Elvis Song Lyrics Quotes

Maybe I didn't treat you Quite as good as I should have Maybe I didn't love you Quite as often as I could have Little things I should have said and done I just never took the time You were always on my mind You were always on my mind

If Elvis ..is the definition of rock, then rock is remembered as showbiz...It becomes a solely performative art form, where the meaning of a song matters less than the person singing it. It becomes personality music...if Dylan...becomes the definition of rock, everything reverses. In this contingency, lyrical authenticity becomes everything: Rock is galvanized as an intellectual craft, interlocked with the folk tradition...The fact that Dylan does not have a conventionally "good" singing voice becomes retrospective proof that rock audiences prioritized substance over style...

Elvis played a soundtrack of half remembered songs, humming the lyrics and sometimes, when he forgot himself, singing out loud. Richie and Buddy cringed slightly at the quality of his singing voice, but said nothing.

Who the hell is that?” Chase barks. He watches Pete’s prideful swagger all the way down the aisle until he disappears from sight. Chase looks down at me. I shrug. “He’s a friend.” “Since when do you have friends like that?” he asks. He steps toward me, and I step back, until my back is against the shelves behind me. I don’t like to be cornered, but Chase has no way of knowing that. I skitter to the side so that I’m not hemmed in. “Friends like what?” I ask. I know he’s referring to the tattoos. Pete walks by the end of the aisle and waves at us, and then he winks at me. A grin tugs at my lips. I shrug again. “He’s really very nice.” “Where did you meet him?” I can tell the truth or I can lie. But then I hear Pete one aisle over as he starts to sing the lyrics to Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock.” I grin. I can’t help it. “He’s helping out at the camp this week,” I say instead of the truth. Well, it’s sort of the truth. “Where’s he from?” Chase asks. “New York City,” I say. Pete’s song changes from Elvis to AC/DC’s “Jailbreak.” I laugh out loud this time. I can’t help it. “Your dad’s all right with you hanging out with him?” My dad is covered in tattoos, too, but most of his are hidden by his clothing. “He likes Pete,” I say. “I do, too.” Chase puts one arm on the shelf behind me and leans toward my body. I dodge him again, and he looks crossly at me. “Don’t box me in,” I warn. He holds up both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. But he still looks curious. “So, about tomorrow,” he says. “I can’t,” I blurt out. I think I hear a quickly hissed, “Yes!” from the other side of the aisle, but I can’t be sure. Chase touches my elbow, and it makes my skin crawl. I pull my elbow back. “Don’t touch me,” I say. Suddenly, Pete’s striding down the aisle toward us. His expression is thunderous, and I step in front of him so that he has to run into me instead of pummeling Chase like I’m guessing he wants to do. I lay a hand on his chest. “You ready to go?” I ask. He looks down at me, his eyes asking if I’m all right. His hand lands on my waist and slides around my back, pulling me flush against him. He’s testing me. And I don’t want to fight him. I admit it. Chase makes my skin crawl, and Pete makes my skin tingle. It’s not an altogether pleasant sensation, but only because I can’t control it. He holds me close, one hand on the center of my back, and the other full of breath mints and assorted sundries. He steps toward Chase, and Pete and I are so close together that I have to step backward when he steps forward. I repeat my question. “You get everything?” He finally looks down at me. “I got everything I need,” he says. His tone is polite but clear and soft as butter.

With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is. Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky. The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites. Before I know it — and just as I hoped — it’s the only thing I hear between my ears. That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news. I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel. But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry. The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday. He said it happened this morning. Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it. And — “Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?” Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn — and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops. “You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert. He heard it. Ask him, Ms. Burns.” I don’t ask Herbert.

My first lyric departed directly from Mingus’s title “This Subdues My Passion.” If you didn’t think the song was already half written after that title, then you had no business dallying with the tune in the first place. I wrote about the way that music tempers the violence within a man. This subdues my passion And it may control my rage It may stem the poison that spills out onto the page