Elvis Country

by
Thomas McNulty^©

I was sitting in a bar on Beale Street in Memphis with Russ Begitschke, sipping a cold beer and pondering the vagaries of a dead icon's life. Everywhere I looked Elvis looked back. He watched me with the emotionless, air-brushed stare of a young greaser hoodlum, his upper lip curled into a perpetual pout. Twenty years after his death Elvis had been reduced to an endless stream of pastel lithographs, smiling, young, and unblemished. No hint anywhere of the bloated man who died on his toilet, gurgling with excess.

The Elvis who made King Creole, the punk who makes good and redeems his father, is the most popular Elvis. The young Elvis occupies a permanent space in Memphis.

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I waited twenty minutes for this beer and took a small sip when the fire-alarm began bleating like a wounded lamb. The crowd moaned in unison, and people began the obligatory surge toward the door. I remained seated but estimated the distance from my table to the front window. A carefully aimed chair would shatter the glass if necessary.

I sipped my beer. I sniffed the air. No smoke. Some of the crowd had already made the exit, lopping past the window with downtrodden expressions at having their Elvis fantasy interrupted by the wailing screech of an electronic demon. Finally, a tall Hispanic man materialized from a backroom. He flailed his arms and announced "Everything's okay, folks, it was just birthday candles in the other room that set off the alarm." A collective sigh of relief chimed in unison with the jangle of the cash register as the overworked bartender continued his routine. Elvis watched without blinking.

Elvis Presley's Memphis at 126 Beale Street specializes in contemporary Southern cuisine and lots of alcohol. It is exclusively a tourist trap and the tourists love it. Sweatshirts, T-shirts, watches, caps and other paraphernalia bearing Elvis' visage are sold by the ton. For many, this is the first stop on a pilgrimage to Graceland. I sipped my beer and watched a group of Japanese tourists chatter excitedly at the sight of His personal possessions displayed behind glass for the daily throngs of the loyal.

I had come to Tennessee with videographer Russ Begitschke to interview singer and actor Sheb Wooley for a magazine profile, and with the interview completed we decided to make the pilgrimage to Graceland. We made the drive from Nashville to Memphis in three hours. I watched the autumn countryside slip past and dozed awhile. The radio played up tempo hits from Nashville's favorites that day – Garth Brooks, Alan Jackson and George Strait. I remember thinking that if Elvis had lived long enough he would have fit right in with this new breed of country rock and rollers.

It was dusk when we arrived in Memphis and on our way to the hotel we passed Sun Records, a non-descript building where Elvis and Johnny Cash made some of their first recordings. We checked into our hotel and went down to Beale Street for a drink.

Beale Street is the primary entertainment district in Memphis, made famous by the blues composer W. C. Handy, but music isn't always the primary source of entertainment. This is a place where Voodoo, or more properly Vodou, is practiced, a religion of Haiti. On Beale Street there is a Voodoo shop where a variety of Voodoo dolls can be purchased. Voodoo often celebrates the spirits of the dead and in Memphis dead rock and roll stars are celebrated as a matter of form. Poster reproductions advertising "The last concert appearances" of Stevie Ray Vaughn, Ronnie Van Zant, and Duanne Allman adorn the walls next to a row of handmade Voodoo dolls alleged to bring their owners good fortune.

At night a group of little black boys dance in the street for pennies. For them, Elvis will always be that dead guy that brings the tourists into town. Beale Street echoes with music as the bands kick into gear and the fading sun flashes in the storefront windows as the tourists and musicians begin their rounds.

Indeed, there are those on Beale Street like the Voodoo houngan, or priest, who claims that Old Scratch is a resident here. Death rides a pale horse in the cold mist, galloping from the November clouds as the blues makers beat their drums along Beale Street. Death wears a tuxedo, top hat, white tie and tails. He carries a cane with a gleaming silver handle fashioned in his own likeness. His pearly white teeth embrace you with a smile. A pink carnation adorns his lapel. He knows the names of every blues singer and blues song ever recorded, but it's his song, the last song you'll ever hear, that whistles through his teeth as he saunters down Beale Street.

