Elvis and Me
(I took a trip to Graceland in February 2005 with my old boyfriend. That was a long time ago now but as I had just reread some passages from Priscilla Presley's memoir Elvis And Me and thought I would share some thoughts on it. Plus this was before I had put my blog onto this forum.)
She stood before me at the front desk while checking and unzipped the garment bag she was carrying. Inside was a big, poofy white wedding dress bedecked and spilling out sequins and sparkly things on the carpet. I asked what this was about, she had traveled from Ireland and was getting married tomorrow at the Graceland Wedding Chapel in the Woods, adjacent to the Graceland house across the street. I was in Memphis, Tennessee at the world famous Heartbreak Hotel and had come to take a long anticipated trip as all rock and roll fans aspire to take one day, I had come to see Graceland, the home of Elvis Presley. Exactly why I was here, I was not sure. In the buffet line in the dinning room nearby, the man ahead of me who I chatted with had come from Melbourne, Australia. It was February, after people were still broke from their Christmas spending, and he had no doubt spent almost $10,000 to take this trip. And he was making himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich like everyone else does in the buffet line, because he ate them. Why was he here, I asked? I was from Cleveland and that was fairly close. He wasn't sure either, he came here because of him.
I had wanted to see Graceland for a long time, since it's opening to this day it stands as the second most visited private residence in the US behind the White House. People come from all over the world to see this place, and on this weekend I was one of them. I wasn't exactly sure what I was doing there either, I guess my only answer was to come because of Elvis as well. Your average hipster will say that this is what one does, and even though I was a post skinny hipster at the time I was one of them who said someday I will see this place. It's an odd phenomenon to be sure. Tens of thousands of people will come every year to see his house, his collection of cars and clothes on display, tour Beale Street nearby, take a bus trip to Mississippi a few miles away to see the house he grew up in and walk the halls of his high school which is still standing. This isn't something that happens only once in a lifetime, they were there last year and will be there the next. Bruce Springstein comes and Michael Jackson goes, but Elvis has endured. This doesn't happen for The Beatles, this doesn't happen for The Rolling Stones, this doesn't happen for Frank Sinatra. Before there was Elvis, the only fanaticism that has had such long standing dedication only occurred for those who happen to be the focal point of major world religions. Is it still cool to like Elvis? The answer is yes. I was half expecting to see an Elvis Fan around me, but did not. It would be a woman with the biggest hair you've ever seen, swaddled in polyester, morbidly obese, probably waving a genuine Elvis artifact (a paper napkin that he wiped his mouth on, a Q Tip dug out of the trash, etc.), and weeping. But there were none of them to be seen.
Graceland Enterprises is a business today, one that draws in millions of dollars a year and people from all over the world. The next morning, we were taken across the street via shuttle bus with today's round of tens of thousands of tourists. The house itself sits on a hill across the street overlooking Route 51, also known as Elvis Presley Boulevard. When he bought the place almost sixty years ago, it was all rolling hills and countryside. Today it is right off a freeway exit and surrounded by a sketchy strip of boarded up houses and storefronts, fast food restaurants and a used car dealership lot or two. This is not exactly an accident or out of place, as cars and food were something that Elvis indulged in. The house itself is smaller than I anticipated, it was actually rather modest in size. The décor is hilariously tacky in places, including things like electric blue curtains, carpet on the ceiling and veined wall mirrors. It was as if someone had taken the advice of Don't Leave One Inch Untouched when decorating their home. Each person is given a headset to listen to a perky, prerecorded tour guide's explanations of what we were looking at. Once through the front door, one can see the living room to the right, a guest room where his beloved mother, Gladys, stayed while she was alive, the foyer, and the dining room where they sat for holiday dinners. After moving through the kitchen, we saw The Jungle Room (perhaps the tackiest room of them all with false waterfalls and ugly carpet), then downstairs into the basement to see the rec room (complete with pool table that had a broken bit of glass over the light fixture hanging where Lisa Marie had picked up a billard ball and launched it towards as a little kid), then back upstairs to the backyard. I was always under the impression that the backyard of the house was a vast field where his horses were out roaming free and trotting, but it was practically a postcard in size. The neighboring houses actually spill over into the tiny backyard, separated with chain link fencing, and there were no horses to be seen. The shooting gallery was simply a medium sized backyard shed where your average suburbanite might keep their lawnmower and yard tools if they do not have an attached garage to their house. It was furnished, as Elvis's father, Vernon, had used this as office space. Here we also watched a repeating black and white film of Elvis once his tour of duty in Germany was over and was going to continue his music career. In this famous interview, images of Priscilla Presley, the fourteen year old daughter of a career air force officer who had been transferred to Germany, who saw him off at the airport before he was about to return to the US were seen. Elvis said the press had made a big deal of her and him at the airport saying good-bye, but that really wasn't such a big deal. Little did we know that it very much was.
