In August 1977, things changed. The King died. Elvis Presley himself.
And at 7 years old, I had no clue who Elvis Presley was. But when the Boston Sunday Globe arrived to our home the week he passed, I remember picking through the remains of the paper after my father and older brother tore through the metro, sports, travel and editorial sections like two animals tugging at the same side of beef.
Buried inside the cartoons and a hundred coupon cutouts, I came across an 11 by 17 inch picture of this guy from Memphis named Elvis Presley. He was sweaty, jowly, tanned and unworldly – a magnetic cannon of light sent to me by, yes, the gods. Who else would have tapped me on the shoulder with this vision, saying, “Don’t let this moment get away, little man, it just might be what saves you?”
The background of the picture was all black, but the image of Elvis was a live shot from a concert and definitely not taken during his reign as a young, thin-hipped love machine that drove the ladies crazy from here to Yocona. He was gripping a microphone, thick fingers dressed in diamonds. The cuffs on his wrists were turned up ballroom fancy. Heavy chains around his neck, of course, laced through his chest hairs.
“Elvis Presley, 1935 – 1977”
The left hand bottom corner of the picture was saved for the lyrics from his song called “Love Me Tender.”
Love me tender, love me sweet,
Never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
And I love you so.
Love me tender, love me true,
All my dreams fulfill.
For my darlin’, I love you,
And I always will.
I was transfixed. Read the words over and over. Stared at this man’s face for an hour on my knees in a hallway outside a bathroom, counting the veins of sweat falling from his cheeks.
This was the moment I’d been waiting for. Someone telling me there was more to all this living than just nothing. I might still be nothing, but this guy Elvis was certainly something. And his something was rubbing off on me, right through my eyes, my skin, my heart.
Up and away his spirit flew around me, I swear. Wordless hymns of new beginnings swam in my head. I had found my “reason to believe.” All because of this very simple picture paying tribute to a dead rock and roll pioneer.
Bob Dylan wrote in a passage from his autobiography Chronicles about an epiphany he had years after losing faith in his own abilities as a writer and performer in the late 1980s.
He said, “Instantly, everything came back like a thoroughbred had charged through the gates. Everything came back, and came back in multi-dimensions.”
Dylan was on tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and basically mailing it in, passionless and disconnected from the legendary lyrics he wrote over the years behind such great songs as “Like A Rolling Stone,” “Gotta Serve Somebody” and “Maggie’s Farm.”
Until one night when he was rehearsing for a few tour dates with the Grateful Dead in San Francisco, a breakthrough occurred. The Dead wanted to go through nearly the entire Dylan discography. All the rarities, sleepers and hits. Dylan just wanted to play the same songs he’d been playing with the Heartbreakers, the winners. In-and-out, get me home type of set up.
Dylan ended up leaving rehearsal alone one night and just started walking the streets of San Francisco. It started raining so he ducked into a small bar where he heard some jazz being played. The joint was virtually empty but the music being played by the small four piece band was “unpredictable” and transformative, taking Dylan back to a time when risk and feel played a vital role in creating the master he is and always was.
This is what that picture of Elvis did for me. It woke me from the slumber I was living in, showed me that there was life beyond this so called nothingness.
And then, just like that, I was alive. On my own quest to be heard.
(Rob Azevedo can be reached at onemanmanch@gmail.com.)