Elvis Presley
From Elvis In Memphis

"He who knows others is wise, he who knows himself is enlightened. He who conquers others is powerful, he who conquers himself is enlightened." (Tao, 2nd century B.C.)

I had a dream, one of those extraordinarily vivid and filled with sequins, that not even Marzullo could have had if he had taken acid directly in Haight-Ashbury in June '67. A fluorescent sparkle in a scholastic mind, the entire inventory of be-bop-a-lula/tutti-frutti acquired a hula-hooping iconographic reason, post-atomic radiations migrated into the cold belly of USA-USSR, dad's sky-blue Buick parked in the pea-green garden, subordinate ghost towns invaded by the decaying Blob-McCarthy, the scarecrow of those scruffy anti-McCarthyists in flight. Like the bad motorized guys-Brando who set up tents and revved their Triumph bikes from the stubborn provincial town ( "The Wild One" ). In short, I dreamt of something impudent and not necessarily in violation next to the American Dream. All the bulls had escaped the pen, and there was no John Wayne nearby with a lasso and ambiguous cowboy strut ready to command respect. We know, some are born to run, some wildly, and others who lose more than the faucets of a studio apartment in Guidonia ( Monty Clift entangled by his innocent impudence and tragedy in A Place in the Sun). Elvis was born a King, or more modestly to shoot his TV incapable of satisfying, at the precise moment, a sacrosanct aesthetic taste. The Pelvis bass\walking, the only brother-son born in the sordid night of January 8, 1935, in a very modest hole in Tupelo, Mississippi state. The man with the quiff sculpted by a prankster Fernando Botero, the sexual anathema of the unleashed West on adolescents in a howling hormonal storm. Elvis, as we were saying. The future chubby Country Man of Space who wanted to make himself King in Las Vegas, but that's another story. The one of interest to your curious scribbler begins about a decade before the fateful August 16, '77...

Elvis Presley in the mid-Sixties was stuck in a dangerous ford, now swallowed and/or institutionalized by the System, harmless in his hyper-productivity as a singing actor in sterilized comedies that Hollywood churned out furiously every year, like rolls and buffalo mozzarella. Musically old at just thirty-five, Our hero decided to shake off bullies, gals, and amusement parks, decided that that world of papier-mâché, It’s Now or Never on huge billboards, and Blue Hawaii had to end the way it began: a fragrant soap bubble. And start over, humbly. Aware that now, out there, there had been a new and engulfing big bang, four shabby lads from Liverpool, Hendrix, the psychedelic Summer Of Love, and many, many hairs that demanded a fearless barber: Himself, the sovereign of the creaking kingdom of Graceland. Here then is the immense and sexually charged comeback, entirely dressed in black, in the Christmas TV special for NBC: organized by Colonel Parker, it was the 68 Comeback Special, with a guitar slung across him among adoring girls who watched, lost, at the mythical and sexy gel-quiff. It seemed still like the old, glorious days of the Pelvis, of 45 rpm Blue Suede Shoes and Teddy Bear, only that the soundtrack this time had warm soul-blues notes, pumped by a languidly torrid, majestic, and animal voice like a tiger asleep in the forest.

Tiger Man, exactly. But it wasn’t enough for the King; he wanted to return to the cradle of gospel, of sensual r'n'b with horns and female voices, to the blues of the fathers that he had plundered in the first rock-and-roll big bang, when he was a young truck driver struck by a lightning audition on Union Street with Sam Philips. He took up arms and luggage, the voluminous retinue of the entourage, and flew to Memphis, like the good prodigal son hungry for music. The result of the weeks of studio sessions was the acclaimed From Elvis In Memphis, and mythological singles such as In The Ghetto and Suspicious Minds. Released in June 1969 for RCA, and recorded in the American Sound Studios, the album focused the renewed artistic verve of Presley, galvanized by the recent success of the TV shows and once again burnished anew in explosions of country & western standards (It Keep Right On A-Hurtin' from Johnny Tillotson and I’m Movin' On, a '50 hit by Hank Snow), sullen melodies by Burt Bacharach (Any Day Now) and alt-country prototypes (the charming Gentle On My Mind). Elsewhere, this emotional mixture dominated by the divine singing of Elvis, has precious and immortal gems set in the diadem like the epic sunset of Only The Strong Survive, a heartfelt prayer between rhythm and blues and tradition forged in a fantastic interpretation (and that chorus of voices "...boy, oh boy..." to melt polar caps and tin hearts), the funeral bells in Long Black Limousine and the revisited Eddy Arnold of I’ll Hold You In My Heart.

From Elvis In Memphis is the journey to the heart of an Artist believed to be spent, worn out by money, surpassed by events and then reborn, in a burst of pride and tenacity, supported by a great backing band with Reggie Young and Dan Penn on guitars, Bobby Wood on piano, Bobby Emmons on organ, Gene Chrisman on drums, Mike Leech and Tommy Cogbill on bass, and as many as ten backing vocalists to brush his golden throat. From Elvis In Memphis probably contains one of the most grand farewells that History remembers, the marvelous country-gospel blessed by God, Buddha, Mao, and any other higher entity: In The Ghetto. And in my ideal dream, I would so wish that it were the soundtrack of a unique and unrepeatable moment, the farewell to a conflicting love, the unexpected embrace of a lost friend, the shy joy of those who believe that "memory" and "knowledge" are luminous and sacred words.