Aloha at 42

Aloha From Hawaii, televised live via satellite 42 years ago today, remains one of Elvis Presley’s most iconic moments and is a perennial fan favorite.  Just after midnight on January 14, 1973, Elvis took the stage in the Honolulu International Center Arena, before a live audience of about 6,000 fans and gave them, more or less, the standard show he had been doing on tour and in Las Vegas for the past year.  The King drifted effortlessly from rockers to ballads and looked terrific in his blazing white jump suit.  Although he did his best to interact with fans and keep things as informal as possible, it was obvious that he was performing with a one-hour television time limit in mind.

The following excerpt from Channeling Elvis: How Television Saved the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll describes how different that concert looked to television viewers around the world, both those who saw it televised live in the Far East and those who saw it on a delayed basis days or months afterward around the world.  The concert witnessed by those in the arena and the production aired on television made for very different experiences. 

“Unfortunately, Far East television viewers saw something quite different from the live performance that audience members witnessed in the Honolulu International Center Arena, as would television audiences viewing the special on a delayed basis elsewhere, particularly in the United States. Instead, they would see Marty Pasetta’s TV-eye’s-view of Elvis’ performance, and that was quite a different thing. The result would show that a live concert and a television special were not always compatible.

“Throughout the televised broadcast, Pasetta moves the camera around most of the time, using numerous dissolves, overlaps, and very rapid cuts from one view to another, making full use of his six cameras, including one hand-held camera at stage side that offers sometimes clumsy views looking up at Elvis. Most noticeable are the many split-screen shots that he uses, which divide the screen into four individual panels, each showing a different shot of the concert from different angles. These include both close-ups and medium shots of Elvis and his band, long shots from the audience, and longer ones that take in the entire stage and show off the flashing ‘Elvis’ signs and the silhouette figure, and shots of the audience itself. The split-screen views are somewhat trendy, but they often undermine Elvis’ performance, distracting viewers’ attention away from him and the energy he brings to his music, and disrupting the concert’s momentum. Pasetta seems to be trying to create action, or ‘excitement,’ as he put it, with camera moves and flashy visuals, but they are no substitute for the excitement that Elvis provides his fans simply by performing. There is a clear disconnect between that perspective and Pasetta’s television sensibilities.

“The U.S. telecast the following April 4 suffers even more detrimental tampering. Despite some minor editing, it retains most of the distracting rapid cuts between camera shots, flashing lights, and eerie images on the Mylar mirrors, but those problems are minor compared to the major editing job that was done in order to fill the expanded 90-minute time slot for NBC-TV. This was achieved by splicing in four of the five after-concert ‘filler’ numbers that a stationary Elvis, clearly low on energy, recorded in the wee hours following the live concert. They bog down the telecast and suck what life there is out of it. Not only is Elvis shot in perfectly stationary positions, the very thing Marty Pasetta said he wanted to avoid, but these numbers are all done as multi-panel split-screen shots in which Elvis shares the screen with images of the Hawaiian countryside and other outdoor footage that Pasetta shot before Elvis arrived in Hawaii. In most of these scenes, Elvis appears in the smallest panels, and sometimes not at all, further drawing attention away from him. Most damaging, these flat numbers interrupt the flow and momentum of the show. Six commercial interruptions exacerbate that damage to the point where the U.S. version of the TV special loses its identity as a televised concert that should focus on Elvis’ performance. It is neither that, nor anything nearly as appealing as the 1968 special, which creatively combined clearly delineated musical production numbers and live performance segments, all centered on Elvis. The segments were skillfully edited to accommodate commercial interruptions without disturbing the flow of the show. That was simply not possible with Aloha, which clumsily, and unsuccessfully tried to break the concert into similar segments around commercial breaks.

“For once, TV had undermined Elvis instead of helping him, as it almost always had done before. The way the concert appeared on TV was disappointing and lost most of the energy, excitement, and fun of the actual live concert that the Honolulu audience had witnessed.”

