Begin Reading Table of Contents Copyright Page In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. GRACELAND, FALL 1960. (ROBERT WILLIAMS) For Jacob and Nina and for Alexandra Author’s Note It’s difficult to be a legend. It’s hard for me to recognize me. You spend a lot of time trying to avoid it…. The way the world treats you is unbearable…. It’s unbearable because time is passing and you are not your legend, but you’re trapped in it. Nobody will let you out of it except other people who know what it is. But very few people have experienced it, know about it, and I think that can drive you mad. I know it can. I know it can. —James Baldwin, interviewed by Quincy Troupe THIS IS A STORY of fame. It is a story of celebrity and its consequences. It is, I think, a tragedy, and no more the occasion for retrospective moral judgments than any other biographical canvas should be. “Suspending moral judgment is not the immorality of the novel,” Milan Kundera wrote in what could be taken as a challenge thrown down to history and biography, too. This suspension of judgment is the storyteller’s morality, “the morality that stands against the ineradicable human habit of judging instantly, ceaselessly, and everyone; of judging before, and in the absence of, understanding.” It is not that moral judgment is illegitimate; it is simply that it has no place in describing a life. Elvis Presley may well be the most written-about figure of our time. He is also in many ways the most misunderstood, both because of our ever-increasing rush to judgment and, perhaps more to the point, simply because he appears to be so well known. It has become almost as impossible to imagine Elvis amid all our assumptions, amid all the false intimacy that attaches to a tabloid personality, as it is to separate the President from the myth of the presidency, John Wayne from the myth of the American West. “It’s very hard,” Elvis declared without facetiousness at a 1972 press conference, “to live up to an image.” And yet he, as much as his public, appeared increasingly trapped by it. The Elvis Presley that I am writing about here is a man between the ages of twenty-three and forty-two. His circumstances are far removed from those of the boy whose dreams came true in the twenty-second year of his life. It is not simply that his mother has died, testing his belief in the very meaning of success. With or without his mother by his side, he would have had to grow up; he would have had to face all the complications of adulthood in a situation of almost unbearable public scrutiny, a young man little different in temperament from the solitary child who had constructed a world from his imagination. The army was hard for him not just because he was temperamentally unsuited to it but because it was something he knew he had to succeed at, both for himself and for others. The artistic choices he faced when he returned to an interrupted life were far more ambiguous than the good fortune he had so innocently embraced, and he never came fully to terms with the burden of decision making that those choices placed upon him. His natural ability to adapt, his complex relationship with a manager whom he perceived not just as a mentor but as a talisman of his good luck, served him in both good and bad stead. He constructed a shell to hide his aloneness, and it hardened on his back. I know of no sadder story. But if the last part of Elvis’ life had to do with the price that is paid for dreams, neither the dreams themselves, nor the aspiration that fueled them, should be forgotten. Without them the story of Elvis Presley would have little meaning. I’ve tried to tell this story as much as possible from Elvis’ point of view. Although he never kept a diary, left us with no memoirs, wrote scarcely any letters, and rarely submitted to interviews, there is, of course, a wealth of documentation on the life of Elvis Presley, not least his own recorded words, which, while seldom uttered without some public purpose, almost always offer a glimpse of what is going on within. I’ve pursued contemporary news accounts, business documents, diaries, fan magazines, critical analyses, and the anecdotal testimony of friends and eyewitnesses not with the intention of imposing all this on the reader but simply to try to understand the story. In the end, of course, one has to cast aside the burden of accumulation and rely on instinct alone. There is always that leap of faith to be made when you accept the idea that you are painting a portrait, not creating a web site. Certainly you have to allow your gaze to wander, it is essential to take every possibility into account, not to prejudge either on the basis of likelihood or personal bias—but you also have to recognize that with the angle of perception changed by just a little, with a slightly different selection of detail, there may be an altogether different view. This is where the leap of faith comes in: at some point, you simply have to believe that by immersing yourself in the subject you have earned your own perspective. I have spent eleven years with Elvis. Much longer if I go back to the pieces I originally wrote to try to tell the world why I thought his music was so vital, exciting, and culturally significant, how it was part of the same continuum of American vernacular music that produced Robert Johnson, Hank Williams, Sam Cooke, the Statesmen, Jimmie Rodgers, and the Golden Gate Quartet. I still think that—but immersion in the subject has changed my view in other, more subtle ways. Once I saw Elvis as a blues singer exclusively (that was my own peculiar prejudice); now I see him in the same way that I think he saw himself from the start, as someone whose ambition