Walking in Memphis

Paying my respects to the King

In his short 42-year life, Elvis Presley made over 30 movies. In the 10-year period he did these movies (part of a contract super-manager Colonel Tom Parker hooked him up with) Presley was making about three movies a year.

I strongly believe this is why his '60s music suffered (too soundtracky -- every song has a shitty movie attached to it) and why anything after that was almost irrelevant. Yes, yes, he did have some gooders after 1968, but at this point he was wearing jumpsuits and doing karate moves on stage.

I recently went to Memphis on a whim to attend a concert (review to appear later...hopefully) and had to drop into Graceland to pay my respects. It's something all music lovers need to do. There is not an artist on this earth that hasn't been directly or indirectly influenced by Presley. Name any, and I will track their influences back to Presley.

Graceland is definitely an experience. Every exhibit leads back to a gift shop, so you're guaranteed to get more than your fill of merchandise. (I spent $130 in about 30 minutes.) And everything you see in the mansion itself just builds up the personality and presence of this handsome pioneer who loved his mama, doted on his daughter, proudly served his country and acted his heart out, that you feel like you knew him personally.

And then the tour takes you past his and his family's plots in the back garden. I wanted to cry. This man did so many subtle things to revolutionize music and, perhaps to change the world, that we take it for granted every day. I wanted to cry, but what for? It wouldn't do any good. He's been gone a long time and he'd only be a stranger to me if I bumped into him at a roadside Burger King.

One little inconsistency with Graceland though (that shouldn't deter you from visiting it or Memphis) -- there's no mention of the drug-addled "fat Elvis" anywhere. It is a part of his life, albeit a sad and disturbing part. But if you look closely at the displays of his jumpsuits, you can see the material pulled and clipped back. That way we don't have to remember him as a fat bastard and cruel joke of rock and rock excess.

We remember him as the King of Rock n'Roll. Long live the King!

From Regina With Love

The funnest band without a TV series

I don't like indie bands. Too many have left a bad taste in my mouth (or broken notes in my ears) with their pretentious music and lyrics. I want to listen to a band whose members generally enjoy life and inject that same enjoyment into their live performances. I listen to hear someone's good time or to hear some soft background music subconsciously transfer its positive vibes into my soul.

So when a seven-member group opened the show at Hawksley Workman's July 11 concert at the Flames Central in Calgary, I thought Oh, here we go. Better pop a Prozac now.

But then something amazing happened. Regina's Library Voices took the stage and kicked my ass with their youthful energy, beaming, genuine smiles and joyous team spirit. Everybody was singin' and dancin'. The bouncing bass player with the chest tattoo was all over that stage, but still didn't take away from the Robert Downey Jr.-looking guitarist (yum!) or the wild man on sax or the two lovely ladies bookending the gents.

I swear, they must hit the road in a 70s-era "Librarymobile" (not exactly as shown) and solve crimes while never getting into petty arguments like other bands. No pressure, guys!

Anyway, for the rest of you: Please see this band live if you get a chance. They whipped the pants off headliner Hawksley.

Look and listen here.

Buddy

For one who passed too soon.

I bet you expect me to say something about this day, something insightful that I should have been crafting for the last nine years. Honestly, I damn near would have forgotten were it not for the weekend newspaper.

Today is the 50th anniversary marking the death of Buddy Holly. On this day, his chartered plane (shared with the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens) crashed into the cold, wintry fields of Iowa -- how much more depressing could that landscape possibly be?

I remember the first time I heard "That'll Be the Day." I was about eight and watching one of those infomercials for a tape collection of the best songs of the '50s. When Buddy Holly sang that would be the day he died, it wasn't prophetic or deep. To an eight-year-old who thought "Mr. Sandman" was where it was at, I thought the song was sung by an old man who would die soon, because only old people die when you're a child.

The first time I saw Buddy was a few years later in Jasper. My parents dragged me and my sister through souvenir shops as we fussily searched for the elusive $10 or less stuffed animal souvenir. My mom pointed out collectors' stamps at the glass counter. The Queen, Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe --

"Who's that nerd?" I sniped as only an 11-year-old can.

"Buddy Holly," said Mom.

Typical me, it's love at first sight but I don't know it until three years later. This time it's another '50s compilation tape bought from Music World, as I rebelled against the day's conventional sounds of rat-faced boy bands and blond robotic teen-tarts. This time there was no "That'll Be the Day." Instead it was "Oh Boy!" a fast-as-Holly-can-strum rocker where Buddy laid it all out there: you were missing something special for not loving him and his music. I acquiesced.

