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Posts Tagged ‘elvis presley’

134. Scorpions – Rock You Like A Hurricane
Some of you may listen to Winds of Change and get all weepy about the fall of the Berlin wall. Some of you may listen to Still Loving You and get all weepy about the one that got away. Me, I am moved by Rock You Like A Hurricane. It is MY song.

Some day, when I finally get my professional wrestling gig, I will come out into the arena to this song. I will get into the center of the ring and say the words, for the past 20 years, have been my motto throughout my daily life, whether it be at work, at home or in bed:

Here I am. Rock you like a hurricane.

135. Fang – Berkeley Heathen Scum
Like I’ve said before, I hope you all find some new music to listen to through this adventure of mine. This is a band I’m sure most of you don’t know – a Northern California 80’s punk band that made some decent music (that was covered by both Metallica and Nirvana). Sammytown‘s voice is a bit hard to get used to; think Cookie Monster on ludes. But I kind of like it. It’s got a “I really don’t give a fuck” attitude about it. He sometimes sings like he’s going through the motions, just growling out some random lyrics and, while that doesn’t sound very appealing, it works here. It’s like slowed down punk rock, maybe what would happen if the Dead Kennedys took too much acid. Or if Jefferson Airplane smoked some crack. Psychedelic, trippy punk rock. How can you go wrong? Well, besides the whole murder rap thing.

136. Allman Brothers – Whipping Post
I could have listed just about any song here and I would have been satisfied that I made the right choice. Memories. All good ones. Cruising on a road trip to nowhere in my first car. Beach parties and bonfires. Huge picnics in the park, trying to move the kegs from field to field before the cops tracked us down. Seeing the band live about 15 times.

This song, so many years later, still gives me that same rush, that same desire to stand up on a stage and belt this out, that same surge of adrenaline when the music goes down and he picks up again with Sometimes I feel……..the one that comes from the bottom of his soul and works its way up and comes out sounding like a powerful right hook would.

If you have ever seen the Allman Brothers play then you know what a damn near religious experience this song can be live.

137. New Bomb Turks – I Want My Baby Dead?!
You’re in an oil stained garage that’s been cleared out to make just enough room for your friend’s band and there’s a dozen people crowded in there stinking like sweat and shitty beer and the feedback is bouncing off the walls and the shirtless guys are bouncing off each other and when you step outside for a smoke you can still feel the concrete shake. That’s this song.

138. Elvis Presley – Viva Las Vegas
I grew up on a steady diet of Elvis. In the homes of my friends, they worshiped Jesus or Mary or Moses. In my home, there was Elvis worship. I knew all the songs. I was forced to watch all the movies. Elvis in Hawaii. Clambake. Some movie where Mary Tyler Moore is a nun and Elvis seduces her. I think. I think he has to battle Jesus for Mary’s heart or something. I figured out a very young age that all the movies were the same. Elvis meets girls. Elvis sings to girls. Elvis makes out with someone. What happens in between all that doesn’t matter. It’s like watching the old Star Trek shows. You just wait for the moment when Kirk bangs an alien chick. Then the episode is complete. When Elvis sings at some swooning girl, the movie has reached it’s climax. The rest is just filler. Elvis. Kirk. Same thing. All you needed was an episode of Star Trek where Kirk swiveled his hips and crooned something like “hunka hunka burnin love” to some chick with blue skin and three arms, and you’d have Elvis in space.

I’ve grown to fully appreciate Elvis. Maybe it’s something that comes with entering old age. Maybe it’s because of the Velvet Elvis hanging in our computer room. Maybe it’s because Elvis built the pyramids.

Anyhow. I chose this song for a reason. Because it is quintessential Elvis.

FAQ here
list of upcoming bands/artists here.
List of songs completed so far here
Link to all 300 bands, 300 songs posts

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gross

Gross foods. Really, I haven’t eaten a lot of gross things. I have refined dining tastes, I guess. Or picky. I’ve never tried pigs feet or lamb’s tongue or cow’s eyeballs. Then again, one person’s gross is another person’s delicacy. Like right now, I’m eating cottage cheese. I know that someone will gag upon reading that. Different strokes and all.

