They called him fat and they called him a fool, but when he stepped behind the piano he was neither fat nor foolish.
He was Elvis, in South Dakota, in a small theater, about to sing another song, just a few weeks before he would fall to the floor in his bathroom back at Graceland and leave us for good – so suddenly.
And thereby catapult himself into the earthly realms where no one dies. Because now he’s the quintessential American, globally more famous than Abraham Lincoln, or maybe equally so.
(We say nothing of current people who may be more “famous” than either of them at the moment, because this kind of fame is only for the moment and will fade. In the annals of humanity, the good ones last longer than the bad except for the exceptions, like Hitler; and you really have to be bad to be as horribly bad as him.)
Before he sat down at the piano it was almost as if he was fat and a fool. He looked quite overweight although still more handsome than the most handsome movie star ever (because he was never really a movie star), and he was obviously high as hell on something, or rather not one something, but many somethings.
He was so high that he couldn’t talk right, not at all. He mumbled and muttered, he lost his train of thought, he shook his head to try and get it back, he laughed at himself up there on stage. He was high and jonesing for more at the same time, he was wired and wasted, he was surrounded by gigantic cups of ice and Coca Cola that he drank nonstop and to wash the pills down with (dozens or even hundreds of pills per day) (and he was fatter from the beverages than the sandwiches because eating interfered with the endless buzz of being him); he was high in the way that someone gets high who sees it almost as a duty and an obligation, certainly not a pastime or a hobby: he was so high that he was high as only ELVIS could be high: admirably high, utterly high, completely wasted, totally wired, and yet still walking around, telling the jokes, laughing at all. And about to sing another song.
And when he opened his mouth, the world suddenly knew (or only the parts of the world that live in South Dakota – for now) that Elvis was no longer a pop musician; he had left that behind him long ago. (“Don’t look back,” said Bob Dylan.)
Because now he was a CLASSICAL MUSICIAN. Now he was on the level of an opera singer, better than Pavarotti. Now he was someone who Beethoven and Mozart would hang out with. Now he had elevated his art into the highest levels of art that art can achieve, and his version of “Unchained Melody” was so good it made you want to compare it to (and I want to compare it to) the Mona Lisa or the Statue of David.
Elvis was fat and sometimes acting foolish; he was high as high gets when you can still walk around, and he couldn’t even talk right. But when he opened his mouth and began singing this one song, he truly belonged, and truly does belong, with the best of the best and the greatest of the greatest, not just in America, now, but in the world, anywhere, any time.
And then the song was over. And no one even applauded at first (before it exploded). But even the ordinary folk of the great state of South Dakota knew what had just happened.
Elvis had outdone himself. He had elevated himself, had increased his own greatness, had increased the greatness of art and the human race in the few minutes of one song.
His voice had been so powerful, so subtle, so nuanced, so loud, so ringing like a bell, so true, so lasting, so effecting, so mountainous and river-like, so sad, so tragic, so affirming, so massively grand, utterly great, and endlessly hopeful and emotionally pure and poetic that no one else who ever lived could sing that good, at least not what he did in that one song one time in South Dakota three weeks before he died.
Now they laugh at him as the fat fool a lot more than they celebrate him as the grand and great singer, the one true voice, the best of the best in the purity of American song. And that says a lot more about us than it does about him.
The rubes and the dupes and the snake oil sales folks all know who he is; but not one of them really knows who he is.
Only Elvis could have become ELVIS that way. Just as only you can become YOU in the way you need to.
Instead of laughing at him we should listen.
END NOTE: He was reading A Scientific Search for the Face of Jesus by Frank Adams when he died; the book was found not far from his body.
Saragun Springs 
Dale
You hit this perfectly. Celebrity, in America especially, is evil. After he left the army I doubt Elvis ever heard “No.”
I believe that the death of his mother and the arrivsl of Tom Parker had a lot to do with it.
I also believe that he gets picked on because he was a white southerner. For whatever reason society needs someone to hate. This is evident in topical tv humor. I remember when the Cosby scandal broke, all the TV people milked that for laughs never once considering his victims.
I doubt I would have lived as long as Elvis if faced with the same. And although it isn’t exclusively American, people such as the Stones, Beatles, were able to avoid the perils of hper fame. Maybe because they shared it with band mates.
Intelligent post that takes a fair look at the King.
Leila
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Hi Leila!
All you say is brilliant as usual!
And it’s a super complex situation too, and in many ways none other than Elvis himself was probably to blame.
