Goldman Aint Nothin But A Hound Dog!

Goldman Aint Nothin But A Hound Dog!

CREEMEDIA

ELVIS

by Albert Goldman (McGraw-Hill)

by Bill Holdship

Albert Goldmans definitive biography of Elvis Presley not only viciously attacks the greatest cultural hero of our century, but it confirms once and for all a suspicion Ive had about Goldman ever since I read his decadent, ohisnt-it-terrible-that-he-was-aperverted-junkie account of Lenny Bruces life several years ago. The man definitely has a few psychological demons of his own.

Its no secret that Elvis was a miserable, paranoid drug addict during his final years, but its hard to believe that he was the utter monstrosity Goldman portrays him to be in this book. If were to believe Goldmans account (and it isnt easy when one considers that 90% of his facts lack any sufficient documentation), the King never did a single good thing in 42 years of existence, while his entire life and career, not to mention the musical form he spawned, was nothing more than a sick joke. Even when Goldman portrays some of Elviss more benevolent moments, such as his habit of giving lavish gifts to friends and complete strangers, it is always attributed to stupidity.

Goldman condemns virtually every aspect of Elviss life. His father, Vernon, was a dullard and a donkey. He had the misfortune of being born a Southerner (read: weird hillbilly), a portion of the American population that apparently inspires Goldman with contemptand disdain. His high school major was shop, the dumbest of all dumb activities in this dumb working class school. The weird clothes Elvis wore as a teenager (which would later revolutionize the adolescent fashions of the 50s) made him look like a homosexual in drag. Gracelands interior resembled a whorehouse, Elviss wedding was comically vulgar, and his wife, Priscilla made a bizarre madonna at the time of their spoiled little daughters birth. Goldman even ridicules Elvis for breaking down hysterically at his mothers funeral (the weakling!), which only serves as a prelude to his description of Elviss own funeral as about right for some cornball country yodeler. Of course, this comes after a gory, detailed account of the Kings autopsy.

Were told that Elviss artistic career was a total fluke or a masterful con job on the part of Colonel Tom Parker, and we learn, after all these years, that Elvis really wasnt that much of a singer. Elviss early musicians (men like Scotty Moore and Chet Atkins) are lumped together as mediocre cornballs, while his initial TV appearance made him look like a little boy desperate to go to the bathroom but too embarrassed to ask the way. Best of all is the insinuation that Elvis stole his singing style from demo records by other vocalists, as well as stealing his sexy Las Vegas act from the virtually unknown Tom Jones. (Oh, yeah, that must be related to the time in the 50s when television would only show Jones from the waist up!)

Most annoying is that Goldman seems to view himself as a psychoanalyst in a league with Sigmund Freud (he informs us, among other things, that Elvis collected guns because he had an unconscious obsession with killing human beings), and this device reaches a nauseating head when he takes on Elviss sex life. We learn that Elvis had a small penis, which he referred to as Little Elvis, and because he was uncircumsized, he saw his beauty disfigured by an ugly hillybilly pecker." We also discover that Elvis was a lifelong masturbator (Oh, God, say it isnt so!), as well as a violent sexual voyeur with a fetish for women wrestling in nothing but white panties. Goldman believes that this perversion stemmed from Elviss unresolved Oedipal complex, as well as a childhood incident in which he saw two little girls tumbling together on the ground with their dresses rising to show their crotches.

Finally, Goldman splices all the details of Elviss sexual history together to come up with the most stunning revelation of all—Elvis Presley was, in fact, a latent or active homosexual. To prove his point, Goldman explains that Elvis was the prototype punk rocker, and the original definition of punk in prison jargon meant a passive homosexual lover. (Boy, is Joe Strummer ever going to be surprised!) Goldman even goes so far as to point out that John Lennon was actually Brian Epsteins punk on a subliminal level.