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Allen J. Wiener's books can be found on Amazon.com at this link:

http://tinyurl.com/po638bd

Twofer

Be careful what you wish for, especially if you are tempted to take on two book projects at once. Still, it can be done. Retirement and a lifelong interest in the Alamo got me started on the “fun” project of collecting all the music that had been written about the famous battle and publishing what I found. Countless trips to the Library of Congress and various websites gleaned piles of sheet music, fragile 78 RPM records, and tons of downloaded music. Soon, I joined forces with Bill Chemerka, a fellow “Alamo sufferer,” who had been doing similar work and we embarked on a two year quest for Alamo music -- and a publisher.

We scoured the Alamo’s Library in San Antonio and met friends who shared our Alamo addiction. While chatting over beers one night, Jim Boylston casually mentioned that he’d been collecting David (“Davy”) Crockett’s letters and asked if I’d like to join that search. It may have been the beer, but I readily accepted, as if I had nothing but time on my hands, and suddenly found myself working on two books at once. What was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn’t.

The pace quickened when we signed with Bright Sky Press to publish Music of the Alamo and we were suddenly under a deadline. Days were filled with completing research, drafting chapters, and periodically being yanked over to the Crockett project. Since I was spending my days at the Library of Congress anyway, what better time to begin looking for all of those Crockett letters? As the music project wound down, the Crockett book grew far beyond our original concept.

Jim and I had been reading about Crockett since we were kids and we pored over every book ever published on the Tennessean. As we read and transcribed Crockett’s letters we became increasingly aware that the conventional wisdom about the frontiersman was completely wrong. Instead of a clueless bumpkin, we found a dedicated public servant, determined to give his poor constituents a voice in government. As our thinking evolved, our book grew into a new political biography based largely on Crockett’s own words and Bright Sky Press agreed to publish David Crockett in Congress: The Rise and Fall of the Poor Man's Friend.  At least I would have the benefit of dealing with only one publisher!

Still, much remained to be done on Music of the Alamo and I shifted between the two projects, perpetually bringing myself back up to speed on each. This literary schizophrenia finally came to a merciful end when Music of the Alamo went to press and, at long last, I had only one book to work on.

Finally, the day came when David Crockett in Congress also went to press and I could, at last, stand down. All that remained was the hectic promotional schedule for both books, which was mercifully staggered since the books were released nine months apart. Nonetheless, I found myself at the Texas Book Festival in Austin, Texas, in 2009 giving presentations for, and signing copies of, both books.

Writing two books at once was a real test. I’m glad that I did it, and even happier that I survived to see both books published to excellent reviews. But, believe me when I say “don’t try this at home!”

Reprinted from Helen Ginger’s Straight From Hel website, March 19, 2011

http://straightfromhel.blogspot.com/search?q=allen+

Allen J. Wiener's books can be found on Amazon.com at this link:  http://tinyurl.com/po638bd

Elvis at 80

In marking Elvis Presley’s 80^th birthday today my thoughts drifted back to the initial spark that he ignited in a small Memphis recording studio sixty years ago, which jump-started his career and also kindled the rock ‘n’ roll revolution.  In the first week of July, 1954, Elvis, Scotty Moore, and Bill Black assembled for the first time in Sam Phillips’ small Sun Records studio.  Their goal was to cut at least a couple of decent tracks for the combo’s first single.  It was a truly magical moment, the likes of which may never be seen again.  I tried to capture it in words seventeen years ago and I offer an excerpt from that effort today as my birthday card and thank-you note to the King.

“From the date of his first recording session at Sam Phillips' Sun studio, Elvis rapidly evolved from a somewhat unsure balladeer to a music dynamo who changed popular music more than any individual performer ever had, or ever would again.  It is fortunate that many of his earliest recordings have survived, for through them his meteoric rise can be witnessed again and again.  But for that to happen, listeners must mentally place themselves in the mainstream pop music world that existed in 1954 America.  Only then can the revolutionary nature of what happened at Sun Records be appreciated.  Seemingly mild by today's rock standards, most of these recordings still sound fresh and exciting, although some listeners may consider them mere curiosities from a seemingly quaint period, before anyone had even imagined heavy metal, synthesizers, samples, or outdoor stadium rock shows.  Placed in the context of their time, however, they are anything but quaint or unexciting. 

