Elvis Presley
Suspicious Mind

They called him the king. I deliberately use lowercase here, because I only press the CAPS LOCK when talking (which I never will) about the other one, the one born in Florence and died in Mestre. They called him the king, and rightly so. Yet, let's be honest - we're all friends here - who at home has a record, just one, of Elvis? I don't. Nor do I plan to get one.

When I watch this video, the first thing that always comes to mind is: why do fools appeal to me so much? There you go. Then, usually, I enjoy it. Laughing like crazy.

They called him the king, and rightly so. He was history. He made history, created it, invented it. Yet - let's be honest - we don't have one of his albums, we're not interested. We have certainly worse things at home, surely less important ones. And maybe we even listen to them. But from him, nothing.

Elvis is on stage. In Las Vegas, on a stage crowded with people. A band behind. Backup singers, people who maybe are there and all they will do the whole evening is play a triangle, or clap their hands. But it doesn't matter, the king is fine with him or her being there. What does he care. Who cares, about us. He is the show.

The king - history says - died in 1977. Which, at least for me (and maybe not just me), makes him even more of a myth. Another occurrence in that devastating year. But no. Nothing. So much so that when I read it again, today, that it happened on August 16, I remembered, yes, those days. But never, when having to recount that year, would I have placed among the most important things that night at Graceland.

He wears his usual white suit. With fringes on the pants. The shirt open on the chest. Two sideburns that one could say command respect. When he goes to fool around with a backup singer he will make a gesture, which I don't remember why, but many did back then. He blows, twisting his mouth, to mess up his hair.

The year is 1970. The world is changing. Music, too. And wonderful stuff is coming out of it. Not him. He is on a stage, in Las Vegas, dressed in his usual way. Singing his songs. He is elsewhere. Not with those who are changing. He is singing, in front of tables, set. To adorned people. To be there, sitting there, that evening, I don't think a government salary would be enough.

Suspicious Mind is a very simple song. A man complaining to his woman. Because she is jealous. And he loves her too much. She doesn't trust. And they can't get out of it. That's it. This is because I looked at the lyrics. There's not a single move, not a single gesture, that Elvis makes that has to do with what he's singing. Nothing. He is somewhere else. He's singing something else.

Opera, melodrama - which I love - is like wrestling. It's showiness. Nothing, ever, should be hidden. For no reason. Ever. When, in 1977 or so, the KING comes out with Un Amore Così Grande, he puts his hands on his heart. And on "grande" he spreads his arms.

Even opera, in 1970, wasn't all that loved. The world was changing. And they were there. Talking about their sorrows. Flaunting them. In front of everyone. Their sorrows, which were not those of those living those years. Then, in '77 someone said instead down with Norma, we want Traviata. There. 1977. When the king died.

The king. Lowercase. Who flaunts. Like in wrestling. Every single move. In front of an audience of filthy rich fools. Coming from a country that never had melodrama, the joy of Giuseppe Verdi, for example. They have wrestling, you know what envy. But he does one thing. Nothing that has to do with the song he sings. Nothing. But something, incredible. That only those from that country manage. To be in the most awful place in the world, in front of the most awful people in the world. Singing, knowing he's doing it in front of the World, capital W. Not just singing, moving. Everything. And there, managing something that nobody else will ever achieve. To make you feel that he, there, is just a guy, from Memphis Tennessee or wherever, singing his song. A guy, fooling around. Having fun. Chaplin, great dictator, playing with the globe. Without it exploding in his hands. There, on that stage, in front of the Whole World. Not caring.

I await him, at La Scala, in a few years. Going there will cost more than a government salary. I await him to forgive him. Without denying the hatred, that I used to have for him. I have already apologized to the KING.