ANOTHER ELVIS PRESLEY WEEKEND
Yesterday marked the 50th (oh god!) anniversary of the release of Heartbreak Hotel, which was, I guess, above all, the single piece of music that most changed my life, set me on the road to perdition and made me what I am today. The lyric was no poetry, but had a cinematic connection that was right on the neuron. I got the picture. A detailed Edward Hopper, with dirty windows, torn fly-blown blinds, and corroded iron fire escapes. I knew the neon sign had one letter burned out or slowly flashing. It set in motion a lifelong investigation of the skid-row, red light districts in multiple dimensions and other galaxies, all with the same monstrous reverb. Some fools didn’t like the reverb. Some still don’t. They took it off on one of the recent remixes. They complained it swamped the record. Bullshit. Down with the sub-verbal, it’s all about the echo. The echo made it clear all Heartbreak Hotel was The Word. An encyclical from the deepest coyote vaults of Hillybilly Hell, where misery was delivered by Hank Williams in a long black Cadillac, Peggy Sue had a pistol in her mouth, and Jerry Lee Lewis was waiting at the end of the road. Heartbreak Hotel was the electric portal to the rock-goth section of the fun park where Robert Johnson already waited at the crossroads, and that would become populated by everyone from Screaming Jay Hawkins to Rocky Erikson .