Site Presented By
Sunday, Jul 12, 2009
Elvis Presley died 25 years ago this week, and his hardcore fans are getting "too old to shag." But the bizarre and marvelous world of Elvismania will never die.
Aug 16, 2002 | "Some of y'all never been down South too much ... Down there, we have a plant that grows out in the woods, in the fields, looks something like a turnip green. Everybody calls it poke salad."
Soft white leather boots planted at his sides, Elvis Presley grinds slowly in a matching jumpsuit decorated with beaded fringe and silver buckles running down the sides. Tan and slender, he looks at once menacing and on the verge of laughter. He whips his arm into the air and the audience lets out an involuntary scream.
"Lord have mercy."
Along with five or six other guests, I'm huddled around a faux-'50s television in the lobby of the Heartbreak Hotel in Memphis, watching Elvis perform "Polk Salad Annie" in Las Vegas, circa 1971. It's 2 a.m. Though she has seen the footage countless times, a woman in a baby blue parka sitting beside me sighs loudly as she watches Elvis pace up and down the stage.
Aug. 16, 2002, marks the 25th anniversary of Elvis' death, but I'm in Memphis in January to celebrate his 67th birthday. Both anniversaries -- birth and death -- are an occasion for annual fan pilgrimages. Having loved Elvis' music ever since I can remember, I've spent 22 hours in a car and crossed seven states to be here. Tonight, the Heartbreak Hotel, located several hundred feet from Graceland and surrounded by fake topiary shaped like pianos and guitars, feels like the Vatican Holiday Inn.
The woman in the parka follows Elvis with her eyes, dabbing them with a balled-up Kleenex. "God," she says to herself quietly. "Oh God."
Day 1
In the Heartbreak Hotel cafeteria, Brenda is dreamily picking at her breakfast while "Love Me Tender" drones softly from a ceiling speaker. Brenda, in her late 30s and pretty, tells me she's a homemaker from Texas. She says she has always felt drawn to Graceland. This is her 12th visit. "I used to bring the kids, but now my husband says, 'What is there to do?' But I just love being here. It seems every time I learn something new. So now I just drag along whomever I can find."
This time Brenda brought her brother Buddy, who wears a thick mustache and a baseball cap and seems skeptical. "My cousin makes fun of me," Brenda is saying. "'Why can't you e-mail me just once without mentioning Elvis?' So now I just use the word 'blank' instead. And my e-mails are just full of 'blanks.'" Buddy rolls his eyes.
I ask Brenda what she likes best about Elvis. "Oh, I don't know," she replies. "I just love him. I know he's not Jesus Christ, but he was different." Brenda says that someday she would like to move here and maybe get a job at Graceland. Nevertheless, as she looks around the tables, which are occupied by groups attired in Elvis hats, shirts and buttons, she seems a little out of place. "I know there are more diehard fans here than I," she says almost apologetically.
Buddy snorts. "I'd hate to meet them," he says.
At an adjacent table, a man in his early 20s is telling a rapt audience of middle-aged women about an Elvis pinball machine he bought at a garage sale for $200. When he's not working as a telephone operator, John Daly operates the Elvis Memories Loop, an e-mail service that has more than 300 subscribers. He collects only authentic historical Elvis artifacts and displays them in his "Elvis room." Daly exudes an air of authority and looks a bit like a young Phil Spector. Nevertheless, he has to be careful about decorating his Elvis room because he still lives with his parents.
He fills me in on some tenets of Elvis fandom: "There are two types of fans. There's the type that come here when they're passing through town, and then there's us: We eat, sleep and breathe him." And: "Serious fans don't like to be called 'fans,' because it implies fanaticism." Also: "We don't like impersonators. They look cheap. Their outfits look nothing like the real thing, because Elvis spent a fortune on his costumes."
The women seated around Daly are members of the If I Can Dream Elvis in Alabama Fan Club. A heavyset blonde in an Elvis sweatshirt hands me a card. It says "Sharon Parker -- I Love Elvis." Parker tells me that when she recently had knee surgery, she received hundreds of letters and cards from "Elvis friends" around the world.
I ask everyone what they like most about Elvis. "He was always there for us," says Parker.
"He couldn't live like us," someone else says. "He gave up his life for us."
A young black woman in a maid's uniform announces that we have to leave the cafeteria because she needs to vacuum. Daly suggests that we go up to his suite to watch "Follow That Dream" on the hotel's 24-hour Elvis channel. Before we do, Parker recites a prayer: "Thanks for the love and friendship we found through each other and Elvis Presley."