By comparison, Nashville is a beautiful city; clean to the point of almost being immaculate, especially in the downtown area where the nightclubs and taverns feature the rising stars of the country music scene. The competition is fierce, the music is great, and the attitude is upbeat. Old Scratch is here too, but he only rates a back row seat at the Grand Ole Opry. Nashville is a city that celebrates life; Memphis celebrates death.

This was once the commercial center for the Mississippi Delta, known for its cotton and soybeans. There is no sign of the Chickasaw who originally settled here. The Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto, who arrived in 1541, is seldom mentioned in the tour books. But the fact that Memphis was a Confederate stronghold is a source of pride among many. Dixieland still has her heroes; they're still fighting the Civil War although they can't tell you any longer what they're fighting for.

Memphis is a dirty city. Everywhere are the signs of decay. Even Graceland is beginning to show its age; the carpet is almost threadbare from the millions that have passed through its rooms. The dirty streets, unkempt homes, broken and overflowing trash bins in some districts, all lend to the appearance of decay.

On this cold November night one vendor hawking beer is telling a man "I'm packin' up early. Not even the hookers are out tonight." He sells draught beer in plastic cups from a cart under an umbrella. The idea of Memphis as a center for trade goods dates back to Andrew Jackson who founded the city in 1819. Cold beer in plastic cups and illicit sex in the back-alleys under cover of the watchful eye of W. C. Handy whose statue adorns an honored place on Beale Street; with the faint scent of incense drifting from the houngan's window and the slow expectant whispers of lovers tangled in their passion; and above all this the music, endless, rhythmic, evoking the tales of Dixieland. Beale Street is the one place in Memphis where the music is original. The old blues musicians don't play Elvis songs, but they play the music he loved.

They play the Blues and they play some Gospel; a litany to cleanse the soul because that's what music does best. The Blues, with its African-American connection to the trauma of slavery, had metamorphosed into a ritual to revitalize the downtrodden souls by the time Elvis was growing up in Mississippi. This is the music that influenced Elvis; the cacophonies of solace and comfort that ultimately entertained, eventually transforming itself into rock and roll. Elvis assisted in that transformation, and other cultural trends, finally morphing into something that he could never have imagined: a King that reigned supreme long after his spirit had left his body.

For a few dollars you can have an hour's entertainment with Madame LaFitte and her Tarot cards. She is particularly interested in your palm lines. She can see your future in the wrinkles of your hand; an ancient blueprint to our atavistic destiny that we carry with us. But it takes Madame LaFitte's vision to transcribe the broken lines and curved creases. She claims Elvis came here once, the year before he died. His palm had broken lines; his destiny was foretold under a full moon as he brushed in with one of his giggling girlfriends. They were drunk and coked up and the girl, a winsome blonde, had talked Elvis into getting his fortune read.

She saw the coroner's report in his hand and it was mirrored in his jaundiced skin and watery eyes. But Madame LaFitte never lied to Elvis. "Your fortune will grow." She told him. "The critical acclaim will come back to you as well." All of these things came to pass as she saw them, leaving out only that by then Elvis would rest in a grave next to the place where he once grilled for his guests.

The high god, Bon Dieu; a departed ancestor or, more generally, the dead, along with the houngan, and the priestess called a mambo, invokes the spirit of Elvis by drumming, dancing, singing, and feasting. An ivory skull floats out of the darkness followed by a white-gloved hand. The séance is about to begin. Manicured fingers, the nails painted bright red, shuffle cards as a small hourglass drops its sand in the table's center. The priestess rolls her eyes and after a moment the eyelids flutter, her jaw rises, her voices rasps out words from beyond the veil. Is this Elvis speaking to us? Many have communicated with Elvis after his death, and far too many acquire his appearance. Elvis impersonators are a multi-million dollar industry, although Graceland security will not allow them to enter the mansion dressed as their idol.

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Graceland is a time machine. It remains the way Elvis left it the day he died; although the rooms are corded off and the property has become a museum, especially the stables and barns, converted now to showcases for his belongings, but otherwise intact. Because walking through Graceland's rooms is like walking back in time, the estate rises above the ordinary. It is at once tacky, but haunting. There are moments when our collective memory takes over and there he is again, ambling through some old newsreel footage, smiling on the front steps, the shadows of those great old trees swaying across the entranceway, a wave and a smile, and Elvis enters Graceland. How many remember those moments glimpsed on film, and in their youth dreamed of entering Graceland with the King? Middle-age and beyond, still dreaming of those halcyon days fevered with romance and the expectation of a life well lived. For some, coming close was all they could hope for; but for others the dream died on August 31, 1977.