The final three places that we see on the tour are of the racquetball court, the swimming pool and the gravesite. The racquetball court's lounge area was modest enough, the playing area was bedecked with gold records, jumpsuits on models, and a variety of odds and ends (furniture, belt buckles. etc.). This place has great meaning, as this was the place where Elvis spent the last night of his life. He and his friends were up all night, then he and his girlfriend went to bed around 5 am in the upstairs of Graceland, where he would famously die on the toilet in the bathroom attached to his bedroom. And no, you can't go up and see either of them. The swimming pool's circumference was slightly bigger than a kiddie swimming pool and was, like everything else, smaller than I expected. At last, we saw the grave. Originally Elvis was buried in a cemetery somewhere in Memphis until some grave robbers were arrested trying to break into his tomb. His body was moved and replaced at Graceland, where he lays to rest in between his mother, Gladys, his father, Vernon, and his grandmother. There is also a marker to signify Jesse, his stillborn twin brother, whose body remains in his hometown in Tupelo. The graves are bedecked with flowers and wreaths, and this is usually where one of the True Fans breaks down and cries a few tears which is caught by news media.
One thing that Graceland never aspires to do is to appeal to one's sense of good taste, something that they seem to brandish rather than conceal. The licensed souvenirs are tacky and overpriced, no question. You can buy Love Me Tender Shampoo for $20+ a bottle, salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Elvis in his Vegas jumpsuits, or perhaps some memorials published by fans that practically throb in your hands. You can also get sick if you want. It's something that tourists, like myself, would want to pick up as a kitchy reminder of their trip rather than the man himself. True fans, of which I would meet in the bar at the Heartbreak Hotel, also find it tacky, but they support it. They were the Gate People, the ones who camped out outside the main gate leading into Graceland, and who really loved him. They don't wear polyester, nor do they have big hair or sob at the grave everyday. They are articulate, they have friends and jobs and families just like everyone else. They have Elvis as their hobby, much like I have a-ha as mine. They get together and remember the good times they had, when they would gather at the gate and at the Heartbreak Hotel for drinks, it's like you're meeting new friends from all over the world and talking about their good times that Elvis brought them. I was a tourist, I was there like everyone else, because I like Elvis, but he gave legitimate hope to them. They don't like the tacky souvenirs either, but they support them because without them and the tourist dollars he would cease to exist for them.
Part of the appeal, I realized, was Elvis's lack of pretense about himself. He was a simple, country boy who got very famous and who could REALLY sing. That may sound odd that I am talking about a man who preformed in sequined jumpsuits, but when one sees his old concert footage, you see the man himself. He was a pampered, insulated superstar on one hand whose every want and need was catered to, but he laughed at himself. He didn't collect Matisse paintings or pretend he was anything other than what he was, a regular guy who made it big. There is also a sadness that you feel when you are there, you feel it once you see the grave. Why? This is his home you're in. He lived here, and he brought his Momma and his Daddy and his whole family to live with him and share in the glory of it all. He was used and abused and taken advantage of by many big time operators, and became a complete and utter mess. It's probably available on YouTube today, but his last concert This is Elvis is/was available on bootleg copies, because they took a Disney approach with his image to market him after his death. We rarely if ever see depictions of him towards the end, but here you see a clearly sick, sweaty, almost delusional man trying to preform on stage. When he gets to the monologue of "Are You Lonesome Tonight?", he stops, and forgets the words. He laughs to himself. A few weeks later, he would die.
All fans know things about their idols that others do not, and his are no exception. They don't mind the tell all books and representations of him in crushed velvet paintings exposing his bad eating habits, his kinkiness, or his mood swings thanks to years of prescription drug abuse that he felt into. They know all about that, and, like all true fans they say "The hell with what others think. He's my idol and that's how it is." It only makes you love him more and draw you closer, feeling as if he were your friend and he was somehow speaking to you and you alone. Because he understood you when no one else did. Most people, like me, are not true fans of the man, but rather tourists. I made no bones about it, I was a cool girl but I too was a tourist rather than a true fan, but I knew somewhere they were among me. They do not wear polyester and cry at the gravesite, they must have been among me. They are just like all of us and blend in with the rest of the world.
