Searching For Elvis

By KEELY BROWN

Special to the Daily
August 18, 2007

My brother called the other day. “Did you know that this is the 30th anniversary of Elvis’ ‘supposed death’?” he asked.

I knew. I’d been keeping up with it mainly because of hearing about the heat down in Memphis — 100-plus temperatures, the same as in my hometown of Atlanta — and wondering how all the Elvis impersonators in their white spandex jumpsuits were handling it.

Like many late baby boomers, I was a teenager when Elvis died. To be honest, I was more deeply affected by the death three days later of comedian Groucho Marx, whose passing was relegated to a few measly lines in the back pages of newspapers and magazines — and served as merely a footnote on television news broadcasts — in order to make room for Elvis.

And, of course, there is that “supposed death” phenomenon. At the time of Elvis’ death, no one doubted whatsoever that he was dead. Even the tabloids at the time were so caught up in HOW he died, none of them questioned IF he died.

I’m not sure when the whole resurrection myth started, but it seems that a disproportionate number of people — too many for the sake of public sanity — believe that Elvis is either hiding out in a cabin in the woods or was brought back to life, biblical-style, to make sporadic appearances to his faithful.

It’s interesting to note that most of these appearances seem to take place in checkout lines at the grocery store, or in fast-foot restaurants.

(These are usually the same people who believe that the moon landings were faked.

By the way, did you ever notice that people who don’t believe in the moon landings nevertheless are the first to believe in crop circles and alien landings in Roswell? But I digress).

It also puts me in mind of the late great Memphis writer John Fergus Ryan, who in his book “The Little Brothers of St. Mortimer” created a character who believed that Elvis is circling the globe in a jumbo jet with 36 cats on board, watching over his fans.
I think I prefer the idea of him watching over his fans to the more common theory that he’s hiding out from them, calling himself “Jesse” and sending occasional cassette-taped messages of hope to a wary world.

The only Elvis Presley fan in my family is my mother, who is fond of reminding us from time to time, “I remember seeing Elvis when he had BROWN hair!”

Back in the early1950s, when Elvis was beginning his climb to superstardom, he appeared at the Fox Theater in Atlanta. He was, I believe, on the same bill as the Carter Sisters. My mother cajoled my father into going to the concert with her that night, much against his will — but they were still newlyweds, so he gave in.

As my mother tells it, my father sat there throughout the show with a glum look on his face, determined not to enjoy it. The more Elvis wiggled around and crooned feverishly, the more ecstatic the crowd of young teeny boppers and bobby soxers became — and the more fed-up my dad looked.

To be fair, my father came from a small German/Italian town in Pennsylvania, where there wasn’t much of a Southern Gospel following.

Finally, my mother couldn’t take it any more and decided to fool with him a bit. She waited until my dad was starting to doze off, and then leaped out of her seat and started jumping up and down, screaming and shouting “I love you Elvis!” right along with all the other teeny boppers and bobby soxers in the audience.

My father had what we in the South call a “conniption fit.” “Margaret!” he hissed. “Sit down this instant!”

Mom kept up her hollering, and started to get appreciative support from the nearby members of the crowd.

“Everybody’s looking at you!” he bellowed above the roar of the teenyboppers.
She finally looked down at Daddy and said with an innocent smile, “Ed, stop you’re fussing! I didn’t know I’d married such an old fogey!”

She kept it up until my dad looked like he was going to pass out with embarrassment, then finally sat down. She always said that Daddy stayed slumped down in his seat for the rest of the show, hoping nobody would recognize them.

Now, I have to confess that when Mom tells that story, I’m much more taken with the idea that she saw the Carter Sisters in person. Throughout my life, I’ve been lucky enough to see so many great entertainers — but I don’t regret having never seen Elvis Presley. Coming from a southerner, that’s something of a sacrilege, I admit.

However, I give Elvis his full due as a cultural icon, in the same mold of, say, Buddy Holly, or The Beatles, or The Rolling Stones or Madonna. Whether or not you’re a fan of their music, you have to respect them for reaching icon status — however they happened to attain it.

A few years ago, when I was still performing with the cruise ships, several hundred Elvis impersonators came onboard for their annual Elvis Convention. Since I remained hidden in my cabin for as much of the cruise as possible, all I can remember is a few glimpses of white-spandexed behinds as they made their way past my piano bar either to the karaoke room or to the main lounge for the Elvis Impersonator Competition. That was fine with me — given my taste and my repertoire, my piano bar was no place for them.

Now, if it had been a crowd of Groucho Marx imperonators, I’d have rolled back the piano lid and played “Hooray for Captain Spaulding” and “Lydia the Tattooed Lady” until the ship rolled into port.