AUSTRALIAN PINK FLOYD

Ah, the weekend! The traditional respite from claustrophobic cubicles, maddening traffic, and office politics. The welcome mini-vacation from breaking rocks in the hot sun and digging frozen earth in the cold rain. The forty-eight hour breather from stifling supervisors and in-shop gossip. At least that’s what the weekend used to mean, when many of us still had jobs. But, for the unemployed (you out there) and the unemployable (me in here) the weekend is just another two days, another two dollars in the hole. But we are a resilient bunch, we hominids. We have opposable thumbs and resistible spouses and an indispensible sense of humor. I can’t do anything about the first two, but by God I’m going to take a stab at the third. So here’s some stuff for you chuckle through that might give you seventy seconds or so of relief from the big bad world.

AND NOW, AUSTRALIAN PINK FLOYD . . . . . .

It all started with the Elvis impersonators. Fat guys, skinny guys, old guys, even women plopping black wigs on their melons, gluing mutton-chop sideburns to their cheeks and stuffing themselves into sequined jump suits while doing a “drunk Uncle Charley at-the-dinner-table” impression of the God of Graceland. Oddly, the Elvis "thing" started while the man was still alive. I believe it was because he'd gotton so fat, so bloated, so bleary eyed. Remember? We were all shocked and the backlash was to present for ourselves an image of the King as he was in "Harum-Scarum", and "Spinout", and, my favorite, "Kid Galahad"; sleek, sexy and sneering. I saw an Elvis impersonator at a kid's birthday party. The guy ate it. He mouthed Elvis records and twitched his leg. Why couldn't he have died and Elvis have lived? I once rode in a car from St. Louis to Jefferson City, and back, on the same day, with an Elvis impersonator. He wore a white, sequined jumpsuit and blue suede running shoes. He never got out of character. He also never washed his sequined jumpsuit, and since the closest actual thing he had in common with the real Elvis was that he sweat like a fat man, the suit stunk more than a moldy deep-fried-peanut-butter-and-banana-sandwich.

These tribute people are nuts. When I worked at KSHE radio in St. Louis our receptionist told us one morning that a guy in the waiting room was asking for us and he said his name was John Burroughs. None of us in the studio knew anyone by that name, so we instructed the receptionist to tell the guy to wait. He did, for two and a half hours. At the end of our shift we saw a familiar face in the waiting room--a well known local Elvis impersonator who had been on our show many times. In fact, he had traveled with us, in the same van, to Jefferson City for a remote broadcast, wearing a dirty sequined jumpsuit and faux blue suede shoes. We approached him and said, "E," which is what we called him. "E, why didn't you tell the receptionist it was you in the lobby? We'd have let you in!" "I did tell her," he said, in the voice of the King of Rock and Roll. "I told her John Burroughs was waiting." "Okay," we bit, "Who is John Burroughs?" E curled his famous lip famously and drawled, "That's the alias Elvis always used when he was on the road." Oh, God, somebody hit me with a sledge hammer. Why can’t we let the man rest in peace? We seem driven to imitate Elvis against our wills; we’re like alcoholics or nicotine fiends; we want to stop, dear lord believe us, but we can’t. The urge overwhelms us. It’s ingrained in our psyche; it has become an image from our collective unconscious, as entrenched as the fight-or-flee reflex. Blessed will be the day when the last one goes to that big toilet in the sky.

Then there are The Beatles people—“Beatlemania”, “Rain”, “1964, The Tribute”, et al. The word—the big lie— on these homage bands is: “They sound just like the real Beatles!” NO THEY DON’T. They may play Rickenbacker guitars and Ludwig drums and use Vox sound equipment, but they sound like somebody doing an impression of somebody else doing an impersonation of somebody else doing an imitation of The Beatles.

The second big lie is: “They look just like the real Beatles!” NO THEY DON'T. Not even if you sit in the last row, and chug a quart of Bacardi 151, and squint. Holding a Hofner Bass and singing “Love Me Do” doesn’t make you Paul McCartney any more than baking a Betty Crocker boxed yellow cake slathered with simulated chocolate icing makes you Betty Crocker. Its one thing to believe that plopping a wig on your head can make people think you’re not bald; it’s another thing to make them think you’re John Lennon. If I'm coming across like a hysterical teenage girl in the Ed Sullivan audience circa 1964, it is because, when it comes to John, Paul, George and Ringo, I am one. A hysterical teenage girl, that is. If you've got a problem with that, I'll claw your eyes out.

Led Zeppelin is a gathering force as a band to rate tributes. You've got "Black Dog", aka "The Definitive Led Zeppelin Tribute Band". Next is "Led Zeppelica", who are "A Replica (get it?) of the Original" Then there's "Heartbreaker", which calls itself "The most authentic tribute to Led Zeppelin on the planet!" Are there pygmies in the rain forest saying, "When I listen to "Heartbreaker", it's as if Jimmy Page is playing right here in our hut!" As to being authentic, these guys better be careful: You may recall that Zeppelin drummer John "Bonzo" Bonham choked to death on his own vomit after drinking 43 screwdrivers at a rehearsal. That part of a tribute I'd pay to see.

But now, the tribute thing has gotten out of hand. There are a bunch of Australian guys who do Pink Floyd songs note for note, word for word. And they call themselves … Australian Pink Floyd. People love them! They sound just like English Pink Floyd! And, if the Elvis impersonators are nuts, then the fans of APF are fucking insane. These people are buying CDs of Australian Pink Floyd and their note-for-note covers even as the English Pink Floyd CDs are on the next rack at a cheaper price! That's like dumping Julia Roberts for a Julia Roberts female impersonator.

So, for now, we have to differentiate between bona fide and mock-rock; we have to qualify our musical heroes when we refer to them, to say “The real Elvis”, or “The genuine Beatles” or, "authentic Led Zeppelin", or "English Pink Floyd”. It’s only a matter of time before other classic bands start doing it. Within the year, I guarantee you, bands will be coming to the lounges of the Holiday Inns with names like "You Ain't Seen N-N-N-Nothin Yet", advertised as "The most scarily sound-alike Bachman, Turner Overdrive Trubute in the History of the Universe!"

Until then here's what you do: Get out your 331/3 rpm copy of "The White Album" on vinyl and crank it up. You know every word and every guitar lick; you'll remember every hiss and pop and skip on that album; and, if you're lucky, you'll find yourself crying and screaming and pulling on your hair like a hysterical teenage girl on the Ed Sullivan Show circa 1964.

Shamelessly.