Totes Rando

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This weekend I happened to be in Memphis, and stopped by Graceland.

If you’re anything like me, you approach an activity like this with the wry shit-eating smile of someone who’s about to ironically enjoy other people’s enjoyment of something ridiculous. I can get really into this, and was even looking forward to having conversations about how amazing Elvis was; perhaps with some lady who I imagined would be wearing a sequined American flag t-shirt. Or maybe I would raise my hand and ask the tour guide a question like: “Would you say Elvis was the greatest performer to ever live?” and then nod seriously while she answered.

But something strange happened to me in Graceland. Something I don’t understand and am still grappling with. I will describe the experience, and maybe you can better help me come to grips…
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When talking about the greatest philosophers of all time, a few names come easily to mind: Socrates, Plato, Dostoevsky, Kant. But I would like to point out one great thinker who is constantly overlooked; a man who, through the magic of pulse-pounded soft rock, consistently confronts the existential crises of modern man. I think you know who I’m talking about, but I’ll introduce him anyway… this man, this savant, this beautiful mind, is Michael Bolton.

Michael Bolton wants to rape your children

Here, I will attempt to deconstruct Bolton’s idea of “being” as he defines it in one of his most influential musical essays, “How Can We Be Lovers.” Bolton begins his thesis with four of the most controversial and widely broached questions in he history of philosophy:

“How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?
How can we start over when the fighting never ends?
Baby, how can we make love if we can’t make amends?
How can we be lovers if we can’t be, can’t be friends?”

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When I was growing up, I always thought Mick Jagger (and thus also the Rolling Stones) and David Bowie were weird, cheesy, and sorta gay. David Bowie did all that sexually androgynous looking stuff (and Labyrinth), and I just didn’t get his song and voice style, or should I say wasn’t really exposed it. Mick Jagger on the other hand had less reason to make the young me not like him. I think unconsciously I accepted the awesome Stones jams I heard on Oldies 103 without putting a band name to it really. But then something happened that tattooed the brand name of the Rolling Stones on my mind forever. 7th grade: My middle school had a lip sync contest and this fat annoying looking girl did “You Start Me Up”, prancing around the stage like a jackass, wearing a Stones T-shirt with the lips and tongue logo. From then on, every time I saw Mick Jagger singing and doing his dance moves all I could think was, “I hate these guys”.

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One might describe the performance on Thursday night as “simply genius.” A show this extravagant will often be misinterpreted or misunderstood, but there was something visceral about what was witnessed that night. The rhythm and effortless manner in which every aspect was performed should be renowned by all, present or not. For those who were foolish enough to be absent, please accept this humble ATTEMPT at using words to describe what was missed:

I walked through the doors at approximately 9:00pm, about half an hour before the band was scheduled to take the stage. The rush of warm air and scent of beer invigorated my dormant appetite for an evening of music and laughter. Following behind me was my trophy girlfriend and her cousin, who was visiting from out of town and would later serve as jester to my King’s court. The waitresses and barkeep seemed to acknowledge my presence immediately - perhaps a “servant instinct” could explain how they knew to bring me a Guinness without me saying a word. And for some unexplained reason every man I walked by raised his open palm for me to slap five as I passed.
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