If the whole idea of kitsch is crushingly dull in these glamour-sated days, then Elvis kitsch is possibly the dullest subset of all, somewhere behind [B]BBC[/B] sitcoms and [a]Oasis[/a] tribute bands.
IF THE WHOLE IDEA OF KITSCH IS crushingly dull in these glamour-sated days, then Elvis kitsch is possibly the dullest subset of all, somewhere behind BBC sitcoms and [a]Oasis[/a] tribute bands in the league of cutting-edge postmodernity. Only the most culturally sluggish are still picking at the Vegas rhinestones as a source of amusement, and just listening to ‘Gravelands’ is an act of mental subsidence, the will to live and ability to think sinking away as the pointless minutes lumber past.
The concept is this: Belfast Elvis impersonator sings songs by dead people that Elvis never sang. So, through the paltry comedy of juxtaposition, The King treats the world to versions of ‘Come As You Are’, ‘No Woman No Cry’ and ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. If that raises a smile, seek professional help before the long, novelty record run-up to Christmas sends you over the edge of hilarity and into a high-security ward.
Only a sadist with an impressively evil genius could find a valid use for this piece of plastic. Otherwise, it’s just another globule of pop cholesterol silting up music’s arteries.
The King is dead. No, really, he is. Very.