The Million Dollar Quartet

So this past weekend six friends and I made a journey (some may even call it a pilgrimage) to Memphis. It was the first visit there for maybe half of us. Ostensibly we traveled there on annual

weekend trek to see a college basketball game in a new location (we are all University of Connecticut fans and graduates, and each year we try and hit a cool new city and watch a game there). So that was our official reason.

But our real reason was, well, Memphis. This was a city we needed to see. Either for the first time or very eagerly once again.

We needed to see the Lorraine Motel and the Civil Rights Museum, which is breathtakingly and heartbreakingly awesome. In the truest sense of that word.

We needed to see Graceland. Because, well, just because.

We needed to see the bright lights of Beale Street and walk in the tracks of BB and Junior and the Wolf and so many others.

We needed to get some great damn southern cooking.

And we needed to see this place. Which, you know, holds as strong an ownership claim on the title of "The Birthplace of Rock-n-Roll" as any place could or should:

So we did. And just basically kinda lapped up the all-too-brief but so, SO good 50-minute tour that very comprehensively covered the history of Sun Studio.  And culminated in us standing in the actual studio itself. 

You know, the studio. The place where a few people got their start. Like Jackie Brenston and his  Delta Cats with "Rocket 88" in 1951, which to some rock-n-roll authorities is THE first rock-n-roll song in history. And B.B. King. And Rufus Thomas. And the Howlin' Wolf. And a few others people/legends/icons whose names you may recognize.

Which brings me to this photo. Which I stood three feet away from as our tour wrapped up in the middle of that iconic studio.

That right there is the "Million Dollar Quartet," as it came to be known. Playing an impromptu jam session on December 4, 1956. And filling out what has to be on any short list of the Coolest Photos in Music History.

Let's take a quick look, shall we?

There at the left is the baby of the bunch, 21-year-old Jerry Lee Lewis, still quite a few months away from making it huge at Sun Studio with "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" and, later, "Great Balls of Fire." Both of which would be recorded in this room.

Next to him at right is Carl Perkins, who was all of 24 in this photo and was actually in the studio that day to record a rather iconic "Matchbox." Oh yeah, and who gave Sun its first Number 1 hit with "Blue Suede Shoes" a year earlier.

On the far right and decidedly NOT dressed in black is the oldest of the bunch, a 24-year-old Johnny Cash, who had indeed had some success at that point, including "I Walk The Line," which was recorded (again) in this studio six months earlier.

And oh. Seated at the piano, there is Mr. Elvis Presley. A month shy of his 22nd birthday and already the biggest star Sun Studio (and, yeah, the world) would ever produce.

Four guys. Jamming quite by chance one day. The Million Dollar Quartet.

And just look at that photo! Look at how young they all are!

Look at how attentive and how, believe it or not, humble Jerry Lee looks. As he was the only one who at the time of this photo hadn't hit it huge yet. (Soon enough, for better and for worse, he would develop a confidence he would never, ever lose).

Look at how steady and confident Carl looks. Despite his fellow royalty around him.

Look at how focused Johnny is, and how almost shy he seems. Yet still exuding a cool that very few artists ever could.

And look at Elvis. Man. That is a look of reverence he is giving to Mr. Perkins, and there is also some serious joy in his face. Perhaps the joy of making music with the best of the best of the best? Even though it's only for one magical day?

Could any of them have possibly known of what was to come? Even Elvis, who was at that point a worldwide star? The four men around that piano did not total a collective 100 years of age at the time of that photo, yet the influence they would have on rock-n-roll and music in general and culture and on America itself is literally immeasurable. Could they have known? Is there anything in this picture that indicates they may have known? Elvis' look? Johnny's cool detachment? Carl's knowing pose? Jerry Lee's attentiveness? Any of it? All of it?

Who knows. All we do know is this happened. On December 4, 1956 at Sun Studio on Union Avenue in Memphis, Tennessee. And maybe that's enough.

Because 62 years later and counting, it still lives and breathes. At Sun Studio, and in the all the music it would inspire for decades to come. 

Stuck On You

Stereogum's been running an amazing series for months now, reviewing every single Billboard number one single since the beginning of the chart. It's been a delightful journey, revisiting old favorites, often learning new things about songs I've known for decades, and to my surprise and pleasure, occasionally discovering new songs from artists I (thought I) already knew well. (How on earth are there #1 hits by the Supremes I'd never even heard of, much less known?)

I'm a fan of the writer, Tom Breihan, who has done an amazing job, although he doesn't have nearly the proper reverence for the Beatles. And when"Stuck by You" came up on my morning playlist today, it reminded me of the relatively slating this little gem received.

