Today is Elvis Presley’s birthday. He would have been 80. Most people accept that he died in 1977, at the age of 42, which means I am older now than he ever was, a fact I have a hard time wrapping my head around.
I’m currently reading Careless Love, the second volume of Peter Guralnick’s biography of Elvis, and it is bringing me down. It’s about how fame was a collective punishment we administered to Elvis, which he would not survive. Fame allowed him to coast along when he should have been stretching himself; like a gifted child praised too much too soon, it made him incapable of coping with challenges. Fame allowed his manager, Colonel Parker, to construe Elvis’s talent as a cash machine. Parker encouraged in Elvis a zero-sum attitude toward his art, so that he demanded as much money he could get for output as superficial as they could make it, as if the shallowness implied savings, a better bargain from the forces who commercialized him. Fame transformed Elvis into a kind of CEO who inhabited his own body as if it were a factory, a capital stock, on which an enormous and ever-mutating staff relied upon for their livelihood. As a consequence, fame isolated him completely. His friends, no matter how much they loved and respected him, remained a paid entourage whom he could never completely believe actually loved him for real. “He constructed a shell to hide his aloneness, and it hardened on his back.” Guralnick writes in the introduction. ”I know of no sadder story.”