Of course, one has to question Goldmans credibility on the basis of his many factual errors alone (i.e., Elvis didnt sing Loving You in Jailhouse Rock; The TAMI Show wasnt a TV special produced for the tube, etc.), not to mention his negative, anti-rock views. According to Goldman, Bill Haley was a spit-curled clod, John Lennon was a self parody, James Brown was an African witch doctor.. .straight out of a voodoo hongan (and he has the nerve to label Elvis a racist!), and the entire history of 50s rock can be written off as nothing more than a legion of Elvis imitators. In Goldmans eyes, the world of rock is a result of the devolution of American society that has led to narcissistic, junked-up heroes. On top of all this, I know that Goldmans account of a Presley Vegas show that turned into a complete fiasco when scenes from the Civil War were projected on a screen is a gross fabrication. I know because I was there. It was my 18th birthday —August 6, 1973, and it just didnt happen the way he describes it.

Now, lets face it. Elvis Presley really didnt deserve this book. If he had truly harmed people during his lifetime, then maybe the attack would be justified. But as far as I can see, Elvis brought happiness, joy and a sense of passion to a lot of people. He was a symbol of hope to many, and even if Goldmans portrait was accurate, it still wouldnt take all that away. Goldman understands that when Elvis was bad, he was horrible. What he fails to understand is that when Elvis was good, he was the greatest of them all, and if you don't believe me, just read what everyone from Phil Spector to John Lennon to Bob Dylan to Jim Morrison to David Bowie to Bruce Springsteen had to say about it. On a personal level, I cant begin to explain what Elvis Presley meant to a fat, unhappy little kid growing up in a small Michigan town. All I can say is Im forever grateful, and Im truly sorry that Goldman had the misfortune of missing what an entire generation saw in those swiveling hips and that cocksure sneer.

The real puzzle here is trying to determine why Goldman felt the need to write this piece of trash. For one thing, he seems to take great delight in trashing the myths of countercultural icons. Lenny Bruce and Elvis Presley were both important men who changed the world by their very existence. Goldman, on the other hand, is really an insignificant little man who appears to lack any form of human compassion (Ive seen him on TV). and seems to feel he can unconsciously elevate himself by tearing greater men down. (After all, he knows you cant legally libel a dead person, so whats he got to lose?) Whats more, I sense a sexually demented mind behind much of the writing in this book, and the manner in which Goldman relishes detailing sexual perversion in both this and the Bruce biography reveals him to be a greater voyeur than Elvis ever could have been.

Not only does there seem to be a deep case of homophobia running throughout Elvis, but Goldman also appears to be a bitter misogynist. In one disgusting passage, he describes the wasted Elvis as being propped up like a big fat woman recovering from an operation on her reproductive organs. Elsewhere, he reports this interesting detail: Instead of pissing in a urinal, he (Elvis) would always go in a stall, like a woman. And my very favorite analogy (remember these are Goldmans words, not Elviss)—Elvis winced at the word 'disco, as if Guercio (his conductor) had said 'tampon. Somehow I fail to make the connection. Yeah, Id say this man has some serious sexual hang-ups, but then its really not fair to psychoanalyze someone Ive never met, now is it?

In the course of his book, Albert Goldman not only insults millions of Elvis fans and attacks a dead man, he insults most people in general. He must be a very unhappy individual, and 1 offer him my most heartfelt sympathy. Still, I just cant help feeling that Goldman is the type of person Id really like to kick where it hurts someday. Yep, you got it! Right in his Little Albert!

Cry Of Love

SCUSE ME WHILE I KISS THE SKY: THE LIFE OF JIMI HENDRIX by David Henderson (Bantam)

Jimi Hendrix will undoubtedly be remembered as one of the 20th centurys greatest guitarists, but it was that very dedication to his craft and his unparalleled talent which made him one of rocks most exploited artists, in life and after death. While several of Hendrixs creative colleagues—among them Brian Jones, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison—died in ways which were just as sensationalized as Jimis untimely end, only the Hendrix name has been compromised by scads of doctored posthumous releases. According to David Henderson, who documents the way each Hendrix album was recorded, such cavalier treatment of a man who was a perfectionist about his releases is typical of the manner in which Hendrix was both over and under-protected during his 27 years on this planet.

Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky is a newly revised version of author/poet/musician Hendersons original 1978 biography. Although the book contains a great deal of musical and instrumental technology that may puzzle a non-performing reader, his story is extremely readable, displays a vast amount of investigation and is ultimately very moving. Henderson repeatedly stresses Hendrixs isolation from casual friendships, his feeling of otherness which lasted from childhood until the day he died. But through rap language, song lyrics, interviews and plenty of cold, hard facts, the author comes as close as one can expect to recreating Jimis presence for an audience who still feel a need to know and understand.

Rather than settle for a dry chronology, Henderson personalized Jimi Hendrix by interviewing literally hundreds of people who knew, lived and worked with him. Jimi Hendrix was a black American whose initial outrageous success came from white English young people. Hendrixs flamboyance earned him press epithets like Wild Man Of Rock, yet when he attempted to incorporate racial consciousness into his music or became friendly with Black Panthers, his unnerved management cajoled him into fitting their show-biz expectations. The fact that David Henderson is black might have opened certain doors to him among Hendrixs family, and the players Jimi first worked with on the U.S. R&B circuit. Whatever the source of his access, Henderson has advantageously used his information to discuss Jimi Hendrix as an obsessive musician and an isolated human being, and stayed away from glamorizing the freak legends.

Scuse Me While I Kiss The Skj) probably wont be another pop star bestseller, like the recent biographies of Springsteen and Morrison. Henderson isnt playing true confessions or pushing a buddy book. Hes a serious man and a serious writer who admired Hendrixs musical gifts and attempted to get to the root of Hendrixs personal problems as a man who was molded to fit other peoples image, leaving no time to establish his own.

Toby Goldstein

The 99c Romance

DREAM WEAVER by Jane Rochester (Valueback)

1 was waiting, as usual, in the remedial check-out lane around the corner from the non-toxic section at my local supermarket when this oversized valentine caught my eye. It appeared to be an entire romantic novel in the slashnpaste tabloid style weve all grown accustomed to. Big color pictures, little red hearts, mucky angelwipe and even advertisements, all for only 99t.

This 70-page tearsucker turns out to be the second in a hopeful series from Rhapsody Romances. It mustve been a major production, judging from the tons of credits within. Set Designers, Graphics and Location Consultants, Vice-Presidents of marketing and, best of all, Fashions by J.C. Penney! Why did we already know that?

The story concerns Halley Beaumont (daughter of Hugh?) a fashion weaver, new chump in town and the only girl named for a shooting star, Id estimate her slurpy count at 94.612. The kind of gull Id like to hold in my arms and listen to her croon, 1 love you, Ranger dearest all night long.

Shes lurking around the museum one afternoon, looking for ideas to rip off, when she spots a potential Mr. Right, male model Gabriel. If he was on Ed Sullivan, they would only show him from the kneecaps down.

Stupid comet-face decides to follow him around the museum. Hey dumbshit— remember what happened to Angie Dickinson? At any rate, they get to chat and he invites her to a soiree to be attended by the big cheeses of fashiondom. I bet she goes!

Sure enough, at the party she meets Isabella, The Ruler Of High Fashion. Take it, Jane: Gabriel and Isabella talked about Halley as if she were a store mannequin, but their manner was impersonal. They did not mean to insult her. Oh sure, just because they say our heroine has the charm of a shoe caddy and the intelligence of a butane curling wand its no big deal, right?

A couple of martoonies later, Gabe and Halley sneak off to fool around on the staircase. They assume the popular migrating waterfowl position, which goes great until Gabe calls out, Thats not me, thats the bannister!

Time out for a full-page blurb from Zsa Zsa Gabor. I used Zsa Zsas Beauty Cream Z-II religiously. It actually removes those fine lines and wrinkles that crop up after youre28. Yeah, right, the dreaded age 28 skin collapse. What kind of a name is Zsa Zsa anyway?

