Not one of the 12 songs on this album – assembled from various disparate sessions, some from Sun and some not – reaches the 3 minute mark, and quite a few clock in under 2. Yes, yes, I know… he didn’t write his own songs. He borrowed 90 percent of his swagger from Black musicians who never got their due. He didn't invent anything. I know. We all know. But that doesn't change the fact that his once-in-a-lifetime voice – so limber, so supple, so inexplicably soulful – was coming out of that once-in-a-lifetime face – almost Luciferian in its lush, ambi-sexual appeal. There is only the slightest foreshadowing of the Las Vegas Golgotha to come on these early cuts - hindsight about the mythopoeic circumstances surrounding the King's birth having forever scarred all who've heard The Bad Seeds' perfect, unforgettable song Tupelo. For the most part, though, this album is just pure, balls-to-the-wall American rock-and-roll. Now, with over half a century having passed since it's release, you can almost understand what the old folks were so worried about.
Had I heard it before? Duh.
Did I like it before? Yes.
Do I like it now? Yes.
Am I keeping it? Yes.
Standout Tracks? I Got a Woman, Tutti Frutti, Blue Moon, Money Honey.
Do I like it now? Yes.
Am I keeping it? Yes.
Standout Tracks? I Got a Woman, Tutti Frutti, Blue Moon, Money Honey.
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