Everyone is waving the tiny American flags because the DJ is playing Elvis' rendition of "America the Beautiful." The song has recently been rereleased to take advantage of the post-Sept. 11 boom in patriotic recordings, and despite the lack of radio play its climbed to No. 6 on the Billboard singles sales chart, making Elvis the only performer to reach the Top 10 55 years apart.

Over the loud music, Shantay Violette is talking about her Elvis journey. "When my father passed away, I went into a deep depression. I don't know what I would have done without the help of my Elvis friends." Last year, Shantay, a handsome woman who creates an impression of vigilant sobriety, founded the Always on My Mind Fan Club. These days, much of her time is devoted to publishing the bimonthly newsletter and responding to the 300 e-mails she receives every day.

Shantay says Elvis memorabilia completely covers her bedroom walls and has nearly reached the top of the room's 30-foot cathedral ceiling. Her most prized possessions are the four scarves Elvis gave her, and a tiny bottle of water from Graceland's pool, where, thanks to a lenient security guard, she took a dip in 1976. "I want it around me," she says thoughtfully. "Elvis always lifts my spirit. I know I can always rely on him. It's hard to go through a day and not have some part of Elvis touch you."

She looks for a while at the groups of fans clustered around the dance floor. "It's like Elvis is the tree, and then there are the branches, that are the fans," she says. "And the tree continues to grow."

Shantay's daughter Lyndsey, who at 12 is the youngest member of the Always on My Mind Fan Club, has been an Elvis fan since she was 3, and says her favorite song is "Viva Las Vegas." She says her best friend Shannon likes Elvis OK, but most kids her age don't. "At school they sometimes make fun of me and say, 'Elvis is dead.' I just ignore them."

Just then "Viva Las Vegas" begins playing, and Lyndsey screams and runs to the dance floor. Everyone dances frenetically to "Viva Las Vegas" and "The Girl of My Best Friend" and "Clambake" and "Hound Dog" and "Little Sister" and "Polk Salad Annie." At midnight everyone sings "Happy Birthday" to Elvis -- "wherever you may be," someone calls out midverse.

Then, during "American Trilogy" -- a medley of "Dixie," "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and "All My Trials" -- everyone gathers in a lopsided circle that wraps around the room and sways side to side, arms raised and hands linked, as though at a revival. As a chubby teenager with two-tone hair takes my hand, it occurs to me then that I have never been in a room with a more unlikely mix of people.

Swaying beside me is an elderly couple in pink satin TCB jackets; a red-faced, mutton-chopped semi-impersonator in a spangled jumpsuit; two men in their 30s from Scotland in matching red Versace shirts and gold chain belts who are obviously a couple; a heavyset middle-aged woman wearing an Elvis cap who unfurls a Confederate flag during the "Dixie" section; and two young Japanese women in little, chic black dresses who are singing along.

An Asian man in a leather vest with tattoos covering his forearms and a mullet is suddenly standing in the center of the circle, lip-syncing to "Battle Hymn." He throws his head back and croons into his thumb, the other arm thrown up and back, Neil Diamond-style. No one seems to object. In fact, acceptance and love are on everyone's face tonight in the Marriott ballroom, and fans embrace and hold each other on the dance floor.

Just as suddenly, the somber mood of "American Trilogy" melds into the power chords of "I Can Help," a nonhit I recognize from a mid-'70s album. The room breaks into a group dance, the complexity of which I'm scarcely prepared for. By the time I catch up with the claps and turns, I begin to make out the lyrics:

"If you've got a problem, I don't care what it is/ If you need a hand, I can assure you of this/ I can help .../ I've got two strong arms, I can help .../ If your child needs a daddy, I can help."

Everyone is whirling around the room, and the DJ plays the song again.

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At the Heartbreak Hotel's Jungle Room lounge, an earnest-looking young man with a jet-black cowlick is belting out "How Great Thou Art" over the prerecorded music.

After a day of sightseeing, David and Julia Steadman are sipping piña coladas. On their first visit to the U.S., they've come to Graceland from Birmingham, England, a trip they were planning for David's 60th birthday. "But after David's heart attack, I thought, We have to go now," Julia says.

Though they booked their tickets before Sept. 11, they still came. "Terrorism didn't stop us," they tell me.

I ask the Steadmans whether they are having a good time. "It's a dream," David says. "Ever since I heard my first Elvis record as a teenager, I've dreamed of coming here. Look, I'm a working bloke. But when I walked into Graceland, I wept." He looks at Julia. "And I'm proud of it."

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At 2 a.m., there are no pedestrians or cars on Elvis Presley Boulevard, and it is cold. Hovering above a dreary strip of gas stations, Chinese restaurants and check-cashing storefronts, the lit-up Graceland looks like a UFO that's landed on a hill. Its winding driveway is lined with blue lights, and the life-size Nativity scene on the front lawn is neon green. I stand for a while outside the wrought-iron gates, which look like notes on a staff. In a booth on the other side, a squat woman in a windbreaker watches a bank of monitors.

The brick wall that runs along the sidewalk is covered with graffiti. Periodically, the graffiti is blasted off with pressurized water, but it's quickly replaced. In the dark, I try to read the messages, but manage to make out only one. Written in purple marker, it says: "It's been 25 years, but our tears are still falling."

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