83 and all shook up
IYIELD my space this Monday morning to our pundit George Thomas Clark, who keeps knocking but can’t come in. This is Tom’s tribute to Elvis Presley (January 12, 1935-August 16, 1977). If Elvis were still rock’n rollin’, he would be 83 years old today. And, in remembering the King of Rock, we think of things we did when we were young and foolish and full of hope. The narrative opens and ends with an Elvis soliloquy.
* * * I can’t imagine I would’ve been around at 83. And it’s hard to believe I’ve been gone more than 42 years. Of course, I’m not really gone. Through my music and photos – if not my movies – I’m still here in ways almost no other person has ever been. I know my fans all over the world are celebrating. It’s incredible knowing so many people love me. I’m overwhelmed by all the fan clubs and impersonators and record and souvenir sales and concert films and Elvis websites and visitors to Graceland, and probably more than anything, I’m humbled by my image. During my lifetime, my image did more than humble me. It was terrifying. Imagine – you’re expected all the time to be the handsomest, coolest, best-singing cat who ever lived. I’m not saying I was exactly all of those things but, damn, I was close.
I don’t mean to brag, especially not now. I admit I got carried away and acted like I believed the myth that Elvis was superhuman. I wasn’t prepared. I’d been pretty shy and awkward most of my teenage years. Then, at about age 17 or 18, I started looking like Elvis, and by the time I was 19, I was making records and unconsciously shaking my hips and changing the world. I wish I’d known I didn’t have to pretend to be Elvis offstage. That’s when trouble started.
My closest buddies, guys I’d grown up with, became the Memphis Mafia, and they helped me trick the world into believing I was a clean-living, God-fearing, and humble Southern boy who always called people Sir and Ma’am. I almost believed that myth a very long time, and I couldn’t have done so without taking drugs. A lot of that started in my Hollywood days when I was churning out movies. It’s crazy, isn’t it? There I was in my twenties, my prime, when I should’ve being singing live onstage – and think how good that would’ve been – but I was instead saying dumb things in stinking movies that smothered my talent.
You might think it would’ve been easy for me to make professional decisions since I was so popular. It was the opposite. I was worried sick about losing my fans if I couldn’t continue to be Elvis. I thought it would be less stressful to be Elvis the movie star. That made sense. Movies are made slowly over weeks and months. Bad scenes are thrown out and unflattering images discarded. I thought I could control what the public saw and heard in ways I couldn’t in concerts. Everything happens so fast there.
Really, I got to be like a champion boxer who stays out of the ring so long he’s afraid to go back. Do you think any of my fans knew I was petrified about returning to the stage after about a decade away? I doubt it. They believed I was a star 24 hours a day and enjoying myself more than anyone on earth. They didn’t know I’d gotten used to taking uppers for energy and downers to relax and sleep. There really was no doubt, though. I was coming back. Before going absolutely live, the Colonel and I decided to do a television special in 1968.
Everything from the outside must’ve looked good. The year before I’d married my beautiful, long-time girlfriend, Priscilla, the luckiest woman in the world, and now we had a gorgeous little girl, Lisa Marie. And I was headed back to the stage for real live performances. I was far more motivated than I’d ever been for movies. This was what I’d been created for. I practiced. I dieted. I focused. I was ready. I marched on stage and discovered, thank God, that I could still do it. I was Elvis again, The King. But I didn’t feel like it. I felt bad. I was spaced out. And it wasn’t just the drugs. I’d felt that way before them. That’s really why I’d gotten into uppers and downers, to take me away from the pain that came with my natural state of mind.
I wish now that I’d gone to a psychiatrist, but at the time I wouldn’t have considered it. I had numerous starstruck doctors writing as many prescriptions as I demanded. The King sure as hell wasn’t going to risk feeling bad. I took enough drugs to ensure I frequently felt nothing. My heart and other organs were ruined by the time I was 40. If you were alive then, you must’ve wondered what’s up with Elvis being in the hospital so much. I saw the same scenes you did on TV: there’s the window of the room where Elvis is resting because of exhaustion. It was all a lie. I was dying and anxious for it to happen. If you know, you don’t need to hear them again. If you don’t, use your imagination. Use your heart to imagine what it must have been like to be Elvis Presley.
That’s what I thought about most on my 83rd birthday. I’m thinking about you and your hearts. I’m thinking about why nature gave me a magical mixture of looks, voice, and charisma that enabled me to enchant you so. I’m amazed how many of you are still so interested in me, and I’m thankful you are. I always needed you so very much more than you really needed me.
And don’t worry. I’m not really 83. I’ll never get past 42, you know that. And I promise, for you I’ll never even be 43. I’ll always be 19 or 22 or 33 or perhaps a tad more for some of you. But the most important thing is I’ll always be young and slim and dynamic and you’ll always swoon when Elvis shakes his hips and belts a number. FEEDBACK: