Elvis Presley 1/08/1935 – 08/17/1977
Go ahead and get your fat jokes out of the way. Tell me the one again about how he died on the crapper. Maybe you want to blather on about how he stole the black man’s music? Sure there were sleeping pills, bennies, black beauties, white crosses, marijuana (for his glaucoma) bourbon, and fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. After all of the tired cliches about the King have been drug around the block, you have to face the facts.
Elvis’ voice was better the year he died than it ever was before. Forget the young vs. old debate, old Elvis clearly rocked harder-scars and all. He loved his mama, Jesus, and Bruce Lee. He was deputized by Richard Nixon. He once karate kicked a violent, charging fan off the stage in Madison Square Gardens (1968).
In 1991 I stood in line with tens of thousands of fans from around the world in a candlelight vigil through Graceland. I met them all, Biker Elvis. Gay Elvis. Gay, Japanese, biker Elvis, you name it. That crowd was pure Elvis love, and it rocked me.
So hats off to Elvis Aaron Presley, the kid from Tupelo, who could sing pretty good, a great enemy of moderation.
If I can dream- Juancho
If camp is a form of excess, Elvis’ place in the pantheon is assured. Neither camp nor Old Elvis are to my taste, however. And I’ve never visited Graceland, but from the pics I’ve seen, it’s the prototype for every McMansion uglifying the Southland.
Elvis spot in my hall of fame is assured by that moment in the Sun Sessions when he stops a slow-mo version of an old tune (“Blue Moon of Kentucky?”), says, “Let’s get real gone,” and kicks it into gear — birthing rock and roll. That one moment excuses everything that followed.
The King is dead. Long live the King.
Amen to that ccrider de monte cristo.
HT, what ails ya’ son? “Excuses everything that followed?” Like Suspicious Minds? Poke Salad Annie? Burning Love? I have to get some tequila in you one of these days.
I was thinking more of the movies, the Vegas years, the pills, and the karate costume. Though I haven’t considered them through a tequila haze.
The movies sucked, that was the Colonel’s fault.
This discussion leaves me cold with all the references and far flung saints and sinners. For a fine tutorial on excess and moderation, there’s no better classroom than your back porch.
Fuck Elvis and Jimmy Carter: What about the mighty Juancho? What’s the glory in the stinking drunk? What’s the payoff in the January fast?
For me the occasional blowout is essential. Steady rainfall keeps the flowers nice, but the hurricane is essential for remembering who you are when the roof could blow off. That’s the guy I don’t want to forget.
that guy hasn’t gone anywhere.
So, um, who are you when the roof blows off?
You might want to ask S’quatch. I assume he means when it is time to take off the societal mask and get down, I’m a good partner for a visionquest of any sort. Lost in the woods, drunk on the porch, dancing at a show (but that don’t happen much), I like conversation when it gets deep and real, even if it’s fuzzy the next day.
It still makes me feel good (mentally, not necessarily physically.)
Of course, he will probably berate me for the interpretation.