Received in Graceland
From the Wild West
8 October 1999
by Jeff Wenger
What to do with that nearly-free
airline trip when you just have 24 hours and you’ve missed the flight to New Orleans? Go a little
further up the Mississippi River to Memphis,
Tennessee and the home of the
King of Rock and Roll.
A
pilgrimage then to Graceland, the home of Elvis Presley, to see what it says of
America.
MEMPHIS
– As the line between ironic participation and my real life continues to blur,
I found that Graceland wasn’t as bad as I
thought it would be and it wasn’t as good as I thought it would be. It was just
alright, or, as Elvis himself was wont to say, it’s alright, Mama.
There were, of course, certain
expectations going in. For example, I expected there to be many large women in
spandex sobbing at his graveside. There were just a couple.
Actually, the crowd was not only a
pretty respectable lot, but diverse – people drawn from NBC’s demographic and
that of CBS (by which I mean the young and old); people in T-shirts and people
in business attire; black people and white people. In addition to the many
Americans, there were Chinese and Japanese, German lads and a Czech couple, and
two white South Africans who were indeed choked up by the end of the tour.
The young Elvis purchased Graceland in the late 50s, when he was just hitting it
big. It had belonged to a doctor and was named after the doctor’s wife, Grace.
Elvis liked the name and kept it. A tall fence and wrought iron gate separated
the hills and trees and manse of Graceland
from the real world outside.
Yet, as the homes of the
rich-and-famous go, Graceland disappoints. The
home itself isn’t that large. It’s a big house, to be sure, but it’s not a
palatial as you might expect the domicile of the King of Rock and Roll to be.
Ernest Hemingway’s place in Key West,
Florida, by contrast, is bigger
and more stately.
Graceland,
is like, well, a doctor’s big house. It has a basement and two stories. I mean,
come on – I have friends with houses
that big.
The lot upon which Graceland rests is big, until you remember that Elvis and
his pals used to race golf carts around while brandishing firearms and hey, its
not that big.
But it is through the front doors
where Graceland really makes an impression.
The word “timeless” doesn’t come to mind when confronted with the King’s thick
green shag carpet and poly-vinyl curtains so stiff as to be formed apparently
from Tupperware. Indeed, not timeless at all, but very specifically at a moment
in time – I’m guessing, March 28, 1973, around 3:30 in the afternoon.
Elvis’ décor had a shelf-life
shorter than potato salad at a picnic. Graceland
is one part Playboy mansion, one part suburban dream home, and one part
trailer.
The shag carpet, the dark wood
paneling, the mirrors, the esoteric curves in the design of practically
everything, the veneer covered stereo hi-fis, the glass fruit – the home of the
King of Rock and Roll looks like it was furnished from a thrift store.
Fondue sets and bell bottoms (which
seemed rightly consigned to the dustbin of history until just a few years ago)
have their roots in the late 60s and early 70s when the counter-culture went to
the suburbs and became the culture.
Shag carpet on the walls of the
“rec room” was too cool for school back then, and Elvis died before he could
come to his senses and hire an interior decorator.
This then may be the key to
understanding Elvis and America:
Elvis lived like everybody else – only more so.
In other words, if you were to give
ridiculous wealth and celebrity to most of my relatives, or most of my wife’s
relatives, or most of your relatives,
they would piddle it away on fast cars and whiskey and guns and drugs and
women. They’d put in a swimming pool and a pool table. They’d give jobs to
every wheedling grade-school buddy and every lazy relative, paying them many
times what they were worth. And they’d put shag carpet on the walls if they
darn well wanted to.
This may be the strongest argument
yet for communism.
Graceland is a snapshot of America
at its apex. No nation on earth has ever been as wealthy as was the United States
from 1946-1973. That prestige and affluence was largely spent redoing kitchens
in orange and avocado.
Unnervingly, the 70s wash over the Graceland visitor. It is historically significant, but
also personal. Because the cheesy furnishings are so accessible and familiar, Graceland is a snapshot of my childhood only without my
old man passed out in the La-Z-Boy and mom’s unfortunate perms.
There is more to Elvis and America
than wretched excess, however. There is an appeal that is at once universal and
undeniable. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like at least one Elvis song. This
appeal helped to build bridges.
When Elvis was first being played
on the radio, white people thought he was black. Black people knew that he was
white, but thought here was a white guy who gets
it. Today, Elvis songs are standard fare on the radio and karaoke discs
from Manila to Montpelier. It turns out that, not only did
Elvis get it, but everybody gets Elvis.
If we accept that Kid Rock is
today’s bridge between black and white, we are in worse trouble than previously
supposed.
Elvis was the whole package. He was
sexy, but cute, benign and sensitive. (During a press conference following his
discharge from the Army, he was clever in his appeal to both bobby-soxers and
their mothers. Only now, 40 years later, has Ricky Martin – who can’t hold a
candle to Elvis – duplicated anything like it.) Elvis was rebellious, but also
blue collar and establishmentarian. (He was, after all, photographed with
Nixon.) He played State Fairs and Vegas; he was a little bit country, a little
bit rock and roll.
And in the end, he was beloved by
millions, but lonely and alone. He was the King of Rock and Roll, but
ignominiously died of a heart attack on the crapper. Like anybody could.
