I miss Elvis Presley this time of year. The older I get — currently 53 — the younger Elvis was (42) when he died. So yes, Elvis Week grabs my heartstrings, from the tribute artists to the candlelight vigil, from the random t-shirts (Elvis with Bigfoot?) to the Elvis Presley 5K . . . a distance I’m rather certain the King never ran himself. There’s irony, of course, in “missing” Elvis Presley, as his presence — particularly in Memphis, Tennessee — couldn’t be greater, even if he were alive and well at age 87.
Elvis was a meteor. All of 23 years passed between the day he first walked into Sun Studio (in 1954) and the day he died at Graceland (in 1977). Compared with the performing and recording life span of the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, or even my band of choice, KISS, “the Elvis Presley years” were the entertainment equivalent of a novella: just enough of a teaser to make you want more story, more adventure, more thrills.
I grew up with an Elvis story, as my dad met him (in the basement of Katz Drug Store) in September 1956, just a few days after Presley’s appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, among the moments that made this particular meteor soar. Dad was but 14 when they shook hands, Elvis only 21. When I first listened to Elvis songs as a child, I was listening to a King my dad knew. That’s the way I saw things.
August 16, 1977, is among the earliest days of my life I can distinctly remember. I was eight years old and my family had recently returned to the States after a year in Italy. We were visiting my grandmother — Dad’s mom — at her Central Gardens home when news broke, first that Elvis had been rushed to Baptist Memorial Hospital, then that the most famous man on the planet (maybe second to Muhammad Ali) had died. This was my first experience with death, someone I “knew” . . . dying. Even at a still-tender age, I knew 42 years was not a long life.
Elvis, of course, has lived beyond the dates on his famous tombstone. This summer’s most talked-about movie makes that quite clear. My daughter Elena is not a moviegoer, but she made time from a busy work schedule to see director Baz Luhrmann’s Elvis with me. (“Elena, you and Elvis are both from Memphis, and you both have five-letter names that start with E-L.” Eye roll.) My older daughter, Sofia, took a picture of Elvis with her to New England for four years of college, a photo that can now be found at her apartment in Honolulu. She’s also been spotted in a dress adorned with Elvis imagery from the movie Jailhouse Rock. Aloha from Hawaii, indeed.
The point is that Elvis has found life among multiple generations since 1977, and there’s no indication his popularity has plateaued. (Remember, Elvis Presley has now been gone longer than he lived.) The only candlelight vigil I’ve experienced in full — with Sofia in 2016 — was under a Biblical rainstorm. But nobody went home. The line didn’t move . . . until the Graceland gates were finally opened. We had our ponchos to stay somewhat dry, and a kind couple from Sweden lit our candles as we walked up the driveway to the meditation garden, to pay our respects. Sure, it was somber strolling past a man’s grave. But it was also, somehow, energizing. This one man, in merely 42 years, left a mark we choose to honor every August . . . deluge or dry.
I grew up loving “Hound Dog,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and “Burning Love.” But my favorite Elvis song has become “If I Can Dream.” “As long as a man has the strength to dream, He can redeem his soul and fly.” Elvis famously sang this during his ’68 Comeback Special, and I’m not sure his voice sounds more alive in any other recording. So yes, I miss Elvis this time of year. But when I find myself dreaming, as we all do, I often think of him. And that helps me fly.