THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, August 16, 1995 TAG: 9508160043
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E3 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ANN G. SJOERDSMA
LENGTH: Medium: 73 lines
IF THERE WERE any justice in American pop culture, Elvis Presley impersonators would be 22 years old, with thick, dark hair, soulful eyes, hips that come with a manufacturer's warning and a smoldering smirk. ``Burnin' love'' incarnate.
Repeat after me: ``That ain't tactics, honey. That's just the beast in me.'' (Vintage rough kiss, ``Jailhouse Rock,'' 1957.)
The inimitable Elvis Presley, who cut his first tracks, ``My Happiness'' and ``That's When Your Heartaches Begin,'' in 1953 at Memphis' Sun Studio for $4 - a gift for his mother, Gladys - self-destructed 18 years ago today at age 42. Born in Mississippi poverty, he died in a self-made American ``Graceland.''
``I used to be one of the heavy-footed icon-bashers who trampled on Elvis fans' hallowed ground. Raised on the music of Liverpool, Motown and San Francisco psychedelia, I primarily knew, and enjoyed, Presley as a cute, but unremarkable star of far too many boy-meets-girl, boy-sings-to-girl and boy-marries girl movies (31 in all). I appreciated the deep, soft tones, but not the glitter.
On Sept. 8, 1977, not even a respectful month after his premature, drug-assisted death, I called Elvis ``pathetic'' in a newspaper column, a ``shadow'' of the joyful young man he once had been. I exhorted his fans (misguided hero worshipers) to tell the truth about Elvis, about his deterioration, his betrayal.
``Elvis is dead,'' I arrogantly wrote, ``say it three times over; breathe it and understand it.'' Quoting the honest lad in the naked emperor tale, I concluded: ``The King is dead; let us find a better one.''
No, my grief-stricken readers didn't run me out of town - Sanford, N.C., a place I soon gladly took my leave of - but they bombarded me with enough you-don't-have-a-clue hate mail to leave me all shook up. ``Get over it'' doesn't play well NOW with Elvis fans; imagine the outrage it incited immediately postmortem.
And they were right: I didn't have a clue. I just had a forum and an ``attitude.''
They also were wrong: Elvis Presley's demise was sad and pathetic, a bad joke and an American tragedy.
But it took me nearly 10 years before I grew into an understanding about Presley, his music, the nature of love and false romance, and the offer of hope. I found it by checking into ``Heartbreak Hotel,'' sorry to say, finally realizing that until I ``got stung'' by a certain man I'd just been playing hide-and-seek with love. When, at last, my brain started flaming and I didn't know which way to go, I found Elvis: a hound dog on a hot tin roof. Hurtin' and trapped. Singing the honeyed blues. (Elvis can get you to talkin' trash, too.)
I figure if you can love Elvis, his story and his music, you can love and forgive anyone. Your heart is big: You can hold on close, tight and thrill with delight. What was missing from my glib ``the King is dead'' commentary and is lacking in all of the bad Elvis pillpopping, firearms and fat jokes is, quite simply, heart . . . compassion. Elvis is a much-too-easy target for the insecure, distant cynic: Even Presley himself knew to shoot at television screens (or so rumors say) and not human beings.
Sweet and courteous, his mother's son, Elvis Presley always had a song in his heart, no matter how recklessly he wandered or how foolishly he behaved. And he went far, far afield.
His fans still feel that song within: It's a hard-driving, 22-year-old, smoldering sort of thing, but once you've got it, it's yours for keeps. It's burnin' love, honey. Just the beast.
To Elvis Presley, in whomever he might live, I humbly say, thank you, thank you very much. (And, if you don't mind, pass the doughnuts, please.) MEMO: Ann G. Sjoerdsma is book editor for The Virginian-Pilot and The
Ledger-Star. by CNB