphiles will note with glee the introduction of Charlie Hodge. Enthusiasts will note that Benjy is Billy’s Charlie Hodge.
Dammit, Bobby: put your feet away.
OR
In honor of the King, Bobby performed one of Elvis’ favorite tricks: dry-swallowing a champagne glass full of assorted pills in one gulp. Bobby had never attempted to do this before; he just assumed he would be able to. Obviously, a Heimlich situation arose.
OR
Phil showed up at the gig as Priscilla: big beehive hairdo, mini-dress, the whole thing. Everyone was a little weirded out by the whole thing, especially when Phil had that affair with the karate instructor. Phil was asked to change costumes; he went to the show as a spooky ghost.
OR
Bobby had avoided the shower for ten days prior and informed everyone he met that he was not Elvis, he was “Smellvis,” and no matter how clever the concept, at the end of the day Bobby was just a stinky dude in a jumpsuit.
OR
If you were barefoot in Elvis’ presence, he would call you a hippie and fuck you up with karate.
One of the running themes of these bloggings is this: the Dead weren’t as special as we think. They did precisely the same trend-following as every other big rock and roll combo of the time, it’s just that they were incompetent at it. They discovered reggae at the same time every other with-it white dude in LA did, but their reggae song was in 7/4. Plus, Phil wasn’t exactly Family Man Barrett.
They did cheesy music videos, but instead of hitting the gym and hair stylist like their peers, they chose to look like this: 
(Hand on my heart, I only meant to post one picture of Phil looking completely unpresentable. The two-fer was just a happy accident.)
(Okay, last parenthetical, but it has to be said: our boy’s looking rough in that second one there. Like he’s a stranger in a bar who keeps moving through the room getting closer and closer to you, but you never notice him actually moving , and then all of a sudden HE’S ON THE STOOL NEXT TO YOU and he asks you if you want to hear a secret? Because, mister, I’ve got a secret and…I’d like ta tell it to ya.
What the hell, man?
You disagree?
It’s not that I disagree or not: it’s just unseemly. First of all, close your parenthesis.
Sorry.)
Second, I’d really prefer you didn’t even imply that the ground-breaking bassist from our favorite improvisational combo was some sort of lumberjack rapist.
I would never imply that Phil raped lumberjacks. That’s–
–Wait, that is not what–
—on YOU, FUCKIN’ WEIRDO THAT YOU ARE.
–I said. I meant that he was a lumberjack who raped.Â
… Oh: A lumberjack-rapist?!
Yes!
Well, it’s kinda on you for being so fast and loose with the typography, Mr. “Close your parenthetical.”
SHUT THE FUCK UP, BOTH OF YOU.
COMING SOON: The much-promised, never-delivered return of Elvis! Also, check out this rightfully well-regarded show from 9/20/87Â and pay special attention to the Desolation Row, Garcia’s solos in particular. They’re a matched pair: the first, sadness; the second, release. He only takes one verse each and makes every bar both a logical continuation of the bars before it AND a complete surprise. Plus, Bobby just kills it.
Sorry for the disappearing act: I didn’t feel like making jokes, especially not about Billy punching dicks. Tawdry and insignificant, in the face of it.
But time goes on, so more goofy wackiness to come. PLUS the continuation of the Spring ’78 tour run-through! AND special guest blogger Elvis Presley!
USE MAH ROYAL TITLE, MONKEY.
Umm…His Man-jesty, the Most Hung and Holy Fourth Degree Black Belt, Tushee Monster Extraordinaire, Elvis Presley.
FUCKIN’ A.
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