it was to encompass every strand of the American musical tradition. And if I am still not equally open to his approach to every one of those strands, I can at least say that I have awakened to the beauty of many of the ballads I once scorned and come to a new appreciation of the gospel quartet tradition that Elvis so thoroughly knew. In the course of writing these two volumes, I interviewed hundreds of people, some dozens of times. There were moments, certainly, when I felt as if I had at last gained access to Elvis’ world; just as often, I was made aware that no matter how long one peers in from the outside, it is never quite the view from within. That’s why it’s so important to keep going back—not just to try to understand the sequence of events but to give the picture a chance to come into deeper focus. You want to try to capture the chipped paint on the doorknob, the muted conversations in the hall; you want the reader to hear the carefree exuberance of Elvis’ laugh—even if none of these things ever fully emerges from the background. Perhaps there is no need to point out that this is a task that can drive both writer and interview subject almost mad. But what struck me again and again, as it has struck me with every book that I have written, was the graciousness of the participants, their own curiosity about what actually happened, about others’ perspectives on events in which they themselves had participated. There was no question in my mind that almost without exception everyone I interviewed was telling the truth as he or she saw it. Interpretations might be shaded, time frames telescoped—but there was no conscious attempt at distortion, save for the universal human impulse to see oneself at the center of the picture. I have tried to respect those truths. I have tried to understand each of the witnesses’ stories. But most of all I have tried to understand Elvis’, and to give the reader, too, a new basis for understanding by delineating the context in which frequently well-known events occurred. That search for context—sometimes it can be not much more than how the weather was—is, as much as anything else, at the heart of my own deep-seated belief in research. Not that ultimate meaning can ever be uncovered (I must admit, I have my doubts about ultimate meaning), but, on the most basic level, how are we ever to understand cause and effect if we don’t know which came first? History may well be, as Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., has suggested, “an argument without end,” but it can provide fruitful grounds for debate if certain rules of evidence are observed. There is room for the widest variety of interpretation, Schlesinger points out, so long as we recognize that we are establishing “small truths [in order] to place them in larger contexts and perspectives,” that “we are prisoners of our own time and our own experience.” So, too, are the protagonists. “Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin did not sit around a table and say, ‘Isn’t it great living in the past?’ ” in the formulation of historian David McCullough. “They didn’t know any more how it was going to come out [than we do].” Which to me means that one must respect not just the story but the way in which it develops; judging the past by the standards of the present sheds little light on understanding, it represents no more than the I-told- you-sos of history. There are no villains here. The story of Elvis’ inexorable decline—what could almost be called the vanishing of Elvis Presley over a period of time—is neither a simple nor a monolithic one, and it may have no greater moral than the story of Job or Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex: Count no man lucky until he has reached his journey’s end. The kind of fame that Elvis experienced requires constant reinvention if one is to escape its snares—and, as more than one friend of Elvis remarked, his desire to escape was ambivalent at best; as much as he may at times have been tempted, he was not about to throw away the identity he had so assiduously created, he enjoyed being Elvis Presley. The last few years of his life amounted to little more than a sad diminution; this is what has become the basis for the caricature that we so often see repeated in our pathographic times. More significantly, the music with which he made his mark has become a battleground for competing ethnocentric claims: Elvis Presley, whose democratic vision could not have been broader or more encompassing, is used as the centerpiece for accusations of cultural theft. This is a misunderstanding not just of Elvis Presley but of popular culture, which even in its purest forms cannot help but represent the polyglot borrowings that radio and the phonograph record first introduced almost a century ago. You don’t have to like Elvis Presley—but it’s impossible, if you listen to his music, not to recognize both his achievement and his originality. He was no more a copy of blues singer Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup than he was of bluegrass pioneer Bill Monroe—though they, along with a far-flung range of influences (Roy Hamilton, Mario Lanza, Dean Martin, Clyde McPhatter, Jake Hess), were among his heroes, and he unquestionably absorbed their music into his own. That music exists, like all art, without explanation (if it could be formulized, why wouldn’t everyone do it?), but it came about no more by accident than Duke Ellington’s carefully worked-out compositions or Robert Johnson’s blues. That is what the story keeps coming back to in the end—the music. That is the mystery that will continue to reward repeated explorations, long after the frenzy of fame is finally gone.