A few weeks ago I sat in a scuzzy motel room in Arkansas, listening to Elvis run through his greatest hits. It was just past midnight, the weather was hot, trucks rattled the windows overlooking Interstate 40, and ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ played like a soulcrushing existential meditation:
And although it’s always crowded, you can still find some room where broken-hearted lovers cry away their gloom…
It was strange, digging an Elvis song because I can’t listen to Elvis without hearing Chuck D looping on a boombox somewhere in Brooklyn circa 1989: Elvis was a hero to most but he never meant shit to me you see, straight up racist that sucker was simple and plain. Motherfuck him and John Wayne. (And then Radio Raheem slams the box on Sal’s countertop and demands two slices.) Like many of my generation, I was raised on Public Enemy long before I ran into Elvis. And Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing drilled that lyric into my brainpan. Elvis was a racist. He stole his music from black people.
Stole. Nobody will dispute that Elvis rode to fame on the back of old blues songs. There’s the story that in 1957 he said, “The only thing black people can do for me is shine my shoes and buy my music.” According to music historian Peter Guralnick, Elvis never said anything like that, and he was devastated by the rumor, choosing to address the matter in Jet Magazine before permanently shunning the press. “Tracing that rumored racial slur to its source was like running a gopher to earth,” Jet later wrote. “Some said Presley had said it in Boston, which Elvis had never visited. Some said it was on Edward Murrow’s show, where Elvis had never appeared.”
And that Chuck D lyric? “As a musicologist — and I consider myself one — there was always a great deal of respect for Elvis, especially during his Sun sessions. As black people, we all knew that,” said Chuck D. “My whole thing was the one-sidedness — like, Elvis’s icon status in America made it like nobody else counted. My heroes came before him. My heroes were probably his heroes. As far as Elvis being ‘The King,’ I couldn’t buy that.”
According to Guralnick, Elvis would have been the first to agree:
When a reporter referred to him as the “king of rock ’n’ roll” at the press conference following his 1969 Las Vegas opening, he rejected the title, as he always did, calling attention to the presence in the room of his friend Fats Domino, “one of my influences from way back.” The larger point, of course, was that no one should be called king; surely the music, the American musical tradition that Elvis so strongly embraced, could stand on its own by now, after crossing all borders of race, class and even nationality. “The lack of prejudice on the part of Elvis Presley,” said Sam Phillips, the Sun Records founder who discovered him, “had to be one of the biggest things that ever happened. It was almost subversive, sneaking around through the music, but we hit things a little bit, don’t you think?”
Elvis desegregated his concerts. He name-checked blues and boogie artists at his shows. “Chuck D’s attack was not aimed at Elvis the person, but Elvis the institution,” said Helen Kolawole, in an essay for The Guardian called ‘He Wasn’t My King’. “The Elvis myth to this day clouds the true picture of rock ‘n roll and leaves its many originators without due recognition.”
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And what is this Elvis myth? I drive to Graceland, skirting past shuttered warehouses and banged-up row houses. I expect to see ferris wheels and giraffes because I keep confusing Graceland with Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch. (America transforms its icons into such strange and loopy creatures.) Elvis Presley Boulevard is a tattered miracle mile. Two for one bacon burgers. Ladies’ night at the car wash. A sign at Days Inn says, “If you aren’t an Elvis fan, there is no possible explanation for you.” I get cut off by a guy in a Yukon XL with a bumper sticker that says Blow Me.
I pull into a non-descript lot and pay a fortune for parking. Admission is $30. Only members of the “Elvis Insiders Club” are eligible to receive a discount on Elvis Entourage VIP packages. A shuttle bus takes our group across the street to a mansion on a hill. Remember that scene in The Jerk, when Steve Martin finally gets his dream house? He writes his mother:
Remember how I used to wish for a living room with a plaster lion in it from Mexico and how I always wanted a large 24-seat dining table in a dining room with original oil paintings by Michelangelo and Rembrandt and remember how I always wanted a rotating bed with pink chiffon and zebra stripes and remember how I used to chit chat with dad about always wanting a bathtub shaped like a clam and an office with orange and white stripes and remember how much I wanted an all red billiard room with a giant stuffed camel and how I wanted a disco room with my own disco dancers and a party room with fancy friends and remember how much I wanted a big backyard with Grecian statues, s-shaped hedges and three swimming pools?