She stood before me at the front desk while checking and unzipped the garment bag she was carrying. Inside was a big, poofy white wedding dress bedecked and spilling out sequins and sparkly things on the carpet. I asked what this was about, she had traveled from Ireland and was getting married tomorrow at the Graceland Wedding Chapel in the Woods, adjacent to the Graceland house across the street. I was in Memphis, Tennessee at the world famous Heartbreak Hotel and had come to take a long anticipated trip as all rock and roll fans aspire to take one day, I had come to see Graceland, the home of Elvis Presley. Exactly why I was here, I was not sure. In the buffet line in the dinning room nearby, the man ahead of me who I chatted with had come from Melbourne, Australia. It was February, after people were still broke from their Christmas spending, and he had no doubt spent almost $10,000 to take this trip. And he was making himself a peanut butter and banana sandwich like everyone else does in the buffet line, because he ate them. Why was he here, I asked? I was from Cleveland and that was fairly close. He wasn't sure either, he came here because of him.
I had wanted to see Graceland for a long time, since it's opening to this day it stands as the second most visited private residence in the US behind the White House. People come from all over the world to see this place, and on this weekend I was one of them. I wasn't exactly sure what I was doing there either, I guess my only answer was to come because of Elvis as well. Your average hipster will say that this is what one does, and even though I was a post skinny hipster at the time I was one of them who said someday I will see this place. It's an odd phenomenon to be sure. Tens of thousands of people will come every year to see his house, his collection of cars and clothes on display, tour Beale Street nearby, take a bus trip to Mississippi a few miles away to see the house he grew up in and walk the halls of his high school which is still standing. This isn't something that happens only once in a lifetime, they were there last year and will be there the next. Bruce Springstein comes and Michael Jackson goes, but Elvis has endured. This doesn't happen for The Beatles, this doesn't happen for The Rolling Stones, this doesn't happen for Frank Sinatra. Before there was Elvis, the only fanaticism that has had such long standing dedication only occurred for those who happen to be the focal point of major world religions. Is it still cool to like Elvis? The answer is yes. I was half expecting to see an Elvis Fan around me, but did not. It would be a woman with the biggest hair you've ever seen, swaddled in polyester, morbidly obese, probably waving a genuine Elvis artifact (a paper napkin that he wiped his mouth on, a Q Tip dug out of the trash, etc.), and weeping. But there were none of them to be seen.
Graceland Enterprises is a business today, one that draws in millions of dollars a year and people from all over the world. The next morning, we were taken across the street via shuttle bus with today's round of tens of thousands of tourists. The house itself sits on a hill across the street overlooking Route 51, also known as Elvis Presley Boulevard. When he bought the place almost sixty years ago, it was all rolling hills and countryside. Today it is right off a freeway exit and surrounded by a sketchy strip of boarded up houses and storefronts, fast food restaurants and a used car dealership lot or two. This is not exactly an accident or out of place, as cars and food were something that Elvis indulged in. The house itself is smaller than I anticipated, it was actually rather modest in size. The décor is hilariously tacky in places, including things like electric blue curtains, carpet on the ceiling and veined wall mirrors. It was as if someone had taken the advice of Don't Leave One Inch Untouched when decorating their home. Each person is given a headset to listen to a perky, prerecorded tour guide's explanations of what we were looking at. Once through the front door, one can see the living room to the right, a guest room where his beloved mother, Gladys, stayed while she was alive, the foyer, and the dining room where they sat for holiday dinners. After moving through the kitchen, we saw The Jungle Room (perhaps the tackiest room of them all with false waterfalls and ugly carpet), then downstairs into the basement to see the rec room (complete with pool table that had a broken bit of glass over the light fixture hanging where Lisa Marie had picked up a billard ball and launched it towards as a little kid), then back upstairs to the backyard. I was always under the impression that the backyard of the house was a vast field where his horses were out roaming free and trotting, but it was practically a postcard in size. The neighboring houses actually spill over into the tiny backyard, separated with chain link fencing, and there were no horses to be seen. The shooting gallery was simply a medium sized backyard shed where your average suburbanite might keep their lawnmower and yard tools if they do not have an attached garage to their house. It was furnished, as Elvis's father, Vernon, had used this as office space. Here we also watched a repeating black and white film of Elvis once his tour of duty in Germany was over and was going to continue his music career. In this famous interview, images of Priscilla Presley, the fourteen year old daughter of a career air force officer who had been transferred to Germany, who saw him off at the airport before he was about to return to the US were seen. Elvis said the press had made a big deal of her and him at the airport saying good-bye, but that really wasn't such a big deal. Little did we know that it very much was.