Gross foods I’ve eaten:

Egg Foo Yung: The grossest thing I ever tasted is something probably most of you like. I had this for the first time when I was about ten. My first thought was “this is like eating someone else’s snot.” Many years later I decided to give it another try. Mainly because the Chinese place got my order wrong and it was either starve or try it. I dug in. My first reaction: “this is like eating someone else’s snot.” And then I puked it back up.

Brussel Sprouts: Again, lame. I know. A lot of people like these guys. But to me, they are like little, feet-smelling balls of mush. The texture makes me gag. The smell makes me gag. The taste is so bad that even my dog wouldn’t eat them when I tried to sneak them off my plate and under the table to him.

pottedmeat.jpgGross foods I would never eat.

Potted Meat: What the hell is this shit? I don’t even want to know the ingredients. But I do want to know why someone would purposefully eat something that looks like it came out of a baby’s diaper. Along with potted meat, there are vienna sausages (mmm..fat baby fingers), pork brains in milk gravy and, of course, spotted dick.

Gross foods I love:

Elvis sandwiches: I only tried this once. And I don’t know if it was an authentic Elvis sandwich or not. It was peanut butter, bacon, bananas and butter. Deep fried. Holy shit was that good. Sure, there was a fist of fat clenching my heart the whole night and grease was leaking out of my pores for days and I gained 100 lbs and found myself wearing a white jumpsuit and singing hunka huna burning love while sitting on the toilet bowl, but sweet jesus, did that taste good.

hotdogs.jpgMom’s special dinner: Mom actually made this for dinner one night. She told dad it was a special treat. When she put it down on the table in front of him he just blinked. The rest of us dug in. Hot dogs, wrapped in bacon and cheese and deep fried, served over a bed baked beans, with sauerkraut on the side. Dad just kept staring at mom like she lost her mind. He wasn’t eating? More for us! Dad went out to eat and me and my sisters spent the rest of the night having a farting contest. -M

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I’ve been thinking about Elvis a lot lately. Ever since we hung the velvet Elvis in our computer room, he’s been on my mind. We even briefly discussed going to Graceland for a weekend. It’s not that I’m a huge Elvis fan or anything; I think I like Elvis kitsch more than I like the man’s music. And it doesn’t get any kitschier than going to Graceland. Well, maybe owning a velvet Elvis beats that. In my defense, it came with the boyfriend. It’s not mine.

We had another Elvis conversation yesterday, this time with my mother. Our local paper is doing a special on the man next month and is looking for personal accounts of the Elvis concert going experience. I don’t have any of that, but Todd kindly brought up an Elvis story I do have. And by brought up, I mean reminded my mother about it so she can be pissed at me all over again.

I was thinking of polishing this one up and sending it to the paper. I know a lot of you have read this already but, as they say in the business, all filler, no killer. Or something like that.

It was one of those moments when you say something you know you shouldn’t. But I couldn’t help myself. I was fourteen and still in the throes of teenage-girl-smart-ass disease. It was just about 30 years ago that I was sitting in the backyard listening to the radio when I heard the news. I went inside and found my mother in her room, making her bed.

“Hey, mom. Guess you won’t be going to that Elvis concert next week.”
“What?”
“He’s dead.”

I may have snickered, I don’t know. Mom ran into the bathroom and turned on the little radio she kept in there. I remember the exact sound of the tinny, staticy voice that relayed the news to my mother in a much softer way than I did. Elvis was dead. My mother’s eyes filled with tears and despair while her face registered only that small “o” one’s mouth makes when they hear shocking news. That “o” stayed there for a while, but the despair in her eyes had become hard and angry. She was pissed at me. How could I have told her like that, knowing that she idolized Elvis in a pure, passionate way? How could I do that? What kind of daughter was I?