Graceland is kind of like that. Nouveau riche. Ticky tacky. Classic American excess, tinged with sadness because there’s the room he proudly decked out for his mother and over there you’ll see the room where he recorded his last album because he was too drugged up to make it to the studio, and downstairs you’ll find the lounge by the racquetball court where his body was found.
A photographic interlude:
Elvis bought that house when he was twenty-one. A kid who grew up poor and got lucky. Right place, right time. You get the sense that he knew it, too. Throughout his career, Elvis quietly sent money to Memphis charities and poor families. A thousand dollars here, five thousand there. When he received the Jaycee award for being one of the ‘Ten Outstanding Men of the Nation’ for his charity efforts, it was one of the only awards he showed up to collect. He was so proud of this award that he carried it with him on all of travels after giving this famous misty-eyed speech:
When I was a child, I was a dreamer. I read comic books, and I was the hero of the comic book. I saw movies, and I was the hero in the movie. So every dream that I’ve dreamed has come true a hundred times. I’d like to say that I learned very early in life that without a song the day would never end. Without a song a man ain’t got a friend. Without a song the road would never bend. Without a song, so I keep singing a song…
The shuttle bus dumps us in the gift shop. Elvis pillows, mailboxes, nightlights, tablecloths, oven mitts, spice racks, soap dispensers, soda, board games, and a 3-piece luggage set.
More Americans watched Elvis’s Hawaiian TV special than the walk on the moon.
Big Momma Tornton first performed “Hound Dog” in 1952, four years before Elvis recorded it. Here she is, doing it with Buddy Guy in ’65:
Helen Kolawole offers this thought experiment:
Let’s imagine that instead of Elvis mania, Big Momma Thornton — author of “Hound Dog” — reigns supreme with her ode to no-good men. Big Momma’s cultural conquest gives birth to a radical white teen culture and a complete and lasting overhaul of America’s putrid racial politics. White teens frighten their parents silly with their extreme bids not to become Elvis’s pale imitation of the black performers he witnessed, but the very image of Big Momma. Sounds outlandish? Any more audacious than stubbornly maintaining that this talented — but more importantly white — man deserves to be king of a genre created by black people?
It’s a challenging scenario, although Kolawole gets one key fact wrong: Big Momma Thornton was the first to record “Hound Dog”, yet the song was actually written by two Jewish guys named Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. And if you head over to the Stax Museum, you’ll hear Rufus Thomas and Booker T. talking about tuning into gospel and the Grand Ole Opry and being influenced by Hank Williams, who in turn was influenced by Robert Johnson and Jimmie Rodgers, who played with Louie Armstrong . . . and American pop music is just such a crazy mixed-up thing with so many bright spots and sad corners and catchy hooks and horrible endings.
Here’s Heartbreak Hotel, in case you’re in a scuzzy motel tonight and you feel like listening to it:
Look at that face with the Valentine eyebrows and pin-up girl pout, her little ribbon mouth blowing a plume of smoke like come here and give me a kiss. Nobody could smoke a cigarette like Linda Darnell
Many of these shoes once belonged to children. Seeing a toddler’s shoes dangling over a bottle-strewn alley or swinging from a lonely tree bothers the soul, calling to mind Hemingway’s famous six word short story: For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.
He began working the county fair circuit, selling little bags of fur that he claimed belonged to the alien’s large black dog
“A tantalizing 21st Century cross between Let Us Now Praise Famous Men and On the Road, this remarkable and utterly original memoir heralds the arrival of a new and important American voice. The Road to Somewhere will take you places you will not easily forget.”
A man believed his only chance at justice was to take a hostage and march him downtown. An idealistic dancer packed the theater yet the city cast her out. A search for their ghosts continues beneath the city.
You’ve seen her before. She’s the old woman with her eyes closed on the bus, the one who sits alone on a bench for hours. At night she listens to the exhausted air conditioners that sound like the sea, tuning in to the city’s static like an old radio show.
The Former Desk of the First Office of the Bureau of Manufactured History was unveiled at a ceremony on the third of May and continues to appear in unexpected locations throughout Indianapolis.