“It is interesting that, up until he spontaneously burst into ‘That's All Right', Elvis had seemed determined to confine his public and recorded efforts strictly to ballads, and may well have regarded himself as primarily a crooner.  His most prominent idol was Dean Martin, who sang in a relaxed, carefree style that Elvis admired and emulated.  He adopted Martin's sliding vocal swoops, and his demo of ‘My Happiness’ might even be viewed as an early, poor imitation of Martin.

"‘That's All Right’ was spontaneous, not planned, beginning during a break from recording.  Elvis knew Arthur ‘Big Boy’ Crudup's original recording well, and in fact changed it very little, retaining the same tempo, even including the ‘Dee, dee, dee-dee’ chorus, but altering a few lyrics and investing it with a touch of country flavor.  But once Sam Phillips heard it and encouraged the group to keep moving in that direction, Elvis and the others rapidly shed whatever inhibitions they may have had.  There is even a noticeable increase in the free-spirited nature of Elvis' performance when the final version of the song is compared to a surviving earlier take. 

“Again, it may be hard to believe or understand the risk associated with doing such music at that time, but it was very clear to Elvis, Scotty, Bill, and Sam.  Moore later recollected that his initial reaction upon hearing the recording was, ‘Well, that's fine, but good God, they'll run us out of town!’  Elvis may have entered the studio convinced that he wasn't supposed to sing that way, with genuine inner feelings rather than the contrived style that went into contemporary popular ballads, and which went down well with mid-1950s middle America.  Left to his own instincts, however, it burst from him spontaneously, which was the sort of thing that Sam Phillips had been hoping for, and which he quickly encouraged.

“‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’ was even more revisionist and revolutionary.  An early take shows a startling leap in development from Bill Monroe's original bluegrass waltz to a faster, livelier country shuffle, sufficiently new to prompt a gratified Sam Phillips to exclaim, ‘Hell, that's fine.  That's different.  That's a pop song now, nearly about.’  How much more revealing to then hear the final version, which takes the song far beyond that level into an up-tempo arrangement that neither Bill Monroe, nor anyone else, could have foreseen.  Punctuated by the percussive effect of Bill Black's slap bass, and paced by Elvis' urgent vocal, matched by Scotty Moore's guitar, this was truly something new, and its freshness is still there today.

“In these relatively few hours at Sun Records, something monumental and irreversible had happened to popular music, and forever altered it.  Within a few years, the artists and styles that dominated the pop charts would be replaced almost entirely and forever by rock and roll music.  The sounds that emanated from Sam Phillips' tiny studio would resonate across the Atlantic too, where they transfixed four Liverpool youngsters, who would rescue and reinvent the music in their own image a decade later. 

“Whether or not this really was the rock and roll genesis, Elvis would soon come to personify rock and roll on a national and international level, having made it acceptable to a broad audience, despite considerable public outcry against him.  Elvis combined his broad musical influences into a new style and gave it his own unique vocal brand.  His was a mature, masculine, suggestive, often threatening voice, not the thin tenor of other, safer "teen idols" of the 1950s, such as Eddie Fisher.   Before Elvis, there may not have been ‘nothing,’ as John Lennon once suggested, but there was certainly nothing like this.”

Excerpted from “Elvis and the Rock & Roll Genesis” by Allen J. Wiener; Discoveries (July 1997).

Channeling Elvis: How Television Saved the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll by Allen J. Wiener is available in paperback and Kindle e-book editions from:

Amazon.com in the U.S. at this link:  http://tinyurl.com/mhyaouz; 
In U.K. (paperback): http://tinyurl.com/kyolbnm; (Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/qdbk9cb

Elvis Presley's Lost Film Career

                                                     With Dolores Hart in King Creole

Elvis Presley’s film career has long been on the receiving end of many jokes and much derision.  Just how bad were those films?  In an interview recorded in 1972, Elvis said that not all of them were bad, though he did think that most of them probably were. 