Well, I was fourteen. That’s my only excuse. I was a fourteen year old whose mother made fun of her own idolization of another self-obsessed, overly dramatic singer who similarly became a bloated replica of himself. And later, dead and bloated. Maybe it was my way of evening up the score.

My mother had this friend Noreen. Noreen was the largest woman I ever knew. Not just heavy large, but tall and broad and wide, with a thick, teased hair piled up on her head so she looked even taller. Her voice roared even when she whispered and her sneezes were legend in the neighborhood, said to be heard from at least three blocks away. She wore mumus and housecoats and tons of hairspray and sometimes she wore an ugly fur coat that made her look like a small woodland creature was nesting on her shoulder.

Noreen and my mom were the Elvis duo. They worshiped him. They loved him. They knew everything about him and owned everything to do with him including Elvis commemorative plates and I think one of them had an Elvis wristwatch. I grew up with Elvis’s hips grinding in my face and his voice grinding in my ears and I have to admit that at some point, I realized what the attraction was. When I would lay in bed on summer nights, trying to sleep while my mother and Noreen and the rest of their crew played Pinochle in the kitchen with Elvis on the stereo, I knew. His voice would come drifting into my room and I could feel the sensuality, the danger, the passion that lied within his words. I would never tell anyone this, of course. I went about my daily business of bowing before Jim Morrison and Robert Plant and never let on that I thought Elvis was cool. Especially to my mother. That would just ruin the taut, tenous relationship that we both thrived on. Who was I to break the rite of passage of mother-teenage daughter bitterness and anger?

Noreen and my mother were going to see Elvis in August, 1977 at the Nassau Coliseum. They had seen him many times before but this one was special. They had a feeling this would be his last tour ever. They were like little giddy school girls in the weeks leading up to the show. Sometimes my mother would take out her ticket and just stare at. She was 39 at the time. When I was fourteen, 39 was old and withered and wrinkled. 39 was too old to be getting worked up over a hip-shaking idol. I thought it was kind of creepy. Funny how that works. I’m 44 now and not old or wrinkled or past getting worked up about my musical idols. And there I was, a stupid teenager looking with disdain at her mother for being excited about seeing Elvis.

Then there was no Elvis.

She was so happy. And I crushed her world. It would have been a much softer blow if it came from Cousin Brucie or Uncle somebody on whichever oldies station she was listening to. It would have been a bit easier to take if her teenage bag of hormones didn’t make some smarmy remark about dying like a fat, beached whale.

The news spread around the neighborhood. It was like my mother’s sobbing set off some kind of bat signal and you could hear wails of anguish coming from housewives all down the block. When Noreen found out we heard her bellowing from two blocks away. Her booming voice sounded through the neighborhood like a siren, a mourning call for all Elvis fans to gather on her lawn and weep. It was a sad day for Elvis fans and all I could think to do was make fun of them.

I don’t think my mother ever told Noreen the way in which she found out about the death of their hero. I probably wouldn’t have lived to tell this tale if she knew. She would have beat my ass. And an ass beating from Noreen was unlike any other. I suppose I owe my mother for saving me from that.

When Noreen died, my first thought was that she would finally get to see Elvis again. My second was that I was now safe from my mother ever spilling the beans to Noreen about my youthful indiscretion. I had lived in fear all those years. Hell, sometimes I still think the ghost of Noreen is going appear 30 years later, wearing a sequined white jumpsuit and hell bent on haunting me.

I thought my mother had forgiven me, but judging from the look she gave me yesterday when the story was brought up again, perhaps not. Maybe that’s what drives every argument we have. Maybe she’s still mad at me.

I have apologized to her since. I told her I was sorry for breaking the news like that, but in a way it was her fault for making me sit through Viva Las Vegas and Jailhouse Rock, for forcing that horrid “In the Ghetto” on my ears, for making me tried fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

It’s been 30 years, mom. I think you can let it go now? It’s really not healthy to hold onto a grudge for that long.

I did promise to make it up to her by getting married in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator. She actually liked that idea. I suppose I should let Todd in on that.

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