There’s no urgency in “Stuck On You,” the first single that Presley released after his time in the military. Instead, the Elvis of “Stuck On You” sounds like an Elvis impersonator, leaning hard on his gasps and hiccups and little baritone voice-drops. You can almost hear finger-gun winking.

Don't get me wrong, this is far from the great song the King ever recorded, nor is it his greatest performance. But where Breihan hears laziness, I hear complete and total command of one's god-like gifts. I think it's confidence but if there's a character flaw to be had, it's in the arrogance of the all-conquering hero who'd come from nothing and through sheer force of will, hard work and gobs of talent—and, of course, excellent luck and timing—had demolished all in his path. So is he trying here the way he did on "That's All Right, Mama"? Of course not; he doesn't have to—only once more in his entire life will he ever have to and when he does it'll be spectacular and justifiably legendardy—and the song doesn't call for it anyway. Instead, he's murmuring sweet nothings to the latest objection of affection, both of them fully aware that he doesn't need to, and probably doesn't mean it, which actually almost makes it a lovely gesture.

But then you get to the "a team of wild horses couldn't tear us apart" line and for one brief moment Presley lets loose, and it's like seeing Wilt Chamberlain playing one-on-one with a talented 7th grader and taking it easy on him, just playing around and having fun...until he suddenly decides to dunk on the kid as though going up against Bill Russell and it's awesome.

RIP B.B. King

"The blues? It's the mother of American music. That's what it is. The source." — Riley B. "B.B." King

B.B. King. 1925-2015

B.B. King. Never has a surname been more apropos.

He was called "The King of the Blues" and with great reason. It is very hard to overstate how important he was to 20th century music. And 21st century music. And how important he will be to 22nd century music. Influential? How about Eric Clapton and Mark Knopfler and Jimmy Page and Keith Richards? All of whom count B.B. among the biggest inspirations for their careers. How about Jimi Hendrix? How about John Lennon, who name-checked him in a song and once said that if he were teamed with B.B. King he would "feel real silly." How about Elvis Presley, who counted B.B. as a hero and a friend?

Yes. B.B. King was that big.

And that important.

And that great.

And now he is gone, passed on from this great life at age 89.

Damn.

But Lord did he give us the music for these past 60 years or so. Including this, the leadoff track of easily one of the greatest live albums ever released.



I'll give the last word to a man who likely knew B.B. as well as anyone, as well as someone who knew about touching the level of greatness that B.B. touched.

"B.B. King was the greatest guy I ever met. The tone he got out of that guitar, the way he shook his left wrist, the way he squeezed the strings...man, he came out with that and it was all new to the whole guitar playin' world. He could play so smooth, he didn't have to put on a show. The way B.B. did it is the way we all do it now. He was my best friend and father to us all. I'll miss you, B. I love you and I promise I will keep these damn blues alive. Rest well." — Buddy Guy

Rest in peace, B.B. And thank you a million times over for, as Buddy said, keeping these damn blues alive.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Someday

There would have been a time.

1968: it was a very good year

I tend to get irritated whenever someone talks about music today sucks, and how much better it used to be and yadda yadda yadda. That's, of course, exactly what people said in 1956 about the golden days before Elvis, Chuck, Buddy and Little Richard appeared, and it's what Elvis said when the Beatles appeared and so it goes.

On the other hand, you run across information like just some of the albums released in the final few months of 1968 and it kinda staggers.

September 1968
The Who—Magic Bus
Miles Davis—Miles in the Sky

October 1968
The Jimi Hendrix Experience—Electric Ladyland
Traffic—Traffic

November 1968
Neil Young—Neil Young
The Beatles—The Beatles (The White Album)
The Kinks—The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society
Van Morrison—Astral Weeks
Elvis Presley—Elvis (soundtrack to his comeback special)

December 1968
The Rolling Stones—Beggars Banquet

...okay. Okay, sure. BUT.

Yeah, I got nothin', except maybe to point out that just November alone would have made 1968 a damn good year. When you can list five out of the dozen plus major releases and Neil Young's solo debut is the weak spot by far? That's, uh...that's a pretty list. And, again, that's just from the final third of the year, so not even talking about, say, The Notorious Byrd Brothers, White Light/White Heat or Lady Soul, all of which came out in the month of January 1968. Crazy.

Sing us out, Raymond.

Heartbreak Hotel

For well over two decades I'd been convinced Mötley Crüe's cover of "Jailhouse Rock" would never be surpassed for Worst Elvis Cover Ever. Actually, much as I hated it, I was impressed by it, in a way: before hearing it, I'd thought it was, like "Louie Louie," that rare song so impossibly strong it'd be impossible to screw up. The Crüe done proved me wrong.

