Interestingly, I wrote this same song back in the late 1960’s right after the Beatles released Let It Be. I figured this number was a perfect fit for them. I wasn’t too keen on their “Letter B, Letter B” song or whatever. Figured they needed something with a bit more pizzazz, so I mailed it to Mr. Sargent Pepper at Abbey Road Studios and waited for their response.
I heard through the grapevine that Paul and George went crazy for it. Sadly, John rejected the song for being too lighthearted. Completely broke up the band, it did.
Elvis was looking forward to his next gig. Things were looking up for him. He marched onto the stage with confidence. However, after the spotlight came on, he realized that he forgot all of his songs. Suddenly, Elvis was nervous and fearful. In the heat of the moment and without any songs to sing, he just decided to do whatever. The King danced like a maniac and buffed the floor with his shoes. He smacked his guitar over and over, only sometimes producing an actual tone. Finally, he threw in some hollers here and there for good measure. It was the silliest show in his entire career.
And the crowd goes wild.
Coincidentally, Metal In Inappropriate Places Is The Name Of My Wham! Tribute Band
I’m unsure if there’s an appropriate place for metal after you’ve been kicked out of mom’s basement. There’s a 0 percent chance of you actually playing in front of real people, or girls for that matter, so you have no shot at finding a venue. If you were able to play music for girls you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place, because metal would be the last thing on your mind. You’d have a warm couch to sleep on at the very least. And it’s not that you couldn’t find a venue if you really wanted to. I’ve just noticed the majority of metal heads tend to have absolutely terrible stage fright, life fright, and general fright. All the posturing in the world won’t make up for the moment when you step onstage, stare into the audience, and projectile poop yourself into another dimension.
Then again, wearing a sturdy diaper can usually counteract any on-stage defecation issues — unless that’s part of your act. In which case, poop everywhere and see where that gets you. At least you’ll be known as that guy who ripped off his pants and dumped all over the stage instead of that guy who plays a guitar that sounds like a chainsaw that needs a tuneup.
I know many musicians sell their soul to the Devil in exchange for fame and fortune, but this guy really takes it to the next level. He doesn’t appear to want fame, fortune, or anything else worth having for that matter. He evidently doesn’t want good looks, and he certainly didn’t wish for less body hair, so what does he want? I’d ask Satan to weigh in on the question, but he no longer answers my calls. His secretary puts me on hold, and I have to listen to Highway To Hell on a loop until I give up and douse my phone in holy water to get it to stop.
If I had to guess, I suspect this fellow is trying to melt faces with his blistering speed, like the last scene in Raiders of The Lost Ark, only with fewer Nazis and more potted plants.