emp review

As promised, here comes the preview review of the much-heralded EMP museum in Seattle.

I had long wanted to check out a real r&r museum, hearing that Cleveland left areas to be desired, Paul Allen must have the right idea. I took a shuttle from the University district motel, and the young driver told me that I should reserve at least 4 hours to properly take in the museum. As I was about to be let out at about 11:30 and had arranged for a 1:30 pickup, I was a bit worried. Shouldn't have been. After a little more than an hour into the Experience, I was retracing my steps.

Of course, I didn't want my voice recorded on their in-house karioke system, with CD memories selling for a very reasonable about $4.99 (as I recall). Nor did I wish to go too deeply into the areas that seemed to attract the teens. I wanted history, by gum, and history I got.

The first area I looked at seriously was the singer-songwriter room, where I found a barely discernible page (on Monument label stationery) of the first lyric of "Help Me Make It Through the Night." Help me make it thru the museum. Oddly, the original lyrics of "Blue Yodel #9" were neatly typed, though corrected slightly, with handwritten notes to indicate where to yodel and in one place, indicating a "talking yodel." Fascinating. unlike Rodgers, Tori Amos lyrics were written out on "Hello Kitty" stationery.

Then I went upstairs, third floor level, where I found the men's room and a whole bunch o'great stuff, starting with the guitar room. Wow! Videos were showing, guitars were behind glass, and the impressive crowds were obviously hungry to learn, with kids along for the ride. I saw guitar breaks, guitar monsters, blues legends and old TV shows with the likes of Chet Atkins, Merle Travis, Jimmy Bryant and Speedy West and Eddie Cochran banging on their boxes or picking out serious notes. But the most dramatic was someone named Mary Osborne who was intent on her guitar break to "The Man I Love," while a somewhat glassy eyed Billie Holiday awaited her vocal, oblivious to the room, either at the studio on at the EMP monitor where sat I in a darkened toom.

One thing cool about the museum is the lack of tight-fisted rules: the nothing may be touched under the penalty of ouster and humiliation. Not to say that you could put your hands on everything and anything, but you were allowed to pick up headphones and listen in to music, interviews, that sort of thing.

Probably my favorite room was the Northwest Passsage, closely followed by the Dylan room, the Hendrix room and down the list, the hip hop room, for obvious reasons. I really don't need to gaze upon a panel from a graffitied over subway car to understand what used to be called rap, and the aeresol paint cans don't really add to my desire to submit to this culture. After all, how would a proper spray effectively showcase the Geary designed exterior of the museum or am I just showing my age? You think?

Northwest passage. Now we're talking.