My One And Only Prayer Is That Someday You Care

Why right now, I’d rather be listening to Conway Twitty’s rock ‘n’ roll records.

Believe me, I’d rather be writing about anything else. Like, oh, I don’t know:

• The life and times of the world's most indifferent houseplant—turns out it’s thriving despite my lack of attention.

• A detailed analysis of why the chicken crossed the road—spoiler alert: it wasn’t for politics.

• The rise and fall of the rubber band industry in 1970s America.

• The fine art of folding fitted sheets—I hear it’s practically a lost skill.

• A deep dive into the secret lives of squirrels—I mean, those little guys have some seriously complex dynamics.

• How to brew the perfect cup of tea—because let’s face it, that’s more relaxing than this hellscape.

• An oral history of bubblegum pop—the sugar-coated rebellion we’ve all been craving.

• The many shades of beige in '90s office decor—they say it’s the neutral of the century.

• The unsung heroes of denim jackets—I mean, why is this topic so underappreciated?

...and so on. You get the idea.

In fact, for the past week, the intricate career arc of Conway Twitty, '50s rocker, has been my obsession. A career-spanning documentary claims the former Harold Jenkins’ discography is dominated by 50 Number One singles, across the pop and country charts and a 38 year professional timeline. That’s more than Elvis, The Beatles, or Michael Jackson—think about that. But it’s the decade he spent as a sub-Elvis rockabilly, including a brief Sun Records apprenticeship, that’s especially twisted my wig.

After cranking out some prime hillbilly bop—including the delightful hiccupper “Rock House,” later covered by Roy Orbison—he renamed himself after a pair of random discoveries found on a US map: Conway, Arkansas and Twitty, Texas. Then in a 1958 fluke, an Ohio radio station flipped over his latest flop for MGM Records, “I’ll Try,” to its B-side. They found a doo wop-tinged rockaballad Twitty and his drummer Jack Nance co-composed between sets backstage at Hamilton, Ontario’s Flamingo Lounge. Twitty’s heavy-breathing, Presley-esque vocalese delivered “It’s Only Make Believe”’s operatic overabundance of emotion like a UPS driver on a heavy bennies-and-bourbon bender. Eight million copies and a rocket ride to Number One in 21 countries later, Conway Twitty was a bonafide rock ‘n’ roll star.

From ‘58 to ‘65, Twitty unleashed the greasiest post-Presley rockin’ of the Frankie-and-Bobby era. He scored more smashes with some raunchy refits of Tin Pan Alley standards like “Mona Lisa,” the Irish crooner “Danny Boy,” and even the rejected Presley film soundtrack item “Lonely Blue Boy.” Even when his producers piled on the strings and choirs to make him fit the times, he sounded like a hoodlum Frankie or Bobby. Along the way, he inspired fictional Broadway Elvisoid Conrad Birdie in the hit musical Bye Bye Birdie, made a few movies, and rode an endless stream of one-nighters all the way to a 1965 career crisis. The British had invaded, he wasn’t listening much to rock ‘n’ roll anymore, and neither was his audience. He made a shift to country music, racked up 38 more Number Ones, became a Nashville legend topping charts every decade from the ‘50s to the ‘90s, his haircut going from Brylcreem to a permanent, and died from a brain aneurysm in 1993. He was 59 years old.

So, yeah. I’d rather be writing about Conway Twitty’s ducktailed brilliance. But then, this shit happened.

Yes, he did it. You saw it. And of course, he denied it. Did you expect otherwise? Surprisingly, the Anti-Defamation League defended it, pish-poshing it as “an awkward gesture in a moment of enthusiasm,” while “[appreciating] that people are on edge.”

Wake the fuck up! You just saw tacit admission that the second Cheetoh Mussolini administration will be a fascist regime.

Let it. That’s what America voted for. Let them find out the true meaning of “fuck around and find out.” Also, the definition of the phrase “give ‘em enough rope.”

Did anyone else watch the inauguration? Did you notice as Cheetoh ran down his agenda, not a single one of the living former presidents in attendance, including the one just superseded, applauded any of his stated intentions? Including Bush? Everyone else was giving him standing ovation after standing ovation. Not the guys who once sat at that desk.

Then witness the flood of executive orders he signed just hours later, his version of revenge on Joe Biden for undoing so many Cheetoh Administration I initiatives immediately after taking office. (And no, Cheetoh did not put his hand on the Bible while taking the oath of office. Stop asking what it means. It’s clear his fingers were crossed behind his back as he promised to uphold the Constitution.) None of them are surprising. Charles P. Pierce at Esquire catalogued them, including “withdrawing the U.S. from both the World Health Organization and the Paris climate agreement,” and “insane[ly] renaming the Gulf of Mexico the ‘Gulf of America.’ (Florida, Louisiana, and Mississippi already are aboard with that one.) And one is so egregiously unconstitutional [IE–eradicating birthright citizenship] that Democratic attorneys general around the country have already filed suit against him.”

“Over the past couple years, the good old 14th Amendment has been treated like a Capitol policeman on January 6 by the MAGA crowd in conjunction with the Supreme Court,” writes Pierce. (Oh yeah, Cheetoh also pardoned 1500+ January 6th rioters.) “First, the Court ignored the plain-text reading of Section Three and allowed an insurrectionist to run for president, treading all over Colorado’s right to run its own elections. Now the president has ordered executively that its provision for birthright citizenship is null and void. No matter what his Federalist Society orcs are telling him, no president can nullify any provision of the Constitution. I compliment the president on waiting a full hour before breaking his oath. Might be an in-house record.”

The next day, several key Justice Dept. officials had to start polishing up their CVs. Among many other departments seeing severe restructuring. Are you surprised? He promised this all along. Remember Project 2025, which some of you pooh-poohed as “liberal/progressive Q-Anon”? Which Cheetoh kept denying was his plan? Welcome to its implementation.

It’s gonna get a lot worse before it gets better, brethren and sistren. My advice? Create. Speak out. Resist. And hit the ground running. But do not take the bait under any circumstances. He loves “shock and awe,” and “owning the libs.” Keep your head, and keep making your corner of the world as good as it possibly can be. And when you see someone being steamrolled by MAGA-ites, step in and protect them. Bullying is intolerable.

But y’know, when I started commenting about current events around the time of the election and in its immediate aftermath, I lost subscribers and got told to “stay in my lane.” How fucking insulting can you get? Do I only get one “lane”? I have to either be “a punk rock journalist” or “a slumming punk rock musician”? I don’t get to change lanes to “concerned citizen” when things start concerning me?

Even worse, when did you become my editor?

I will not apologize for expressing my mind in a space I designed for exactly that purpose. For those who will whine that “punk isn’t political”? How long has it been since you listened to records by The Clash, Dead Kennedys or D.O.A.? MC5, anyone? And if I’m offending you? Good! You probably need it!

Eh, fuck this! I’ve got Conway Twitty records to listen to….

MONDAY: Elegy for Marc Campbell

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