And then I heard this...thing. I don't know how I missed it at the time, but I'm surely glad I did. When the very best part of the entire monstrosity is the sight of Arsenio Hall raising an arm in triumph, you know it's what professional musicians refer to as "not good."

Now compare and contrast with this cover. Surely John Cale is nowhere near the sheer vocalist Axl Rose is. Both covers feature outstanding guitarists—Mike Campbell for the Petty/Rose performance, Andy Summer for Cale's. And frankly it's not like Cale's version is short on its ridiculous elements: either the trucker hat or the bowtie would be potentially embarrassing but together they should be beyond mortifying. Add in Cale's faceplant and it could easily have been a hot mess. Instead, it's riveting, disturbing and ramps up the darkness that was always obviously present—a major component, in fact—in Presley's version. It's exactly what a cover should be in the same way the Rose fiasco isn't.

Addendum thanks to the redoubtable Chris Barton via the comments:

Two drummers. They had two drummers. On this. Because Willie Nelson + Leon Russell + Mickey Raphael + Mickey Raphael's hair wasn't quite enough. 

The King of the Whole Wide World

I think one of the greatest secrets in rock and roll, in this century, at least, is just how great Elvis was. Sometimes I even forget just how great he was. Then I listen to him and it all comes rushing back in an instant.



"Huh blatt." Truer words.

Imprinting

Imprinting is a funny thing. When DT and I were in high school, every year there'd be ducks that would come and nest and lay eggs and raise little ducklings. You'd be trying and failing to concentrate on, say, trigonometry because there'd be a momma duck leading a row of ducklings around the courtyard right outside the window and how on earth could trig compete with that?

(Also, you lost all respect for your very nice trig teacher when she mentioned that René Descartes was not only a mathematician but a philosopher and his most famous insight was the saying, "I exist, therefore I am," and you looked around the room, slack-jawed, and saw all the other students writing that down and wondered if you were the only one who'd watched Monty Python sing "The Philosopher Song" and how was it possible that Monty Python were a more reliable teacher than the very nice woman who was paid to teach trig at your high school and yet the evidence was inescapable?)

Every year there were strict warnings, more from the fellow students than the teachers or administrators, not to touch the ducklings, no matter how adorbs they were, as if you did, the mother would from that point on refuse to have anything to do with the duckling, as the slightest touch of a human would embue it with the human's stench forever and ever and it would die a horrible death of starvation and neglect. Years later, I was told that such a horrific scenario was not, in fact, true. Be that as it may, the result was that no one, as far as I know, ever did actually touch one of the ducklings. (Although, yes, it is possible one young jackass jumped out the chemistry window and tried to catch a duckling but found the little bugger too fast and yes he was kinda relieved to fail at least that one time.)

We've all seen the videos of ducklings or goslings or whatever having imprinted upon a creature that's clearly not its mother—another kind of bird or a deer or a person or a scooter or whatever. It's a real thing, something which isn't news to most music fans.

Hey! Hey! DT! Check it out! A new live Bruce album! Yeah, another one! I know! Isn't it great?! Let's go get! Oh, wait, I think it's over here! No, no, it's over here! It's over there now!

What we first liked or at least first heard tends to have a long and lasting impression upon us. Even if we later grow out of our, say, Barry Manilow phase, there's often a lingering fondness for his fluffy cheese (ew) that never quite dissipates entirely. Or we find ourselves so sick of and turned off by an early love (hello, Doors!) that you very much run in the other direction. Either way, those earliest impressions make a big impact on us and our development.

Which can make objective listening a difficult thing. A good friend, hearing some later Elvis alternate takes without the huge backing choirs and strings, wondered why he always preferred hearing songs stripped down. Part of it, maybe most of it, I think, is the simple novelty factor of hearing something as familiar as "Suspicious Minds" in a new way (and also too, admittedly, much as I love the official release, more and clearer Elvis does tend to be better Elvis to my ears).

This is why I often prefer hearing R.E.M.'s "Finest Worksong" in one of its alternate mixes, with the cool guitar intro and horns. Meaning, if we only knew the barebones version of "In the Ghetto," would the full orchestral version be spine-tingling or would it seem hopelessly overwrought? (I love both but if forced to choose would instead eat a downy little baby duckling.)

And so "Talent Show" by the Replacements. I loved the official release from the first and all these decades later still love it. But it's hard to deny the power of the original studio demo. The question I can't answer is, if this was the version I'd imprinted on, would the official version seem terribly soft or would it feel as though a rough masterpiece had finally been brought to completion.

