My family and I took a little trip back a few months ago. Spring Fever had set in and we needed to get away from yard work and chasing down income tax receipts. We decided to run up to Memphis and visit Graceland. My daughter has always been curious about Elvis and I thought she might enjoy seeing his home and memorabilia and we could buy a t-shirt or two.
If it’s possible, Elvis is more famous dead than he ever was alive. He’s everywhere and without a doubt the biggest money maker in Memphis. He’s probably still selling more records (CD’s for you younger folks) than most new artists which isn’t surprising considering the sad state of the current music industry. People are still fascinated by his life and music and as a tourist destination; Graceland must rival the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone.
But I have to say that I was disappointed. For eighteen bucks a person, you get a bus ride across Elvis Presley Boulevard, a digital recorder and headphones to hang around your neck instead of a tour guide and the opportunity to stand in a crowd of hot, sweaty people; many of whom speak in a foreign language (strangely enough, mostly Northern European) and be herded through the mansion and grounds like livestock at a sale barn. I kept waiting for them to bring out the cattle prod for the older couple in front of us who kept holding up the line because they couldn’t get the lens cap off their camera. The highlight of the tour for my daughter was when the security people watching through surveillance cameras would say “Thank you – Thank you very much.” As they cautioned people to not lean over the railing or attempt to touch the displays.
Now I love Elvis. It’s hard not to love Elvis. It’s a rags to riches story of a young man who changed not only American culture but was a worldwide cultural phenomenon as well. His story has all the pathos and tragedy of any good made-for-TV movie. But what’s been done to his memory is even more tragic.
Elvis has become like Sponge Bob. He’s everywhere. His image is on everything from clocks to cell phone covers. He is an A-number one marketing tool because people just can’t seem to get enough of him. The souvenir shops across the street from Graceland are loaded with everything Elvis. Products range from bobble heads to put on your dashboard to recipe books with “Hound Dog Chili Dogs” and 101 variations of the peanut butter and banana sandwich. I half expected to find “Elvis Hunk-A-Burnin Love Condoms” and “Now or Never Chocolate Laxatives” behind the check out counters.
Something just seems inherently wrong about using Elvis in this way. I felt slimy after the whole experience, like I needed a bath. Granted, Elvis was marketed during his whole career and he wasn’t necessarily known for his good taste. He also didn’t die in the most dignified manner. I think that’s God’s way of reminding us not to get too big for our britches (literally and figuratively). But for his family to license his image for the most inane products isn’t something that should sit too well with his true fans.
I don’t think I’ll go back to Graceland anytime soon. It just tarnished Elvis’s memory for me and I don’t really need another “Blue Suede Toilet Seat”. I’ll just try to hold on to a more pleasant memory of the Elvis that use to be while I’m singing “Don’t Be Cruel” in the shower and using my Kentucky Rain Shampoo, Love Me Tender Conditioner and my Elvis soap on a rope.
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