No one ever put a gun to his head and FORCED him to make all those horrible, bad, and horribly bad movies from the 1960s that portrayed him as a complete idiot, after all.
And he was smart enough (because his intelligence was genius level) to have said “NO” if he wanted to, even to The Colonel. But I guess he didn’t want to.
He could have retreated from all the fame (he had the money to do so, had he wanted to), kept to himself, become some sort of artistic or mystical hermit who made great music in private and left it at that and saved it for later. (And that is actually what he spent most of his time doing.)
But I guess it wasn’t in him to remain behind the walls all the time.
He enjoyed the applause too much.
And he also enjoyed THE DRUGS too much.
Everyone he knew, from father to wife to ex-wife to girlfriends and friends and many more, tried to get him to quit the drugs, which in his case almost exclusively meant pills.
And if you have a drug problem that bad it’s up to you, and no one else, to get yourself clean, no matter how rich and famous you are.
It could also be said (in the yin and yang kinda way) that it’s EASIER for the rich folks, because they have the resources to go to the fancy facilities.
But he loved the pills and the applause too much.
So while he is a victim of society in many ways, he was also a victim of himself, I do believe.
Which doesn’t make him any less, and does make him more Shakespearean (as a character).
A fascinating figure forever upon whom entire tomes by good writers could be written.
Sadly, most of the things written about him are utter B.S.!
D
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Hi Dale
I imagine he got caught up in a strange never never land that it ruined his common sense. And add the pills in and his ease of getting them, someone should have seen it coming.
Leila
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L.A.
I noticed the Springs has a new tagline, your great great great great grandfather, The Judge, must’ve been up to his old tricks!
The D
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Thank you, Drifter for noticing my learned craft!
Yes, for a fellow born when James Madison was president (his wife Dolly was lovely), I get around!
Versatur Circa Quid!
The Judge
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Judge
The Drifter got chills when he received your message.
DWB
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Hi Dale
I enjoyed this piece on Elvis! They love to build them up and tear them down.
The way you described and built tension around Elvis was brilliant! I found myself rooting for him. It was a great picture of someone high on drugs–so high! And being high on Elvis and chained to it.
It’s very difficult to convey, or describe a person on drugs, but it came across very well. This reminded me of Denis Johnson’s “Emergency.”
If people would take the time and listen to his music. They would be impressed. The man was a Maverick. A trend setter. And there was that strange “Colonel” Parker in the background pulling the strings.
Elvis had a helluva comeback show on TV in the early 70s when he dressed in black, and bucked the Colonel’s influence.
One of my favorites is “In the Ghetto,” and a lot of his other songs. He was a cool dude.
The carnival atmosphere of South Dakota was pretty cool, too. “The rubes and dupes,” That is a fascinating language to me.
Christopher
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Hi Christopher!
Yes, “In the Ghetto” is a great song and one of my favorites!
Also “Suspicious Minds,” and “Kentucky Rain.”
You’re also right to cite that comeback show where he dressed in black. He proved (again) who was who in that one, for sure.
Thanks for analyzing and complimenting my prose on a wasted person.
I’m glad it partially evoked Denis Johnson and wouldn’t even be sad if it (partially) echoes him in some way/s!
It was enormous fun writing the drug and high sections for this.
In order to do it, I utilized autobiographical experience.
But left that aspect far beneath the surface, only allowing it to help in the sense that I have been that wasted myself (uncountable numbers of times, hundreds of times, even thousands of times is probably more like it).
Now I write about it much more than I do it. Such was not the case in the old days.
Thanks for your acute sensitivity to language and your knowledge of so many things, from Jesus to Elvis to Denis Johnson, Anton Chekhov and much more, including the life experience/s of wastednesses!
Dale
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Dale
Yes I think you did a wonderful job filling Elvis to the brim with pills. Not just literally but the affect of it on his personality and the effect on the reader.
The mood altering state of being this far gone makes me think of Bible prophesy like “inheriting the whirlwind.” Most if not all addicts and alcoholics have probably been to this place, but few, even the writers of this special ilk, can describe it as well as you and Denis Johnson.
To me, as someone that has attempted to convey this drugged out experience, and been there, too. It’s a hard currency to exchange to the page–so hats off to you!
-Then he performed at a supreme almost heavenly level. The rough crowd of South Dakota–even they could recognize. (That’s kind of funny, lol). Kind of like you were pitting him against these cowboys, ranch hands, and rubes. It’s like that when the crowd smells weakness–smells blood. A great example of conflict.
I also liked how you described his weight being attributed to drinking soda pop, to lubricate this dry tide of pills. that’s a lot of pills. That really illustrates his addiction and his weight.
