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Oh, Elvis
I saw a picture of young Elvis the other day. It was all smoldering glance and swiveling pelvis. Oh, Elvis! You stole all those funky black songs and drove the white teenagers crazy. Their parents hated you for it, but they would have hated those songs even more if they’d known the origins of them.
Elvis, it’s because of you that I stopped listening to pop music. I wasn't ready for you. I wanted life to continue as it had: “Doggy in the Window” for those lite moments, “Red Sails in the Sunset” for dancing in the dark. Harmless musical movies with songs like “It Might as Well be Spring” (State Fair). Then you came along with your “all shook up” and before I could even adjust the volume on my radio console, the world had changed. There was no room any longer for “For All We Know We May Never Meet Again” or “You Go To My Head” or “My Funny Valentine”. No room for Duke Ellington or for the Glenn Miller sound-alikes. You were the beginning of the end for me.
From this distance, now, Elvis, I find your songs a bit tame and more than a little charming. I’m sorry life turned out so badly for you (ending in death, that is; but then, what’s surprising about that?). I don’t like change, but you must have hated going from slim and sexy to fat and drug-addled. The price of fame, I suppose. But I have to admit that you really did have it when you were young; I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate your “it” at the time. But thanks for the memories.
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