I'm all shook up about reporting two Elvis sightings. Well, not really Elvis himself, more like two Presleys.
The first sighting came when I switched on Larry King interviewing Priscilla Presley about her new book called "Elvis and Me." The book reveals how young Pricilla was when the King got stuck on her. In fact, he picked her out of a maternity ward line up.
The next morning I read about his daughter, Lisa Marie, and her new album, which has the same title as her self-help book, coauthored with Elizabeth Taylor, called, "The One Minute Marriage."
Seriously, it's called "Lights Out." The L.A. Times raved, "Presley's gutsy, blue-edged voice has a distinctive flair, and her lyrics on the song feature a memorable image about going through life under the weight of the Elvis Presley legacy."
Oh, please. The King's been dead over 20 years and we're STILL giggling about his weight?
I have nothing against Priscilla and Lisa Marie. But in terms of Presley sightings, once you've had Blue Suede Shoes, you can't substitute with L.A. Gear.
My first sighting was a life changing experience. It was 1968 and I was with my father, mother and brother in the basement of our home in Maplewood, N.J. I was 12, sitting with my mouth open, eyes glued to the television, astounded at the wonder of Elvis wriggling in a black leather suit on a square stage.
He was surrounded by a mob of women who were shaking and sobbing, their arms raised to the sky as if possessed by the devil, and hurling pink undies.
I had been studying piano since age eight, and would have preferred being outside hitting baseballs than hitting the right notes. But from then on I didn't mind practicing, and I begged my teacher to show me rock so I could learn all of Elvis's songs.
At 16 I got to personally appear in a musical with Elvis, or at least with my friend Pat Hardy pretending to be the King. Pat cut a dashing figure with his square jaw, broad shoulders and his pecs popping out of his yellow "Elvis jumpsuit" which had a V down to his navel. This was the musical "Bye Bye Birdie," a show about Elvis going off to fight communism in the beer halls of Germany.
I played Albert Peterson, his manager. My big number was "Grey skies are going to clear up, put on a happy face!" which I sang with enthusiasm making up for the fact that my previous singing engagements had been in the shower at 20 Kendal Ave.
In high school when we wrestlers met after class at the seedy, bluesy pool parlor we created in Pat's parent's suburban basement, the record player would be playing, "Don't be cruel to a heart that's true."
After pool we would go upstairs where there was a piano, and I would bang out a few Elvis tunes, like, "Oh baby let me be your loving teddy bear." My friends hurled the equivalent of the ladies' pink undies, namely dirty jockstraps.
Elvis kept me from going to the poorhouse in England when I was 23 and playing house with a girlfriend. One night while I was out buying her cigarettes, 'cause there's a fool such as I, I lost my wallet with all my money.
The next morning I made a list of all the Elvis songs I knew how to play on the piano, like Love Me Tender, Blue Christmas and Little Sister. Then I rode my bike all around our seaside town of Bournemouth, found a pub called the Beaufort Bars, and got an audition.
It turned out that in England, Elvis was bigger than the dole, and the bar booked me a few nights a week. The patrons loved the Elvis tunes, and would treat me nice with big glasses of brown rocket fuel called Guinness.
So, Elvis has always been special to me, and when he died, that's when my heartaches began. I think I'll play some Elvis and listen to him tell his girl she ain't nuthin but a hound dog.
We've got two Presleys now -- but without the REAL Presley around, it's another day in Heartbreak Hotel.
Dan Sherman is a nationally syndicated columnist. His website is
www.danshermanonline.com.
Print
