One reason I've been so fascinated by Elvis Presley is that his story is so quintessentially American-the boy who rose from impoverished beginnings who found success
beyond his wildest dreams, only to be ultimately destroyed by his own excesses.
And you couldn't ask for a more dramatic career trajectory, beginning with an offhand moment in a small Memphis recording studio on July 5, 1954, hitting on the magic formula that brought white country-and-western together with black rhythm-and-blues in a mix that tantalized the young and scandalized their elders. No, Presley didn't invent a new musical genre, but he was the one to synthesize what was already percolating and push it into the mainstream.
After coming close to squandering his talents in the '60s via a series of less-than-stellar films, he pulled himself back from the brink with an electrifying television special (1968's Elvis), the 1969 Memphis sessions that produced hits like "Suspicious Minds" and "In The Ghetto," and a triumphant return to Las Vegas that foreshadowed that town's gradual turning to a more youthful tourist demographic. Then, having been left by his wife, and with no new creative challenges on the horizon, the '70s saw a steady decline into ill health that left Elvis dead on his bathroom floor on August 16, 1977, at the age of 42.
But it's not Presley's sorry end that fans focus on during the annual Memphis festivities known as Elvis Week. An estimated 75,000 folks journeyed to Memphis this past August, myself among them, in search of our "Inner Elvis," as the marketing campaign by Elvis Presley Enterprises would have it ("Everyone has a little Elvis inside").
At numerous events, both EPE-sponsored and otherwise, you could hear anecdotes from those who'd known the King in some capacity. I encountered George Klein (local DJ and longtime friend of "E"), Sonny West (co-author of the infamous "bodyguard book" Elvis: What Happened?), Marion Cocke (E's nurse during his final years), Larry Strickland (a member of E's backup gospel group, the Stamps), Cynthia Pepper (E's co-star in Kissin' Cousins, one of his campiest films), and Priscilla Presley, among others, all of whom came to praise Elvis, not to bury him. Even Dr. George Nichopolous, "Dr. Nick," was present, the reformation of his reputation well under way; George Klein was among those who insisted Dr. Nick was the "good doctor," who tried to curtail Elvis' drug intake (I even got his autograph).
Most of these folks had something to sell (a book, an autographed photo), and there were plenty of other product tie-ins: commemorative Diet Pepsi cans, specially made Reese's peanut butter and banana crème cups, Thomas "Painter of Light" Kinkade's limited edition run of paintings of Graceland (from $995 to $1840), and the unveiling of an Elvis signature motorcycle collection. (Most disconcerting was seeing the virile King linked to an ad for erectile dysfunction medication; a commercial has a gang of middle-aged dudes heartily singing "Viva, viva Viagra!" to the tune of "Viva Las Vegas.")
Some have complained about the increasing commercialization of Elvis, which strikes me as a bit naïve; after all, once Presley signed with RCA in 1955, the intention was to make him, his music, and the expected deluge of product tie-ins as commercially lucrative as possible. It's the American Way, innit?
And there were plenty of opportunities to connect with what made Elvis such a cultural icon in the first place-his music and performance style. Certainly you were bombarded with Elvis music everywhere, from my hotel lobby (a less-than-stellar Clarion, which I suggest you avoid), to the monitors displaying Elvis footage at Graceland's shops and local restaurants, to the voices of impersonators (though in a Trekkies/Trekkers-type display of semantics these are now called "Elvis Tribute Artists") wafting out from doorways along Beale Street.
But ironically, I rediscovered the power of Presley's interpretive skills at an event that strove to recreate the excitement of a live Elvis show and largely succeeded. It was the climactic event of Elvis Week, the 30th Anniversary Concert, with a large screen displaying Presley's image from concerts and films, while a live stage of musicians (most of whom played with Elvis) provides the music. It's an odd concept, but perhaps even more oddly, it works. As the fans scream and fire off their cameras, and the band works up a genuine sweat, it's hard not to get caught up in the excitement: Elvis swaggering through "Burning Love" in '73, bumping and grinding out "Hound Dog" in '56, testifying in "If I Can Dream" in '68. In his peak moments, Elvis was truly a force to be reckoned with. That he couldn't sustain the momentum is what gives his story its poignancy.
And it's the sweep of Elvis'
incendiary rise coupled with his tragic fall that has kept us debating his significance ever since.
