The Wanderer

Elvis Presley remains a singer. Just below the surface of the popular imagination, he remains a traveler.

This is not the story as it is currently reported. Elvis Presley, one will read everywhere on or about Aug. 16, 1997, the 20th anniversary of his death at the sad age of 42, is an icon. He is a hero to some and a joke to others. But more than anything he is a symbol of --

And of what it hardly matters. As Simon Frith once wrote of Presley's early recordings, "Our joyous response to music is a response not to meanings but to the making of meanings." Presley, he said, "dissolved the symbols that had previously put adolescence together." (Much too narrow -- I'd say "put Western identity together" and leave it at that.) "He celebrated -- more sensually, more voluptuously than any other rock and roll singer -- the act of symbol creation itself." Yes, one might want to say -- but now it's as if the primacy of symbolism itself is being celebrated.

The discourse of this symbology -- the notion that an individual, a nation, or a whole borderless society of pop culture can be represented (or replaced) by a single Elvis image -- is barely interesting, if it is interesting at all. Perhaps more than ever before, the words "Elvis Presley" sell false memories, be they incarnated in dolls, key chains, T-shirts, books, statuettes, television shows, or news reports of thousands of fans from all over the world gathering at Graceland to walk in the footsteps of a man who, all these things exist to make it seem, lived mostly to be recalled as a martyr or a saint.

As interviewed by TV reporters from dozens of nations, women and men will step before the cameras and testify that, yes, it was in 1972, or perhaps in 1975, in San Francisco, or Baton Rouge, that they attended the first or last or 17th Elvis concert of their lives, "And I just got chills. It was as if he was singing just to me." But aside from a few obligatory film clips from 1956 or 1957, there will be no hint of what brought Elvis Presley, if not those who are now speaking, to such places.

It's in this sense that the memories are false. They contain no sense of the remarkable journey of a young man who took himself from the oblivion of poverty and scorn to the oblivion of unconscionable fame, all by means of the way he sang and looked and moved. Rather they reduce that journey to a fragment of speech, a soundbite as automatically replicable and transferable as any of the Elvis souvenirs meant to make the memory real, concrete: something one can touch. It's strange; if Elvis Presley sang, looked, and moved like nobody else, which he did, why are all the memories the same?

But it is not strange. This process is nothing more or less than people caught in a loop of pure capitalism, where, within a certain society, a certain frame of reference -- a certain market -- everything on sale sells everything else. And this process can only proceed if history and fantasy are excluded.

In the case of Elvis Presley today, history means not the thousandth or even the first telling of Elvis Presley's rise and fall. It means an untold story: the still-emerging fragments of his music as he made it, abandoned it, or forgot it. History means the barely contained teen-age delight and lasciviousness of a 1955 Texas demo of Joe Turner's "Shake, Rattle and Roll," little noticed when it appeared 37 years after the fact on The Complete 50's Masters; or the 15 amazing 1954-1956 live performances recently collected on Louisiana Hayride Archives, Volume 1; or the 1968 backstage rehearsals -- the sound of a jailbreak -- on Ray Charles' "I Got a Woman" or Rufus Thomas' "Tiger Man" only just issued on Elvis Presley Platinum: A Life in Music; or anyone's choice of their like. Here, with the sound the singer makes unmediated by the adulation he's received, either because in 1955 he does not yet believe in it or because for a single day in 1968 he cannot trust it, the dissolution and celebration of symbol creation Frith speaks of is completely present. In this music you can hear the making of music as the making of history: In a story that now seems preordained, you can hear incidents in that story that did not have to turn out as they did, incidents in the transformation of one man's personal culture into a world culture.

As for fantasy, that no longer means the Elvis Presley his fans, myself included, have celebrated for so long: the dreamer or hero. If not preordained, that story long ago reached the limits of its ability to tell anyone anything; as Isidore Idou, a Left Bank cafe prophet who bore more than a passing physical resemblance to Presley, put it in about 1950, "Truths no longer interesting become lies." For Elvis Presley today, real fantasy, fantasy that contains the engine of its own imaginings, means Elvis Presley as a bad conscience.

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