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Me 'n' Elvis have finally come full circle
Since I was as distended in stomach as Elvis later became, I was elected to be the hound dog
By Mary Ann Cook
Funny how an icon can get to you. In Elvis Presley's lifetime I shuddered when I saw his image. Didn't appreciate him one whit--thought he was vulgar, greasy and revolting.
However, as a cult figure, he served as the perfect vehicle for a Halloween impersonation in the mid-'50s. My husband and I were going to a Halloween party that included a highly competitive costume contest. We decided on Elvis and his hound dog.
Since I was as distended in stomach as Elvis later became, I was elected to be the hound dog. I got into the plan so thoroughly that I made my own costume from a McCalls pattern.
Meanwhile, my husband blackened his sideburns, Criscoed his way to a pompadour and strummed a toy guitar, and I absolutely could not bear to look at him.
The resemblance was uncanny: He reverberated too close to the real thing. Despite this aversion, we won the top prize for our efforts.
By the time the child who had been part of the hound dog impersonation when in utero reached an age when watching TV was a treat, Elvis Presley movies were the vogue. The erstwhile hound dog and his sister would prepare to tuck into an afternoon with Elvis as a special treat. I was horrified, screamed there would be no such viewing.
Over wails that sounded like distress calls stemming from child abuse, I clicked off the TV. Warned the siblings that tuning into Elvis was tantamount to brain rot. That there would be no Elvis sightings in this house. They complained, long and pitifully, but, at least under my eye, they were raised nearly Elvis-less. No small feat in those days.
But the sands of time have a way of reshaping the psyche along with the rest of the body. In short, I mellowed. And all the praise and hoopla, the outpouring of tributes to the King since his death made me re-appraise my prejudices.
There must be something solid there underneath all that Elvis effluvia, I thought, something genuine that I had been missing. Grudgingly, haltingly, I began to listen to his music with a less adulterated ear. Gradually, very gradually, I even began to appreciate it.
Then I found myself writing a play with Elvis as one of the main characters. I felt I needed to read several biographies about him. After that session, he grew considerably larger in my mind, took on some redeeming qualities.
And in order to put words into his mouth, to replicate his speech patterns, I even felt I should--yes, I'm big enough to admit it--rent his movies. And, even more astounding, watch them.
These flicks wouldn't have been my first, second or 15th movie choice, but I wasn't able to detect any perceptible brain cells disintegrating after the viewing. After today's rock scene--Mick Jagger lyrics, safety-pinned bodies with the whole thing drowned in sound--Elvis' gyrations seemed about as explosive as the fizz an Alka Seltzer makes in water. What was all the fuss about?
In the early TV appearances--the Ed Sullivan Show, for one--he was never even shown below the navel. There were protective cameramen at work, safeguarding the morals of the nation.
For me 'n' Elvis the coup de grâce came a couple of years ago, with "Blue Suede Shoes," a ballet based on his hits, chronologically biographical of the pelvis. That's when I really changed my tune.
I asked my music teacher friend, classically trained to her key-tripping fingertips, what's the appeal about Elvis? Why is he so revered?
"He's the King!" she bellowed without any more explanation. Normally soft-spoken, she blasted this out as though I were too obtuse to waste words on.
When you seek advice from an expert, you do well to heed it. I know I did. Last winter, when the strains of Elvis' "Blue Christmas" came over the airwaves of every store in the land, tears began to well up within me. I'd call that coming full circle. Well, Long Live the King.
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Sunnyvale, California Since 1994