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The stone fence surrounding Graceland is marred with years of graffiti. The words all echo like the lyrics of a bad song: Elvis, I never forgot you; I love you; Elvis Forever; I'll always love you Elvis. And they sign their names – Mary, Suzanne, Rebecca, Holly, Kathy, and Laurie by the thousands. The ink blurs in the rain and someone else pulls up, jumps from the car, and quickly scrawls a line. Years of love letters written on stone, washed by the rain, dried by the sun. Somewhere in the faint inscriptions the occasional sexual reference or explicit cartoon, but mostly these are love notes from the faithful, heartbroken masses.

I peer into the stone, deciphering the words. Elvis, did you enjoy your dance with Mister Death? Yes, Elvis belongs with Old Scratch now. They say, down on Beale Street, the boys are always singing gospel songs to lift their spirits.

Elvis is America's best Horatio Alger story. Alger's novels emphasized success through perseverance, and Elvis was the embodiment of rags to riches success. Born in Tupelo, Mississippi, Presley moved to Memphis in 1948. After High School he worked as a truck driver. In the early 1950s he began a recording career and was hailed as the King of Western Bop and Hillbilly Cat music. One hit record followed another, and this he followed with a long film career. No matter that these films were clichéd romantic dramas; he had become the King of Rock and Roll. Alger never wrote a story as good as this one. But it was the ending, and its eternal aftermath, that Alger never could have imagined.

The Gift Shop at Graceland offers the same trinkets found at the restaurant: pencils, lunch boxes, sweaters, stationary, playing cards, posters, and CDs. Elvis the dead icon, ié, Elvis the captain of commerce and industry.

Certainly I could spend my hard-earned money on some trinket here, something to keep this trip alive in my memory. I settled on a deck of playing cards lacquered with a photograph of Graceland's front door. I took an identical photograph just a few moments later. A few years later I would come across them again, rediscovered in my den; the deck still in its cellophane wrapper nestled behind a novel by E. L. Doctorow.

Today, Elvis Presley Enterprises is controlled by Priscilla Presley, one of the world's celebrity ex-wives who beat the odds and managed to control the fortune her dead husband left behind. She is highly respected in Memphis, as well she should be. Her driving influence has transformed Graceland into one of the world's more profitable tourist attractions.

Inside Graceland we walk in silence past his belongings: costumes from his shows, honorary police badges, scarves, guns, and ephemera. When the tour is completed we walk around to the spot near his swimming pool where years before Elvis grilled for his guests. The grill is gone and replaced with a graveyard. A marble open-air temple marks the final resting place of the King. If not for the endless crowds this would indeed be a tranquil, solitary place to meditate.

The guards are quick to mention no video or filming is allowed. Yes, still photographs are permissible, but no video of the grave. It seems absurd. The sun is shining and it's a beautiful autumn day in Memphis. The oak trees sway in the gentle breeze. I breathe in the cool air and blink away sunlight. At any moment Elvis might come bounding around a corner, a smile on his face. It was time to go.

The next afternoon we drove back to Nashville nursing our hangovers. It was a bright November Sunday before the Millennium and the trees were changing color. The trees were sprinkled with orange and the blue horizon made the colors seem fresher. I felt my spirits lighten but I was tired and dozed for awhile, momentarily content.

We crossed the Cumberland River and I saw an old Toyota skim past. The car was packed with four overweight men wearing baseball caps and camouflage jackets. The Toyota chugged along with a dead deer hanging from the trunk, the head lolling with the movement of the car, the dull eyes reflecting the fading sky. Three bullet holes made a triangle on the ribcage. I caught a glimpse of a bumper sticker just below the bouncing antlers. Straining for a better look I noticed viscera had splattered from the deer's open jaw onto the bumper sticker. But there in the fading light I could just make out the proclamation printed in bold red letters: GRACELAND.

Author's note: Elvis Presley's Memphis Restaurant ceased operation a few years ago while Graceland continues to attract twenty million visitors a year.