It’s also a myth buster of the fat man on the glazed donuts. Kind of like how they say “Mama” Cass Elliot died choking on a ham sandwich. The same mean obesity jokes. She may have been eating, while she suffered a heart attack.
Glad you had a great time writing this portrait of Elvis. If I wrote it I would definitely be proud and high on writing, too!
From the Crossroads
Christopher
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CJA
Thanks again! I adore your biblical reference to being wasted in the whirlwind, it captures it all in a single gigantic image that will ring bells for all who’ve been there and can be a touchstone for those who haven’t been there but are interested in having a taste of what it’s like.
Hemingway’s writing about alcohol probably also played a hand in this for me. Also Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And much of what Bukowski wrote. Along with Denis Johnson and Carver.
I also like thinking about how BREVITY does have a dual nature. It can be many short sentences; or it can be one really really long sentence that condenses very much info down into one small space. That second kind of brevity was the kind I was going for in the description of The King being so hopped up on all the pills, sugar, and caffeine.
GREAT STORY ON LITERALLY TODAY!
You somehow managed to combine Poe, Hitchcock, Carver, S. King, Ken Kesey, and DJ and make it all sound like no one else than yourself, writing of such impressive authenticity it has the stamp of a real human on it, unutterably valuable in the Dehumanizing Age of Rising AI and all the other dehumanizing influences that drive people mad these days.
The way your main character wants to harm the dog for a moment and struggles against his wicked, evil impulses is worthy of Dostoevsky. And we find out how much he has been beaten himself, making him so very relatable.
Really great, character-based writing at all levels!
You NEVER let cheap thrills, or bogus, fake, generic plots, hijack your writing and this alone is a massive driving force that makes you a great short story writer!
You’re also a master of the subtle conclusion, the well-rounded, but not too well-rounded, ironic ending.
D
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Crap I lost my whole comment and have to start over.
About a year ago I thought of famous men that fell from grace or died from their habbits. OJ Simpson obviously, Bill Cosby drugging women for sex, Mickey Mantle drinking. Elvis was known to have peanut butter sandwiches flown in from Denver, but that wasn’t what did him in. He had his excesses and heredity (many family members died young) against. I saw him in Portland OR in 1957 and Macon GA in 1972, hoped to see him every 15 years. That didn’t work.
Another irrelavant tangent -Elvis was faulted for cultrural appropriation of black music, but he also did country and pop. In my opinion his covers were better than the original. If cultural appropriation were banned only Algonquin could play lacrosse, only Scots could golf, Ray Charles wouldn’t have done country, and Fats Domino couldn’t have done old pop songs.
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Hawley
I agree with you. Multiculturalism is good in art when it means anybody can do anything, white folks included.
When it sinks to the level of politically advantageous identity politics in the service of further fattening the wallets of the folks practicing this, it becomes something we can do without and would be much better without, too. And at that point it has nothing to do with art, only with crushing art just like the Soviets did and Putin does.
So many great artists have been the victim of their own excesses. Hemingway is a great example, in many ways a perfect example. And Van Gogh.
JERRY LEE LEWIS is a miraculous example because he was just as excessive as Elvis well into his 60s and still lived to be 87. Including smashing his Cadillac into Elvis’s front gate with a pistol in one hand and a bottle in the other.
That’s cool that you saw Elvis twice!! Wow and whoa!!
Dale
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Obscure tops from Jerry Lee You Win Again (Hank cover), End Of The Road, It’ll Be Me (a novelty song), Breathless, What’d I Say (Ray Charles cover). He was second to Elvis on Sun Records. Sam Phillips knew Jerry Lee owned every song – ballad, rock, country – that he touched.
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Dear Doug
You are right to sing the praises of Jerry Lee, he was one-of-a-kind and his range as a musician doesn’t get enough credit.
Along with him being an absolute master of ballad, rock, and country that you mentioned, we can also probably throw in Gospel and blues, as well, as two more modes in which he was completely successful whenever he touched them.
And he could play the piano so well he reminds one of Beethoven. (Even though I never saw Beethoven in person.)
And the way he used to talk and mumble and mutter and tell sometimes incoherent stories and laugh with (and at) the audience while sitting behind his piano was also one-of-a-kind…
I have a piece about him coming out on Literally this fall!
Dale
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Dale –
I look forward to it. I’ve got a huge collection of Jerry Lee on my computer and listen to him regularly along with swing/big band (Duke, Glenn etc.), blues, pop, r&b.
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