I?ve been upbraided. I?ve been reprimanded. And I am wallowing in the stinking filth of my own humiliation.
OK, it wasn?t really that bad. I was reminded of something, and I feel a bit silly for having needed the reminder. I mentioned a few paragraphs up that the only person that we generally celebrate on the anniversary of His death was the Christ, and that wasn?t really the death, but the resurrection. Well, like any good rule, this one has an exception.
Elvis.
I almost feel foolish writing about Elvis. When people talk about Elvis, they generally do it in one of two or three ways. Some talk about him in his last years. They remember that Elvis was a fat guy that shot his television, wore rhinestones, and died on the toilet. They remember the excess, and the extremity, and the Jungle Room. On the other end of the spectrum, some talk about Elvis in his splendour. They remember a handsome young man who could sing, write, act, and enlisted in the Armed Forces. They remember talent, and good looks, and charm.
There are, of course, also those people that talk about Elvis as being in the same category as Bigfoot, UFOs, the Bermuda Triangle, Jimmy Hoffa, and Professional Wrestling. In this category, though, reside people of both camps above. Whether in honor or execration, Elvis is talked about in terms that are bigger than life. Even Bono Vox, who is a bigger-than-life figure himself (whether you like it or not, mate, because you aren?t allowed to be famous and ordinary at the same time) writes of Elvis as having a quality like the Pharaohs.
But the truth is that Elvis wasn?t bigger than life. When I remember Elvis, I don?t recall the movies, or the Vegas shows, or the peanut butter and banana sammidges. I don?t think of rhinestones or limousines or bullet-riddled televisions or drugs or even Graceland, even though I think most people, if you asked them at the right moment, would admit that they, too, wish they had a Jungle Room. When I remember Elvis, I think of Hayride.
That was Elvis when he was Elvis Pressley. In the days before the movies, and before the hit albums, he was a young man with a guitar. He was a young man, full of nerves and butterflies, playing a song on a live radio show. There was no cape. There were no hot spotlights. There was no Colonel Parker offstage. He was a young man making music. Just some kid with a guitar. That?s the way I think of Elvis. Young, honest, and no idea what he was getting himself into. He just wanted to make a living doing something he enjoyed.
The trouble is, once people know you are good at something, you get more attention. People want to make you bigger than life, and take you way more seriously than you ever wanted. It becomes a struggle to keep your perspective, and it?s a struggle that few win in the end. And that is why, long before we were mourning the loss of Elvis, he was mourning the loss of himself.
Say what you will about the man from Memphis, or the Vegas act, or the movie star. I miss the boy from Mississippi with the infectious smile that sang songs because he loved to sing them.