Play ball! Uh-oh, smooth-talking" photog Ty has her pinned between the warp and the woof of her loom! Theyre entering the last lap of the Powder Puff Deviant Sexual Acts Derby when Ty cries out, Thats not me, thats your loom shuttle! The smooth talker limps off disgustedly, looking for another garage.

Bla bla bla, bla bla bla. The final scene finds H. and G. getting into some heavy numnum on her bed. Let me make it clear, groans Gabe, that l am offering once more to relieve you of the heavy burden of virginity before the wedding. What a sweet guy!

But no dice. I think, Gabe, that I will be perverse and wait until after the ceremony. Perverse, nothin! 1 bet she makes it with drive-in movie speakers when nobodys around.

So much for the happy ending. Theres one thing Halley said that stuck with me. Right after the aborted loom attempt, she thinks to herself in real big letters, I don't feel competent to pass judgement on anyone who acted from desperation.

Great! Then shell understand this review!

Rick Johnson

Mad Mag Bag From Mod Squad Pod

TALES MUTATED FOR THE MOD

(Kitchen Sink Comix)

If youre one of those wacky miscreants like myself who—after years of deprogramming at the family dinner table—absolutely must have something to read when you eat, youre already familiar with the difficulties of selecting the correct reading material. While variety is an important consideration, it really depends on the food. Rolling Stone for beans and weiners. Playboy for dairy products. Cosmo for kumquats. And naturally, CREEM for poisoned sturgeon.

Tales Mutated For The Mod will suit any diet except for those endorsed by Richard Simmons. From the front cover—a takeoff on the first issue of Mad where their old motto, humor in a jugular vein becomes humanoids in the jungle, eh?—to the funky cattle mutilations of J.R. Bob Dobbs in the back, Mod is a true double agent of digestion.

The best strip is Horror At B-Movie Beach, a sand-in-the-trunks takeoff on Dr. Goldfoot And The Bikini Machine. Villain Vincent Price builds a time machine to suck back to his time a disgusting punk rock band from the disgusting future (which we call now). Is it Alessi? Bo Grumpus? Osibisa? Nope, its Mucous Blood Dangle and his Crushed Uncles, who recently signed with a subsidiary of A&M.

Unexpectedly, the surfers and bikers like the music, which doesnt seem to bother Vincent any more than it does the contemporary program directors who refuse to play it. Much fun and starfish later, they all join in on the theme song, in which the title is rhymed with you can dance even if youre a leech. Take that, Donald Fagen!

Another fun story is Giant Robots On Parade, where Joe Garagiola and Bess Myerson are the television announcers for a Thanksgiving-like parade. As the Japanese entry destroys skyscrapers, incinerates onlookers and stomps on every American car in sight, Bess calmly reports, There goes the first building...and I have a feeling it wont be the last!

In four reprints from his syndicated world, Zippy the pinhead shares some more of his pithy insights: You cant hypnotize a chiropractor in Salt Lake City. At the office, Xerox your lunch and file it under Sex Offenders. And, most importantly, World War III can be averted by adherence to a strictly enforced dress code.

The rest of the comic is filled out with a running cartoon of zombies in Limbo arguing about Certs, a true-fax-only salute to Lene Lovich and the usual stupid tales like Bad Reception, which is very much like the times when audio from the Christian Channel here in soy central bleeds over to the movie channel. You get stuff like Jerry Falwells tin-fear voice coming from Claudia Jennings near-orgasmic lips. Jerry, you dog! We never knew 4 was supposed to be the oral majority!

Wrapping up TMFTM is an inspired Rosicrucians-style ad for the SubGenius Foundation. It tells you all about secret mental techniques such as acubeating, slack-abuse, pyroflatulation and glandscaping, then urges the reader to apply his own aura-like psi-stench toward the ultimate Nirvana, appliance-healing.

If not available at your local pest-control outlet or poodle-grooming academy, try the publisher at 2 Swamp Rd., Princeton, WI54968. Tell em you saw it here and maybe theyll advertise some of their other crappy merchandise in CREEM.

Rick Johnson