His music is brilliant, reaching beyond the '50s time capsule of life, cupping the balls of '60s rock, tickling the Beatles, the Stones, and pretty much anyone else marching in the British Invasion. He took guitar playing to a new level with his unusual technique of strumming downward, but twice as fast as a conventional strummer. He experimented with overdubbing, and could actually duet with himself. He used an orchestral string section in his final studio recordings and gave the world his final encore, "It Doesn't Matter Anymore."

He may not have made the impact that Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Elvis made on the wild-child attitude of rock n' roll, but he made his mark on a few that would.

It's been a few years since I lived in my whirlwind, junior high crush of a man more than 50 years my senior and long since dead, but he's still my hero, my inspiration.

I love you, Buddy, and you'll never be forgotten. Rave on.

The Pepsi Conspiracy

If the watered down syrup company can have a challenge, why not a conspiracy?

I'm not one for conspiracies -- I think they're cool and everything, but there's nothing more I can add that Smoking Gun or the X-Files hasn't already covered. The Kennedy assassination has been done to death (no pun intended), the moon landing was probably faked, and I doubt aliens would land on Earth, let alone Roswell.

And then I started thinking of my own, involving the Pepsi incident of the '80s. I'm so vainly fascinated by the potential reality of my theory that I can't bring myself to google or snopes it to see if anyone else shares my kookie idea.

Michael Jackson is dead.

He has been dead for over 20 years. Now here's where things are going to get fast and furious.

Go listen to Thriller and, for extra credit, Off the Wall. I categorically refuse to believe that that young man, the one-gloved one, could turn into such a goblin.

Even look at his early photos and listen to his soft-spoken voice -- he's a cutie! A very talented young man. Sure he was a bit eccentric -- he grew up in a boy band and was an instant star before he was ten, won a gajillion Grammies, and his big brother is named Tito (okay, I won't make too many Tito jokes, I swear). The boy was bound to get fucked up.

So when you're uber famous, selling billions of records all over the planet, you're going to get offered a deal to push some product to the kids. Michael Jackson's job was to push some Pepsi around. But in order to do that, Pepsi demands that all its slaves, er, spokesmodels, make an elaborate TV commercial/music video (see Madonna [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mi-koOafKOk], Britny Spears [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EEZLYKN8Fo&feature=related], or Shakira [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G0ql43igg1M&feature=related])

It was in the making of this video, a reworking of the "Billy Jean" lyrics, that the Incident happened: pyrotechnics caught onto MJ's heavily hairsprayed coif and it set him ablaze.

Now everybody knows he lived and everything turned out okay (more or less). Sure he wears a wig, but things could have been a lot worse. But what if he hadn't been okay? What if his star fizzled out too soon and he ended up in one of those Chris Consani paintings with Elvis and Marilyn Monroe? It goes without saying that celebrities are bigger in death than in life, and MJ's entire life in the '80s and early '90s was huge.

But supposing his fame was too big and the contract with Pepsi was like signing a deal with the devil, and Jackson's character is enslaved by the cola giant forever (or until the campaign is kaput) -- who will fill in for Michael?

There's only one other Jackson who looks as much as Michael, sounds like Michael, and has the most time to impersonate Michael.

It's La Toya of course.

If she's so individually different, why do they look so similar?

Huh? Huh? This switcheroo explains "Michael's" constant and terribly done surgeries, making "him" look more and more feminine; the turkey baster pregnancy with womb donor Debbie Rowe; you never see Michael and La Toya in the same place at once; and the complete fuck-up of Michael's legacy.

La Toya's just a patsy, not a shrewd business man or talented performer.

Why wouldn't they just hire an impersonator, you ask? Outsiders leak information. The Jackson family is a very tight-lipped group -- they may have witnessed the Kennedy assassination, but they'll never tell. And they certainly won't admit to the charade of La Toya masquerading as her dead brother for Pepsi money. Or will they? Hmm...?

Or am I just completely off the wall?

(For curious readers, here is the aforementioned commercial/music video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vd15YVb2M6M)

**If you can't open the links, just youtube the descriptions, folks.

Heavy Metal

The testosterone-saturated metal genre isn't just for guys anymore

Girls aren't supposed to like heavy metal. At least that's what I've been led to believe. Heavy metal songs simply aren't written for girls to enjoy. Just listen to Guns N' Roses' "It's So Easy" or, on a much lower note, Warrant's "Cherry Pie." Anyone who listens to the former will notice that one line stands out like a broken thumb, and the title of Warrant's "socially significant" piece is enough said. These songs and many others degrade women to nothing more than sperm receptacles.

Which is why, as a girl, listening to heavy metal is such a guilty pleasure. My love of heavy metal is a dirty secret, one no one knows I have unless he or she peeks at my CD collection. My mom and aunts don't understand what I like about this music, and no one has any idea that my girl-next-door facade hides this guilty pleasure.

