by Jim Bleikamp, East Windsor, New Jersey

As an adolescent of the late 60s, I came of age well after the first wave of the Elvis explosion. Although I’m well aware of the Elvis contribution to the birth of rock, and am still in awe of the raw and simplistic power of some of those early Sun recordings, I was not only willing but eager to dismiss Elvis and all things remotely related to Elvis, after incidents such as his appointment as some kind of honorary federal agent by Richard Nixon around 1970. I still gag a bit at the memory of this. By the way, if you are under 40, the concept of drug-addled Elvis as a federal drug agent may sound surreal, but an internet search will reveal the reality that Elvis, in a visit to the White House, did become a G-man—at least in ceremonial fashion, which was more than enough to prompt a case of the stomach flu.

My growing distaste for all things Elvis was also cemented by my dislike of jumpsuits and any fashion items even remotely resembling them. My distaste morphed into hard-edged cynicism—like many other boomers, I accumulated a hefty repertoire of sick Elvis jokes, and even mastered a decent second-rate Elvis imitation that got me noticed at a few parties.

But age has had a way of weaning me away from restrictive, “black and white” attitudes on lots of things having to do with the human condition and Elvis is on the list of subjects reconsidered. It may have begun when I was co-host of an alternative rock radio program in Columbus, Ohio in the 90’s and heard a lot of Mojo Nixon’s “Elvis is Everywhere”—this is both a comedic and musical gem, in which Mojo ruminates on the little bit of Elvis inside us all, and the periodic need of some of us to “CALL IT UP”.

I never saw Elvis live, but it’s occurred to me in recent years that whatever the style of his music at any given time, Elvis always brought his passion with him to the recording studio. I’m still not a fan of his later stuff, and the only way I’ll hear it is in a mall or on someone else’s radio, but it was never half-baked. Elvis showed up in totality when he was putting together a record. I had occasion to be at an alternative media conference earlier this year in Memphis, had some time on my hands, and thought of actually seeing Graceland, which, by the way, is the second-most visited home in America—topped only by the White House. This was something of a leap for me, because in keeping with my all-around Elvis cynicism, Graceland had in my mind become the epitome of the outer disgusting edge of all things kitschy and tacky. However, I was given one of those a-ha life lessons in the danger of pre-judging what one has not experienced.

Graceland, at least on the outside (I couldn’t go in—I was there on a Tuesday, which is the one day of the week on which inside tours are not conducted), is a lovely, tasteful and understated place, which Elvis purchased from a promiment Memphis doctor. Apparently, the same words can be used to describe the interior. I marveled at Graceland—even left with three tastefully crafted mugs featuring likenesses of both Elvis and the house—purchased, by the way, at premium prices from one of several gift shops across the street. I’m glad that I have come a long ways into coming to terms with a man who even after thirty years of being gone, still casts an enormous shadow on our culture. It’s like Mojo Nixon says: “Elvis is in your jeans. He’s in your cheesburgers. Elvis is in Nutty Buddies! Elvis is in your mom!”