The Perfect Day, the Perfect Ribs, and Elvis

By Bob Wire, 7-18-08

	Caption: By the time I got there...he was still dead.

We continued through the krazy South on Day 16 of our epic road trip. Krazy, like they’d spell it in Somerville, Tennessee. Driving through that town, we noticed the trend of spelling C words with a K: The Athletic Klub. Kan-Do Printing & Signs. Hawkins Kustom Cycles. Kaye’s Food Market. Kall it the KOA effect.

I also saw a church sign advertising that day’s sermon: The Nature of Hell. I thought, brothers and sisters-uh, I just spent the night in Chickasaw State Park. Let me tell you about the Hell of Nature.

Our destination that day was Graceland. We got into Memphis at lunch time, so we stopped at Central Barbecue and had two slabs of ribs. Smothered in sauce and served with greens, slaw and beans, these ribs were the best meal of the trip so far. I mean, slow-smoked, fall-off-the-bone tender, absolutely killer, ground-zero Memphis-style ribs. We decided that we would also have ribs for dinner after Graceland. I just love seeing Speaker and Rusty work on a rib until they leave the bone sparkling clean. I felt like a papa lion proudly watching his cubs dismantle a water buffalo.

Then it was time for Graceland. We drove south through the city along Elvis Presley Blvd., which goes through the ghetto. We got to the complex, paid for our upgraded tickets (which included tours of the Caddy-infested car museum and the Lisa Marie, his big ol’ jet airliner), and hopped onto the shuttle to the mansion across the street.

When the bus entered through those music staff gates I’ve seen in photos all my life, I was ambushed by a rush of emotion. I was on the verge of crossing a very big item off my life’s to-do list, and I found myself completely swept up in the Elvis mystique. When we boarded the bus we’d been issued audio tour rigs with headphones, but I ignored mine. I wanted to take it all in on my own, without the structured focus of a running commentary.

Our group was ushered through the front door, and we were told that we could move about the house freely, and stay as long as we wanted. That’s all I needed to hear. I quickly drifted away from our group and scrutinized every room, absorbing the feel of the place. The décor is locked in an early-70’s bell-bottomed mélange of shag carpet, black wrought iron, dark walnut furnishings, gold filigree, and beige Formica. Having come of age during this harvest gold era of American style, I was transported in time, and the ninety minutes I spent touring Elvis’ home was like being in a weird trance, floating in a giddy, existential bubble of time and space.

Graceland (the name given to the mansion by its original owners) is fairly modest by today’s standards, and you can easily find a larger, more opulent residence up in Missoula’s Mansion Heights development. But the overwhelming presence of the King’s spirit is palpable, and the simple, flash-frozen preservation of his home creates a certain voyeuristic intimacy that can’t be imparted in a DVD, a book or a photo.

I mean, here was the Jungle Room, for chrissake! It was easy for me to imagine Elvis holding court, sitting in the corner chair by the indoor waterfall, a smuggled can of Coors in one hand and a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich in the other, talking karate moves with Sonny and Red and a handful of other sycophants. Here was the kitchen—replete with avocado appliances—where they fried up all those PB&B’s. Here was the media room (with its own wet bar, like nearly every other room in the mansion), with three color TVs, a sectional leather couch, and a killer SAE stereo system (complete with 8-track deck!). You can just picture Elvis and his entourage sitting around, gulping Seven & Sevens, laughing their asses off to Hogan’s Heroes.

And out back, next to father Vernon’s office, was a firing range, a curious little bricked-in room no more than ten feet by twelve. Of course, Elvis only had to be good enough to hit a TV from six feet away, right?

The private bedrooms upstairs were off limits, but his parents’ room had recently been added to the tour. I actually couldn’t care less where his mom and dad slept. They didn’t sell more records than the Beatles.

The “trophy room,” a long hallway full of Elvis’ gold records, memorabilia, movie costumes, and his famous gold lamé suit, is an obvious add-on. Still, it was a total gas to see the various outfits he wore in his movies, as well as some of the jumpsuits from his early Vegas era. One thing that surprised me is how skinny he was (well, before he got fat). I guess a diet of bennies and paranoia will do that to a guy.

The flow of the tour naturally funnels fans out the back door, past the swimming pool. Two things about the pool stopped me in my tracks. First of all, I had always thought that Elvis installed a huge, guitar-shaped pool at Graceland. That was Webb Pierce. (The Days Inn across the street from Graceland does have one, though.) Second, the modest kidney-shaped pool actually has a diving board. I have watched over the years with great disgust and disappointment as diving boards have disappeared from pools all over the U.S., casualties of our litigious society. Can’t you just see Elvis doing a righteous cannonball off the board, drenching Priscilla and Gladys while they sit poolside, drinking sweet tea? Well, I could.

I walked past the pool and entered the Greek columned meditation garden that contains the Presley family plot. The first marker was an acknowledgement of Jesse Garon, Elvis’ twin who died at birth. Next in line were the tombs of his mother and father, and then I found myself looking down at the grave of the man himself. Elvis Aaron Presley. The King of Rock ‘n Roll. Corrupter of American Youth. Mr. TCB.

I stood at the foot of his grave, and leaned over the guard rope until I could rest my fingertips on the gleaming black marble. My eyes filled, and I felt a powerful sense of loss, and a tremendous feeling of gratitude for the man whose music has been such an important part of my life and my own musical style. Not to say that my music sounds like his, but any artist who says he or she is completely untouched by Elvis’s influence is a liar.

I grabbed one last snapshot of the mansion before I boarded the bus, and we were whisked back to the main complex and deposited at the door of the gift shop. When I say gift shop, I mean the main gift shop. There are several. Graceland, of course, sets the standard for gift shops, so I didn’t mind the overkill. We bought a few t-shirts and trinkets and walked to the parking lot. Still under the King’s spell, I steered the 4Runner onto Elvis Presley Blvd. and drove toward the interstate.

That night would be a hotel night, so we chased the sunset for a hundred miles. And what a sunset it was. We’d crossed the Missouri River into Arkansas, and the unusually clear Midwestern air afforded a view of the colorful sunset nearly the width of the horizon. Distant storm clouds created dramatic effects and tricks of light. Barb and I were singing along to “Keep On the Sunny Side” from the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack, while the kids chattered quietly in the back seat about various developments in their Gameboy games. The stately, melancholy Appalachian music helped us put this memorable day to rest, and both kids were sound asleep by the time we pulled into the Best Western parking lot in Russellville.

I carried our stuff up to our room while the kids brushed their teeth. They wanted to watch a little TV before going to bed, so Barb switched on the set. She flipped through a few channels, and then, there on TCM, was “It Happened at the World’s Fair.” Flabbergasted, we sat back to watch Elvis at the height of his silver screen glory, running around Seattle, stopping to sing some goofy-ass song every ten minutes. Must be nice to always have a guitar at hand.

When the movie was over, we tucked the kids into their double bed, and Speaker asked me to bring her a stuffed animal from her backpack. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and handed her her favorite animal, a white baby seal.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

[Next: the difference between a hotel and a motel, and a bad case of the wind.]

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