While struggling to develop a recording career in the early 1950s, Elvis harbored a longer-term ambition to star on the silver screen.  The underpinnings of his ceaseless loyalty to his manager, Colonel Tom Parker, may be difficult to understand, but they include the Colonel delivering on his promise to take Elvis to Hollywood. 

Elvis’ film career began with promise and his acting skills and comfort before the cameras grew in the early years.  While Love Me Tender marked a tentative beginning in 1956, and Elvis was far from a polished actor in the film, he showed genuine potential and clear intent to be taken seriously as an actor.  His 1950s follow-up efforts showed improvement and offered him decent scripts, challenging roles, and solid supporting players.  Although Elvis didn’t want to do musicals, it seemed inevitable that he would sing on screen.  He was unhappy with the songs in Love Me Tender, considered them “silly,” and the musical numbers still look jarringly out of place in a film set in the Civil War.  But things improved in his next three films: Loving You, Jailhouse Rock, and King Creole, which included some classic numbers written by the legendary Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, as well as iconic musical moments, such as Elvis singing “(Let Me Be) Your Teddy Bear” in Loving You and the “Jailhouse Rock” production number.  The films also included the occasional rock classic, like “Mean Woman Blues,” also from Loving You.

Those early films were strengthened by strong supporting players, including Richard Egan, Debra Paget, Mildred Dunnock (who had starred in Death of a Salesman), Lizabeth Scott, Wendell Corey, Carolyn Jones, Walter Matthau, Vic Morrow, Paul Stewart, Dean Jagger and at least one legendary film director, Michael Curtiz, who helmed King Creole.  Curtiz's CV included Casablanca, Mildred Pierce, White Christmas, and Yankee Doodle Dandy, and five Oscar nominations for Best Director, including a win for Casablanca.

                                                     On the set of Jailhouse Rock

Elvis was poised to resume his film career when he returned from army service in 1960 and shot Flaming Star, which co-starred Barbara Eden, Dolores del Rio, Steve Forrest, and John McIntire.  The western featured only one musical number, “A Cane and a High Starched Collar,” and the title song, thus allowing Elvis to focus on his acting, which still showed promise.  Wild in the Country also focused more on story and acting than on musical numbers and co-starred Hope Lange, Tuesday Weld, and Millie Perkins.  The film featured more than one forgettable, contrived musical number that seemed out of place and disrupted the action, which was already hampered by a less-than-credible story.  Elvis’ acting also was panned by some critics who felt he had reached beyond his thespian capabilities, but the film did offer him a more challenging role than he was to receive again.

Flaming Star

For better or worse, these more serious celluloid efforts were weak box office performers compared to the far lighter musical comedies that became Elvis’ Hollywood staple and cash cow.  Both G.I. Blues and Blue Hawaii were smash hits, earning vastly greater revenues that the non-musicals and they became the mold for Presley films thereafter, which were increasingly cheap to make, unimaginative, weaker musically, and featured Elvis in nearly interchangeable lightweight roles. Still, some of the later movies were not bad at all, including Roustabout, which featured co-stars Barbara Stanwick and Leif Ericson.  The issue was not so much how bad most of the scripts and songs ultimately became, but how rapidly any trace of serious roles that might challenge Elvis vanished.

The decline in Elvis' films corresponded with the stagnation of his recording career.  Colonel Parker saw maximum profits in confining Elvis to the ever-weaker songs written for his movies, rather than investing in quality studio recording sessions unrelated to the films.  Upon his return from the army Elvis cut Elvis Is Back, a quality studio album that found him in fine voice.  However, that voice was increasingly squandered on mostly lame movie songs.  Elvis would not engage in another serious studio effort for nearly a decade.