The final three places that we see on the tour are of the racquetball court, the swimming pool and the gravesite. The racquetball court's lounge area was modest enough, the playing area was bedecked with gold records, jumpsuits on models, and a variety of odds and ends (furniture, belt buckles. etc.). This place has great meaning, as this was the place where Elvis spent the last night of his life. He and his friends were up all night, then he and his girlfriend went to bed around 5 am in the upstairs of Graceland, where he would famously die on the toilet in the bathroom attached to his bedroom. And no, you can't go up and see either of them. The swimming pool's circumference was slightly bigger than a kiddie swimming pool and was, like everything else, smaller than I expected. At last, we saw the grave. Originally Elvis was buried in a cemetery somewhere in Memphis until some grave robbers were arrested trying to break into his tomb. His body was moved and replaced at Graceland, where he lays to rest in between his mother, Gladys, his father, Vernon, and his grandmother. There is also a marker to signify Jesse, his stillborn twin brother, whose body remains in his hometown in Tupelo. The graves are bedecked with flowers and wreaths, and this is usually where one of the True Fans breaks down and cries a few tears which is caught by news media.
One thing that Graceland never aspires to do is to appeal to one's sense of good taste, something that they seem to brandish rather than conceal. The licensed souvenirs are tacky and overpriced, no question. You can buy Love Me Tender Shampoo for $20+ a bottle, salt and pepper shakers in the shape of Elvis in his Vegas jumpsuits, or perhaps some memorials published by fans that practically throb in your hands. You can also get sick if you want. It's something that tourists, like myself, would want to pick up as a kitchy reminder of their trip rather than the man himself. True fans, of which I would meet in the bar at the Heartbreak Hotel, also find it tacky, but they support it. They were the Gate People, the ones who camped out outside the main gate leading into Graceland, and who really loved him. They don't wear polyester, nor do they have big hair or sob at the grave everyday. They are articulate, they have friends and jobs and families just like everyone else. They have Elvis as their hobby, much like I have a-ha as mine. They get together and remember the good times they had, when they would gather at the gate and at the Heartbreak Hotel for drinks, it's like you're meeting new friends from all over the world and talking about their good times that Elvis brought them. I was a tourist, I was there like everyone else, because I like Elvis, but he gave legitimate hope to them. They don't like the tacky souvenirs either, but they support them because without them and the tourist dollars he would cease to exist for them.
Part of the appeal, I realized, was Elvis's lack of pretense about himself. He was a simple, country boy who got very famous and who could REALLY sing. That may sound odd that I am talking about a man who preformed in sequined jumpsuits, but when one sees his old concert footage, you see the man himself. He was a pampered, insulated superstar on one hand whose every want and need was catered to, but he laughed at himself. He didn't collect Matisse paintings or pretend he was anything other than what he was, a regular guy who made it big. There is also a sadness that you feel when you are there, you feel it once you see the grave. Why? This is his home you're in. He lived here, and he brought his Momma and his Daddy and his whole family to live with him and share in the glory of it all. He was used and abused and taken advantage of by many big time operators, and became a complete and utter mess. It's probably available on YouTube today, but his last concert This is Elvis is/was available on bootleg copies, because they took a Disney approach with his image to market him after his death. We rarely if ever see depictions of him towards the end, but here you see a clearly sick, sweaty, almost delusional man trying to preform on stage. When he gets to the monologue of "Are You Lonesome Tonight?", he stops, and forgets the words. He laughs to himself. A few weeks later, he would die.
All fans know things about their idols that others do not, and his are no exception. They don't mind the tell all books and representations of him in crushed velvet paintings exposing his bad eating habits, his kinkiness, or his mood swings thanks to years of prescription drug abuse that he felt into. They know all about that, and, like all true fans they say "The hell with what others think. He's my idol and that's how it is." It only makes you love him more and draw you closer, feeling as if he were your friend and he was somehow speaking to you and you alone. Because he understood you when no one else did. Most people, like me, are not true fans of the man, but rather tourists. I made no bones about it, I was a cool girl but I too was a tourist rather than a true fan, but I knew somewhere they were among me. They do not wear polyester and cry at the gravesite, they must have been among me. They are just like all of us and blend in with the rest of the world.
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