“I can assure you that Elvis Presley is dead, because I touched his cold, lifeless hand.” Those were the words spoken to me during a Sunday lunch in 1998 by C.W. Bradley, longtime preacher of the Wooddale Church of Christ in Memphis, Tennessee. Elvis’s father Vernon was a member at Wooddale and C.W. was called upon to preach the funeral of arguably the most famous man in the world.
My teenage years had coincided with the golden era of the tabloids. During my down time between bagging groceries and stocking the milk cooler at Johnson’s Foodtown, I would peruse the headlines of the Weekly World News, and its near constant declaration that “Elvis Is Alive!” In the era before the internet, conspiracy theories like this seemed perfectly reasonable, if not likely. Four or five years later, as a naive twenty-two year old, sitting across the table from this aged preacher, only one degree removed from Elvis Presley, I couldn’t resist asking, “Is he really dead?” Brother Bradley assured me that yes, Elvis had in fact left this life.
From as early as I can remember, I have always had a fascination with Elvis. Growing up in the buckle of the Bible Belt, and the shadow of Memphis in the 1970’s, two single named celebrities, both known as “the King”, found their way into at least half of all conversations: Jesus and Elvis. For me, the sweet spot is when you get to hear Elvis sing about Jesus. Regardless of who preaches my funeral, I hope the backdrop to their eulogy will be Elvis singing “Peace In The Valley.”
Depending on who you ask, Turner Classic Movies is to be thanked or blamed for my having watched every movie Elvis ever made multiple times. Due to my love affair with New Orleans, it should be no surprise that “King Creole” is my favorite of his films. I rarely make a trip to the Crescent City without taking the time to stroll past the balcony on Royal Street, just across from the Cornstalk Hotel, where Elvis stood and sang “Crawfish” during the opening scene of what he would call his favorite film. One of the few material possessions I treasure is an original copy of the King Creole soundtrack on vinyl, which my mother bought me for my birthday.
On my 33rd birthday I spent some time pondering the humbling realization that I was now the same age as Jesus when He died. Today, while watching Elvis in “Girls, Girls, Girls”, I had a similar moment when I realized that I am one year older than Elvis lived to be. During these forty-three years I’ve noticed that everybody’s got an Elvis story. Well, I’ve got five. I’ve already told you the most interesting one, but for context, you need to know the other four too.
My ex uncle Ralph used to be a cop, and a bodybuilder, and an Elvis impersonator. Ironically Elvis spent a lot of his life as a law enforcement impersonator — he was an honorary captain with the Denver police, was deputized by the Shelby County Sheriff, got a Department of Narcotics badge from Richard Nixon, and even had a police radio and blue light on his car that he used to pull over people in Memphis. I knew my uncle Ralph was an Elvis impersonator long before he ever donned a sequined jumpsuit and long before being an Elvis impersonator was even a thing.
Some of my earliest memories of Ralph involve him and his two brothers, Keith and Danny, lifting weights in the tiny garage of his 1,300 square foot FHA house in Vales Mill subdivision, somewhere around 1979 or 80. From my five year old perspective they looked like giants, or pro wrestlers (I was convinced Danny and Keith were actually Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant).
When Ralph wasn’t bench pressing Volkswagens he was walking around his house singing Elvis songs. Even though I was too young to know how to write my name, I knew Ralph sounded amazingly similar to the Elvis records he was constantly playing. The similarities were so precise that it was hard to tell the difference between Ralph’s voice filling the air and Elvis’s voice coming from the speakers.
We spent a lot of time at Ralph and Brenda’s house — Brenda is my mamma’s sister and was married to Ralph — and I loved playing with my cousins Tracy and Eric. My favorite game literally involved using my uncle Ralph as my own personal jungle gym, scaling his massive frame like he was a mountain or a tree, flipping over, and doing it again as many times as he’d let me.
Perhaps it was those pleasant memories, mixed with his singing Elvis songs, that combined in my mind to create the love for Elvis music that remains with me to this day. I was always too young to go to the clubs where he would perform as Elvis, but to this day I can’t listen to Elvis without thinking of Ralph.
I’ve known exactly one person who was legitimately named Elvis. In kindergarten I had a classmate named Elvis. At the age of five Elvis bore a striking resemblance, not to the King of Rock and Roll, but to Mike Tyson. As best I can remember he looked like a miniature version of Mike Tyson and he had the same disposition as well.
My introduction to this Elvis came on the playground during recess at Pulaski Elementary. I was leisurely enjoying a ride on the teeter totter with my friend, and fellow T-ball teammate, Jamie Coffee. Jamie decided he was done riding the teeter totter and got off, and since a see saw is not exactly the kind of toy you can play with by yourself, I decided to get off too. I was standing beside the see saw when young Elvis decided he would jump on it like he was doing a cannonball into a swimming pool. Physics being what they are, the other end of the teeter totter launched upward like a rocket, striking my head just above my left eye. Somewhat stunned, I looked around the semi-circle of my friends as their faces contorted into a blend of shock, terror, and disgust. I put my hand to my now throbbing brow and looked down to see the blood beginning to drip from my hand and pool at my feet. I may not have hit the canvas for a ten count, but Elvis “Iron Mike” Marsh had certainly scored his first TKO.
The last two stories need to be blended since they are very similar, both in content, and in the fact that they are most certainly not true. There are two urban legends in our family, neither of which I’ve ever been able to confirm. According to my mamma, who was told by one of her cousins (or was it one of her sisters?), that according to 23 and Me or Ancestry.com or a genealogy in the back of a family Bible, we are actually kin to Elvis. Thus far the closest thing to evidence I’ve ever seen was Freshman year when my cousin Greg was convinced he was possessed by the spirit of Elvis, specifically Jailhouse Rock era Elvis, based upon his hair and clothes.
The other story is mine by marriage. Like Elvis, my wife is originally from Tupelo, Mississippi. We have visited the Elvis Presley birthplace, and the hardware store where he got his first guitar, and I’ve even eaten at King Chicken, which has nothing to do with Elvis other than the giant mural painted of the King painted on the outside of the building. Ironically, despite living in Memphis for two years, I’ve never been to Graceland. Allegedly, my wife’s grandmother once dated Elvis. Considering he was five years older than her and left Tupelo when he was thirteen, I have a feeling this story is more folk tale than fact.
Sometimes it can be difficult to separate fact from fiction. The harsh reality is that although his movies are still on television, his music is still on the radio, and he is often imitated but never duplicated, the King is dead. Long live the King.