As the boys themselves said on the previous album, I don't know. I understand why they did what they did and I think, conventional wisdom be damned, it was a fine idea and done quite well indeed, commercial failure aside. But it's hard not to feel something was lost in the process and impossible to know how I'd feel if the order had been reversed.

(You're So Square) Baby I Don't Care

This was one of the very first Elvis clips I ever saw. I'm sure I'd seen bits and pieces, especially when he died, but few of them stuck with me. This, though...I remember watching this and thinking, oh...right. I get it. Now I get it. 

There was a period where MTV used to play this fairly often. I'm not sure why—maybe it gave them some sort of hipster cred, putting it on between the latest hair metal and some Brit synth pop. Or mabye it was simply that it was less than two minutes long and made programming easier.

All I recall is that no matter who it came between, artists I loved, artists I hated or artists I didn't really care about, it was more than a breath of fresh air: it was absolutely spellbinding. The easygoing manner, the way he clearly has no training as a dancer and yet is almost liquid in his movements as the music starts in his feet and works its way up his legs until he brings into song, the small smile, as if this is all just a private joke you're in on together, the overall insouciance, it all added up to the best two minutes on MTV. I'd watch this and think, sure, Dylan and Lennon and Springsteen are all open about it but, no, I don't care what the bios say about Anthony Newley and  Lindsay Kemp, this, this is where David Bowie got most of his moves, not to mention where Robert Plant got his...well, pretty much everything.

Elvis had the voice, he had the looks, he had the moves and, most of all, he was just. so. damn. cool. It came three years after the true beginning, but watching this is very nearly like being able to witness the big bang of rock and roll.

And just check out the expressions on the faces of the extras; not one of them seem to be acting.

I Love Music

Recently I have been the P.A. guy at my son’s Little League All Star home games. It makes sense because it is a job that I am highly qualified for. Given that 1) I have a mouth and 2) I was willing to volunteer to do the P.A.

It’s nice to be wanted, you know?

There’s not a whole lot to it, of course. You announce the players as they run on the field, you ask the players to remove their hats and face the centerfield flagpole for the National Anthem, you announce the players as they come to bat, you announce pitching changes, you ask folks to kick in a few bucks to offset the cost of food for the players and umpires, you occasionally shriek “BEAR!!! THERE’S A BEAR IN CENTERFIELD” into the microphone…okay, maybe I made that last one up. But I can dream, can’t I?

Oh, and if the guy next to you sneezes as you announce a player's name, it's best to turn the mic off before saying "Bless you." Lesson learned.

Anyway, where was I? Right! P.A. responsibilities.

Well, one part I didn’t know existed but have come to kinda dig is the part where I get to put on music after each half-inning. Sure, I start off, as mandated by federal law, with Smash Mouth gettin’ all soul-patchy and hep with “All Star,” but the remaining dozen or so half innings and the musical choice is mine. Mine! Mine! All mine.

And putting me in charge of music to be played over a P.A. system is kinda like…well…putting me in charge of music to be played over a P.A. system.

Oh, don’t get me wrong—I took it seriously. I played “Hey Ya” and the crowd loved it. I played “Viva La Vida” (such a great song, BTW) and it seemed to go over nice and all. I even got kinda daring with “Baba O’Riley” and “Born to Run” and that awesome Proclaimers song with the “Bah-dah-dah-dah” chorus. The crowd seemed to range from not noticing to barely noticing. I was in the zone.

So come the bottom of the 5th last Saturday, on a gorgeous Connecticut afternoon around 6 pm with a gentle summer breeze sweeping o’er the field and our team safely…well…they were safely well behind, I decided to get a little more creative.

I called upon a song I love so very much, and a version of it I cannot and will not ever stop loving. As the players made their way in from the field, a gentle, thoughtful little ukelele began to play, and before anyone knew it, the words to a song nearly everyone grew up were being sung.



It was such a lovely moment. The breeze, the lovely green grass of the ballfield, the families milling about, and this splendid little version of this American treasure coming on for all to hear...it made for a lovely little moment. Have I mentioned that?

About 90 seconds in I wondered aloud why the players hadn’t taken the field yet.

“I think they all just drifted off to sleep in the dugout to the relaxing music,” a nearby assistant coach said with a smile.

“Too mellow?” I asked.

“Maybe a little.”

Fair enough.

Entering the bottom of the 6th I had this to offer instead. I don't know if this was the first time these songs have ever been played back to back, but I hope not. Such wondrousness should not be limited to once in a lifetime.



There were some smiles among my fellow scorer’s table volunteers. A few people began to sing along. Out in centerfield two people began to clap along. And I looked up to notice at least one assistant coach on the field mouthing the words as he headed to his dugout. Victory!

