In my mind, there'll always be one Elvis. It is my Elvis. Sure, I appreciate Young Elvis. I even liked Movie Elvis when I was a kid. But whenever I think of Elvis, I always envision Adult Elvis—the one from the 1968 comeback special and then the first two years of Vegas. That is my Elvis—before the fall, before drugs and boredom robbed him of the will to create and to be ... well, Elvis.
I write this on the occasion of Elvis' birthday January 8; I don't know what birthday this would have been, and I don't care. In my mind, he'll forever be the Elvis who resurrected his career after years of tepid movies had rendered him almost meaningless. Today, just the mere suggestion that Elvis doesn't matter is rock 'n' roll blasphemy. After all, compilations of his greatest hits went to No. 1 on the pop charts in 2002 and 2003, and his daughter just sold his estate for a reported $100 million.
But in 1968, Elvis was a rocket whose fuel had run dry, overshadowed by the new generation of rock stars. That summer, Elvis signed up to do a Christmas TV special, his first television appearance in years. There are a dozen ways he could have done it wrong—picture Elvis in comedy skits and singing Christmas duets with guest stars, for one—which makes it even more amazing that they got it right. When the show started off with a close-up of Elvis snarling, "If you're looking for trouble / You came to the right place / If you're looking for trouble / Just look right in my face," it came as a clarion call. In that one-hour special, wearing a black leather suit and singing as though his legacy was on the line, Elvis clawed his way back into relevance with a performance that proved he was again a force unleashed, and one unbroken by time.
That led to a return to the concert stage and his first years in Vegas at the International Hotel. The live album from that first stand shows an Elvis we'd never heard before: modern and unfurled, with a full-blown rock 'n' roll band behind him. He tore up an old blues number called "My Babe," and re-invented his first hit, "Mystery Train," as a rockabilly masterpiece showcasing lead guitarist James Burton. He sang "Johnny B. Goode" as though he'd usurped the song as his own life story. The tour de force was a show-stopping performance of his biggest hit in years, "Suspicious Minds." Elvis was working hard to win back his audience, not to mention his own self-respect.
One of those early stands at the International (now the Hilton) was documented in 1970's Elvis: That's The Way It Is, a movie that had just one problem—the director didn't seem especially interested in his subject. The filmmakers received unprecedented access to an extremely private man and yet they spent much of the movie focused on the hoopla surrounding him and the discovery that, gee, aren't some of his fans wacky?
Four years ago, Turner Entertainment did the legacy of Elvis Presley a tremendous favor by taking the raw footage shot for the original movie and turning into the film it should have been for a special DVD release. It is nothing less than revelatory. The camera is now focused on Elvis, from the loose jams with his band during rehearsals to his nervousness backstage on opening night and the havoc he causes with an impromptu stroll through the audience.
It was among the last great moments of Elvis. Before long, the records stopped sounding inspired and the concerts before Vegas crowds ceased to matter to him and the Fat Elvis everyone loves to ridicule was born. Saddest of all was the concert broadcast on television only days before he died; he looked so awful that his death seemed almost an act of mercy.
Elvis died at the age of 42. I'm already older than he ever was, and it's difficult to imagine that he was fat and and used up at an age where I feel as though I'm only now coming into my own. Someone who knew Elvis once said they thought he died from boredom. Maybe that's true. But my Elvis will never die, he just stopped making new music.