Although Elvis was clearly unhappy with the direction of his Hollywood career, the Colonel easily persuaded him that this was the way to make money, which was all that really mattered to Parker.  As usual, Elvis went along and only expressed his frustration to those closest to him.  In that 1972 interview, Elvis admitted to routinely signing four-year movie contracts with no provision for script approval.  Thus, the studios might have cast Elvis as a singing monkey and, technically, he would have been obliged to do it.  Although film studios were unlikely to enjoy seeing one of their top money-makers look foolish, it is mind-boggling that a star of Elvis' magnitude would sign such ludicrous contracts and, worse, his manager's inability to see any problem with them. 

The Rev. Mother Dolores Hart, who appeared as Dolores Hart in two of Elvis’ earliest films, Loving You and King Creole, was aware of what was happening to Elvis in Hollywood.   In this clip, she reflects on the career Elvis dreamed of and wanted so badly, but lost: http://tinyurl.com/ln7ryf8.

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Channeling Elvis: How Television Saved the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll by Allen J. Wiener is available in paperback and Kindle e-book editions from Amazon.com in the U.S. at this link:  http://tinyurl.com/mhyaouz; and in the U.K. (paperback): http://tinyurl.com/kyolbnm; (Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/qdbk9cb

Music: The Stuff of Life

People are most moved by music that reaches deep inside them and evokes feelings and passions that they may not be able to express as powerfully as music can.  Not that all music has to be deeply meaningful or carry a powerful message.  Indeed, rock ‘n’ roll was built on a lot of up-tempo, danceable songs that had little to say, but made people feel good.  But, even some of rock’s earliest stars were able to deliver passionate, moving ballads that captured the emotions of teenagers and, perhaps, a few older folks as well.  Folk singers can move audiences with songs that come directly from their own passions, often reflecting deep commitment to social or political causes.  Religious music reaches listeners on a spiritual level.  County & western songs often involve listeners by relating the triumphs and tragedies of everyday life, and blues are called “the blues” for good reason.

I was reminded of how powerfully music can affect people while viewing the documentary film Alive Inside, an Audience Award winner at the 2014 Sundance Film Festival.  The film explores the human mind’s deep attachment and responsiveness to music and its healing power.  Filmmaker Michael Rossato-Bennett followed Dan Cohen, a social worker, on his visits to Alzheimer’s and dementia patients, many of whom were completely uncommunicative, even with their closest relations, hostile, or nearly comatose. Cohen saw how frustrated and saddened their loved ones were at the inability to communicate with a parent or spouse suffering from these diseases.  He hit upon the idea of playing music for these patients.  He talked to them, or their families, about the kind of music they liked or enjoyed in earlier years and then created individual playlists on iPods tailored for each patient.  The results were astonishing.  People who rarely even opened their eyes suddenly bolted up and began moving to the music or singing along with it.  One psychologist explained that victims of these diseases often withdraw within themselves out of frustration at not being able to communicate or interact with others.  Cohen’s music drew them out of their long inward retreat back into the world around them.  They didn’t only respond to the music, but also began talking, answering questions, becoming part of their families again. 

Cohen and medical professionals suggest that our health system is ill-equipped to deal with patients in this way and is locked into more traditional treatments, which cannot achieve such results.  Only by thinking outside the box was Cohen able to reach these patients.  He won followers within the medical profession as well, but his biggest fans are the people he helped and their grateful families.  Alive Inside provides astonishing evidence of how humans are wired to music in ways that we don’t fully understand.  It also helps explain why performers who sing with real passion draw us in and reach us on an emotional level, forming a connection that appears to last long after we have heard the music. 

Alive Inside is available on Netflix and you can view the trailer here: http://tinyurl.com/l5o6gs2. 

You may also want to visit the film’s website: http://www.aliveinside.us/#land. 

David Cohen’s work led the founding of Music and Memory, a non-profit organization that brings personalized music into the lives of the elderly or infirm.  The organization trains care providers and families to create iPod playlists for their loved ones who suffer from Alzheimer’s, dementia and related conditions so they may again connect with the world around them through music. 

To learn more about Music and Memory, or to make a donation to the organization, visit their website:  https://musicandmemory.org/about/mission-and-vision/