Alone in his huge, Antebellum house built in 1853 in Holly Springs, Miss., Paul MacLeod is living his vision of the American dream. He’s a 67-year-old former assembly-line worker, and it shows—his face slumps like a wet towel. He subsists on two cases of Coca-Cola a day. His wife, Serita, left him years ago, and he hasn’t seen her since. His son, too, left long ago . But MacLeod doesn’t mind living alone: He’s got Elvis Presley.
For 20 years, MacLeod has operated his own live-in Elvis museum called Graceland Too. Every corner, wall and inch of ceiling in his two-story mansion is covered with Elvis memorabilia, from The King’s high school report card (he failed music) to plush tigers (in honor of Elvis’ martial-arts name) and thousands of posters, clippings and photographs. MacLeod keeps Graceland Too open 24 hours a day, every day of the year. If he’s slipped into a light sleep at 4 a.m., knock loud enough and he’ll give you a tour. Only five bucks.
Graceland Too isn’t really about Elvis Presley. It’s about creating another world, one in which Paul MacLeod is king, slap-happy and in love with his favorite rock star, blissfully unaware of the faster, meaner, grimier world beyond his property. “I’m prepared to die right now if I could bring that guy back,” he tells me with a voice that sounds like he’s gargling maple syrup. While outisders—368,000 people since 1990, by his count—stop by and see him as an oddity, an old man gone batty, MacLeod says he’s “doin’ just what makes me happy.”
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Wild Smile begins with the words:
Save your body. Save your mind. Save your love for me.
On paper, it sounds like a plea. Almost desperate. Please, it reads. Please don’t go anywhere. Stay with me. Save your soul for mine – they got along so well, didn’t they?
But put to melody, the lines take flight. Simple, repetitive, honest. Sincere, but playful. The meditative melody inflates the words like a hot air balloon. And right there, found in the first minute of Suckers’ debut album, lies what will become the band’s trademark, the quality that distinguishes it from every other kinda arty, kinda pretentious, kinda danceable new band that’s popped up in the last year. It’s Suckers’ sincerity. Wild Smile is often weird as hell, but we believe it, because it sounds like the band really believes it too. It’s the type of sincerity most often seen in children playing: they’re warriors on a cross-the-globe mission (while running around the backyard), they’re creating the Mona Lisa (out of finger paint), they’re building a giant castle (out of pillows in the living room). Wild Smile is the sound of Suckers playing — it’s serious fun. Continue reading
What’s in a name? For Rodef Shalom Congregation, the answer is quite a lot — especially come June 27. That night, the Shadyside congregation will give Bishop David Zubik, of the Diocese of Pittsburgh, the first ever Pursuer of Peace award, named after the translation of Rodef Shalom. It’s an honor that’s a full year in the making.
As its annual major fundraiser, Rodef Shalom long recognized a deserving congregant with a dinner. “The time was right,” for a change, said Rabbi Aaron Bisno. “I had been speaking with our leadership about creating an award we could provide to somebody in the wider community beyond the finite membership of Rodef Shalom, using the congregation’s profile to recognize good works in the community.”
The June 27 event will feature a dinner, followed by an address given by Bishop Zubik. A portion of the night’s proceeds will be split between the diocese and synagogue and donated to immigrant and refugee aid organizations chosen by each group. Michelle Bisno, the Pursuer of Peace tribute chair, said she expects 300 people for the meal, but that Rodef Shalom’s 1200-seat congregation will fill to capacity for Zubik’s address. Continue reading
John McCauley III is lying on a couch in the basement of Cleveland’s Beachland Tavern, looking equal parts hungover and still-drunk. It’s 8:30 on a Saturday night in early May, and in a few hours, his band Deer Tick will electrify a sold-out crowd, thrashing through a vigorous set of fast, loud, country-leaning rock songs. For now, though, his mind is on more pressing matters. “You can’t charge two drink tickets for one cup,” he says, staring down at a double vodka on the rocks he ordered from the bar upstairs.
He rises from one couch and relocates to another, joining his bandmates around a glass coffee table littered with bottles and cigarettes. Deer Tick is playing in Ohio tonight on a short respite from a cross-country tour with Dr. Dog; nights off are for the weak, it seems. The band has a new record to push, called The Black Dirt Sessions, and there’s no sense in not playing, weary or not.
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