I love heavy metal. I'm not talking about the Brody Dalles or the Courtney Loves of the rock community, or any other women rockers -- through Pat Benatar and Debbie Harry are two of my goddesses. Tough females with guitars and screeching vocals are acceptable for other women to enjoy. It's that whole girl power thing.

No, I'm talking about the male variety. Especially 1980s rock, before all the eyeliner and hairspray washed away in the grunge wave of the early '90s. I can't stop listening to and buying dumbed-down compilations of Whitesnake, Judas Priest and Twisted Sister. I'm always searching through the Motley Crue section at Best Buy to see if I'm missing an album. And I must have the essential Guns N' Roses album, Appetite for Destruction, in my car at all times.

If heavy metal is sexist and misogynist (two of the most despicable things in this world), why can't I stop listening to it? Why haven't I been swept away by the punk and faux-punk fads like so many others?

Even my friends don't understand this obsession. One said she wouldn't dare venture into the metal section at HMV with me because she felt she didn't belong there. I told her that's how I feel about punk. I don't below amid studded jackets and safety pins. I can stand to listen to only so much of Johnny Rotten's snarky voice before I want to strangle myself. And, as much as I would like to, I don't believe in anarchy. I mean, who's going to clear the snow from the alley behind my house if the municipal government doesn't make someone do it? It certainly won't be me.

So with my metal CDs, I've crept beneath the punks and the faux-punks. I hide from them because punk music doesn't follow the same ideals as metal. I have to hide because no one is interested in car-humping floozies from Whitesnake videos or elevator-riding hussies from Aerosmith videos. These stereotypes of bands and their perceptions of women are just not acceptable in the latest rock trends.

But it is acceptable for Beyonce to grind against Jay-Z and for Britney Spears to wear nothing but sparkly special effects. Girls are allowed to like pop artists without ridicules or misunderstanding. The artists are in these videos because they want to be. They're not having pies thrown into their laps (as in Warrant's video, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdDxz2bkfhE&feature=related), creating an obvious metaphor for female anatomy.

Metal bands are sexist because, at the height of their popularity, they figured they could project their feelings about women any way they wanted. Those sexist, narrow-minded attitudes aren't what draw me to the genre.

So what if it makes my eardrums ache and my head ring? Those are only minor side effects of being consumed by the spirit of rock. I love tapping my fingers to the Crue's "Dr. Feelgood" when I'm at work. I love how my legs turn to jelly whenever I hear Eddie Van Halen's guitar solo at the end of "Drop Dead Legs." I love how the final song on Appetite for Destruction reaches orgasmic proportions.

Like every young woman should, I embraced my feminist roots and further embraced a phase of feminist fury. I don't remember how exactly I stumbled into it, but I do apologize for thinking all men are pigs. I read books and articles by Gloria Steinem and declared chivalry murdered by sexist males.

However, I couldn't keep up the facade -- not after guiltily enjoying the Crue's stripper anthem "Girls, Girls, Girls." I just couldn't disappoint Ms. Steinem and her fellow crusaders. I couldn't give my all into the noble feminist cause. So I resigned my post as super-feminist-in-training. But I do continue to defend and support my gender when and where it's appropriate (usually always).

Girls aren't supposed to love heavy metal or enjoy it any deeper than on a superficial level. Songs are written to degrade us, but they aren't musically well-crafted anyways. But the songs about us are good. Think of "Sweet Child O' Mine" (Guns N' Roses again), "Mama, I'm Coming Home" (Ozzy Osbourne), and "Beautiful Girls" (Van Halen). These are well-created songs. Just listen to them, lyrically and musically.

Girls can listen to whatever music they want, and heavy metal is no exception. But some don't feel it's an option for their iPods or car stereos, just as some young men don't listen to Celine Dion's screechy yowls.

Some metal artists laboured to make heavy metal more accessible to female fans. One of the more overexposed GN'R ballads, and the most overplayed high school dance song (besides Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven), November Rain, is a prime example of the power ballad. Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, and Poison are notorious for the legions of female fans drawn in by their ballads. These mellow numbers were created to ensnare women who wanted an electric bad boy with an acoustic heart.

Metal is about having a good time -- that's what appealed to me. The bands scream and rage so their upset or frustrated listeners won't have to. And they're always ready for fun. Why should girls mope around their rooms listening to Jann Arden or Alanis Morissette howl about their jerk ex-boyfriends.

Seriously girls, we need to get out and have nothin' but a good time too. That's what heavy metal is really about. It's not just for guys anymore.