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Elvis Siting
by Amy Briggs
Living nineteen years in Memphis has taught me there is no escape from Elvis. It's not just the local news tribute shows and super oldies rock blocks. The pomade is oh-so-much thicker than that. Having my unconscious shaped by that black velvet brew for two decades has given me more than a few idiosyncrasies. He's with me all the time. For one thing, he is my savior of yellow lights; I kiss my Elvis window decal, and he protects my car in the intersection with speed, safety, and a gospel back-up choir.
There was a dark time in my life, I regret to say, when I pulled a Judas Iscariot on the King. I loathed Memphis. The idiotic jungle room jokes, the witticisms about gold lamé suits, the snide references to doughnuts and peanut butter ... they all took their toll. I wanted to escape. I wanted to be a Virginian.
It took me one month here to change my mind.
Four years later and I am still back on the side of the righteous. The cycle usually goes like this: two semesters of Jefferson Jefferson Jefferson and then I am back home for the summer, when all of my humble pent-up respect and adoration for the King explodes during Death Week. During these seven August days surrounding his death and resurrection, thousands of Elvis children pour into the city, bringing money and extra film. The frenzy comes to a head on the night of the Candlelight Vigil, when mourners at Graceland pay their respects in a single-file line up to his grave. Last year, I met a group from a Church of Elvis in Sweden. They claim that when they pray to him, he listens and understands.
Even though this summer's Candlelight Vigil was a far cry from the hoopla of last year's 20th post-mortem anniversary, it was, as always, an experience to remember. This time around, I somehow miraculously managed to persuade my sisters to accompany me for some free culture. People in the neighborhood have gotten increasingly more enterprising over the years; upon arrival, we had to move my car after a crazy fat lady ran out of her house and threatened evil things upon my vehicle if I didn't pay her a cash advance to park on her street. Police had blocked off the street in full blue-light regalia. We swam through a tour group of gawking British hipsters to a table where a sweet-faced lady gave us each a white candle. It was obvious that the hard-core Elvis-ites had been camping out since the wee hours on lawn chairs and blankets; many had set up temp shrines of candle wax and glossy 8x10s of the King. The air was buzzing with marketable social commiseration, and the gift shops were definitely feeling our pain.
In August 1977, I was still in the womb when Elvis checked out of the Heartbreak Hotel. It still amazes me how greatly his reputation profited from his death. Elvis drove the crowds wild during his day, but I can't imagine that this much kitsch would exist if he were still walking in those blue-suede shoes now, in 1998. Don't get me wrong. I have defended Elvis passionately on numerous occasions. I try to avoid the tough issues of unhealthy food and pretty women. However, the whole circus freak factor in the "Elvis post-Elvis" world is a little too much. It really irritates me. Every tourist to Memphis wants the snow globe that blizzards on a miniature Graceland when shaken, or the snazzy Elvis clock that has his hips swinging back and forth. How many of those same tourists actually own one of his albums? Elvis was the King of Rock and Roll. He was the first rocker. I don't care if he liked to give Cadillacs to his friends, eat meatloaf every day, or watch his own house on closed-circuit TV. He was real, and not an entity best captured on refrigerator magnets.
My sisters soon left me for a handsome high school romeo in a white and gold Elvis-esque pantsuit. I wandered around in idle curiosity, watching two elderly women overcome with sobs. The line slowly trickled through the gates. A boy from Michigan with piercings approached me and asked if I was there "to scope the scene or dig the dead dude." His tongue ring gave him phonetic problems, so I did the backwards dance and sallied away towards an impersonator.
Which brings me to the highly respectable and competitive cult of impersonating the King. Guys with long hair and beards don't necessarily pass for Jesus, do they? Well, guys with black hair and sideburns don't do Elvis justice, either. In Memphis during Death Week, one can find competitions and performances that weed out the poseurs. If you want a shortcut past that club circuit, drive down to Holly Springs, Mississippi; there you will find the Golden Reincarnation of the King. The answer you seek lies at Graceland Too, an attraction much stranger than any roadside wax museum or lizard farm. Located only a stone's throw from Tupelo (Elvis's birthplace), this tribute is run by one Paul MacLeod, "The World's Number One Elvis Fan," and his mnemonically-gifted son, appropriately named Elvis Aron Presley MacLeod. Over the last fifteen years, they have slowly transformed their antebellum home into a shrine for the King. Every inch of the house is literally covered with Elvis memorabilia. Paul has Elvis wine, Elvis collector's plates, Elvis baseball cards, Elvis gum wrappers, and even Elvis's (the Presley, not the MacLeod) report card, which shows that he failed music in 10th grade. For a $5 admission, Paul or Elvis will take you on a very thorough tour of their house. Both take shifts watching nine TV sets, with six VCRs running constantly, just in case somebody mentions the King. When that happens, the comment is taped, numbered, and filed in an elaborate cataloging system. Years ago, Paul's wife told him that there was not enough room for her and the Elvis collection. She no longer lives at Graceland Too.
Rock and Roll doesn't exist to be pretty, and it doesn't exist to sell airbrushed t-shirts or posters, either. It's music, and the King was all about music. So the next time you're stricken with the desire to dish out some more Viva Las Vegas crap on the poor guy, don't. W.W.E.D.?
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