“That oughtta get ‘em moving, huh?” I asked.

The nearby coach nodded, smiling, humming along.

I love music.

My 25 Favorite Songs, Part I

What's your favorite song? Your favorite 5 songs? 10 songs? Impossible to answer, right? Whittling down a lifetime of music listening and appreciation into one tiny little box?

Well, no, not quite impossible. But yes, very difficult. And the only way to do it, as they say, is to do it. That’s what I did.

I thought of those songs that please me the most. Those songs that I’ll stay in the car to listen to until they finish, even though I’m already sitting in the driveway. Those songs that have etched a place in my heart, mind and soul. Those songs that, in their own small ways, play a part in who I am now.

Without further ado, here begins my Top 25 Favorite Songs Ever.

25) “Can’t Help Falling In Love”—Elvis Presley, 1962. My favorite Elvis song, which has to count for something. Plus, it says it all so easily and so sincerely. “Some things are meant to be.”

24) “So. Central Rain”—R.E.M., 1984. This wasn’t their first great song—“Radio Free Europe” was—but it was their finest early attempt to get directly personal. And maybe more important to me, it was the first R.E.M. song I ever heard,  being allowed a quick listen on a friend’s Walkman backstage during a high school musical in 1984. Peter Buck’s guitar lines ring with haunting clarity, and Michael Stipe was only beginning to show was he was capable of doing with his voice. “Go build yourself another home, this choice isn’t mine.”

23) “Mercy Street”—Peter Gabriel, 1986. A stunning, muted tribute to troubled poet Anne Sexton, with images so real you can see Gabriel staring out over the empty streets as he writes. I have always been amazed by how sweetly he sings these lines, at the richness and soulfulness in his voice. “Dreaming of the tenderness, the tremble in the hips, of kissing Mary’s lips.”



22) “Visions of Johanna”—Bob Dylan, 1966. This is high poetry, with which Dylan sets the bar at an impossibly lofty level for himself. I am emotionally invested by the second verse, and I never want it to end as the song keeps building and the images of Johanna’s face and Madonna and nightwatchmen with flashlights and Mona Lisa with the “highway blues” keep flooding in. If William Blake did his stuff to music, it may have sounded like this. “The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face.”



21) “Fat Man in The Bathtub”—Little Feat, 1973. Around every corner of this song I hear something a little different from what I’d previously expected of rock-n-roll. Before being introduced to them in college by pal Tim, I thought they were a Grateful Dead-like jam band.  Which as Scott once said (about something else, not this) is a little like saying the Beatles were a great cover band; accurate but only a tiny fraction of the whole truth. The meshing of so many musical flavors into one glorious tune sucked me in right away. As did the best of Lowell George’s surreal, depraved imagination. “All I want in this life of mine is some good clean fun. All I want in this life and time is some hit and run.”

That's All Right

Funny thing, magic. Impossible to predict where or when it'll strike. It's just there or it's not. There's no way to force it into existence.

Except that's not quite true. As evidence, I submit the first Elvis Presley single.

The story's famous. Elvis, Scotty and Bill were having trouble getting a good take of a different song, so producer Sam Phillips suggest they take a break. Elvis started fooling around, Bill followed and then Scotty, and Sam came running back to ask what they were doing. "We don't know," came the reply. "Well, back up," Sam said, "Try to find a place to start, and do it again."

They did, and "That's All Right" was born.

One spin and you can hear it all. The ease with which these three guys play, the sense of fun and adventure, the overwhelming joy and most of all the unbridled passion—if this isn't the actual birth of rock and roll, it sure feels like it. Listening, you're aware that this is one of those rare moments of spontaneous creation, when pure beauty enters the world out nowhere, simply appearing out of the blue. That is magic.

Only...that's not how it happened. It's unclear how many takes they had to go through to get to the finished version, but it was at least the third and possibly far more. That spontaneity? It's not really there. Or, rather, it is there, but it's the product of hard work combined with natural talent, rather than sheer luck. It's three young guys who'd been playing together night after night for weeks, looking for something new, something that had never been heard before, not outside their own heads at least—searching for their own sound, trying to make what was buried inside them come out just right.

Listen to the first few takes. It's good. It's really good. But it doesn't feel like getting hit by sweet lightning. It's good stuff. But it's not magic.

So they kept at it. And they kept at it. Until they found the magic. Until they were able to create magic.

When someone blessed with that much natural talent and ambition finds like-minded partners and they work and they work and they work until they find that new thing and together they bring it all into existence and it's not only every bit as good as they were hoping it was, it's as good as anything ever...

...that's magic.