My Struggle: Book Five by Karl Ove Knausgård
I see that last year I recommended books one to four, so I won’t go too much into this again. Book Five is pretty much more of the same, but mostly focuses on young adulthood. I’m looking forward to Book Six…I still have absolutely no idea what the Mien Kampf connection is. But the book is great.
Dream Boogie by Peter Guralnick
Sam Cooke had a kind of funny problem early on in his career. As a teenager, he started singing in the Chicago Gospel circuit. Everywhere he went, people noticed. His voice was angelic, and he was charming and appealing. Within a short time, Sam was invited to be a member (then soon promoted to frontman) of The Soul Stirrers — the band he’d emulated since childhood. But Sam was also uncontrollably sexy…he couldn’t turn it off if he wanted to (and he didn’t want to). So Sam starting packing these sleepy midwestern Sunday services with young women. The pastors were in kind of a pickle: Sam was great for business, but was this their business? He wasn’t doing anything wrong…but it felt a little iffy. After a few years, Sam was at a crossroads: stick with the authentic Gospel music that had made him something of a star, or dive into pop music — offending many of his, and his family’s, religious sensibilities. Sam chose pop. This is a good read for anyone who likes Sam. I also recommend Guralnick’s Last Train to Memphis for any Elvis Presley heads out there.
10% Happier by Dan Harris
I recently became (slightly) interested in meditation. I discovered this guy’s podcast and found an interesting interview with Rivers Cuomo, who has been meditating his entire life. I actually started listening to Weezer for the first time after hearing this interview. Dan Harris came to meditation as a full-on skeptic, but found his own way of appreciating it. I can relate.
The Complete Poems: 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop
Elizabeth Bishop is inspired. I read her when I feel uninspired. Check it out.
City on Fire by Garth Risk Hallberg
Full disclosure…the author is a friend/drinking companion. Unfortunately, since I have kids, I had to read this book in stops and starts. It seems like it should be done in marathon stretches, as there is a wide-ranging cast of characters, times, and places. Ultimately I pulled it together and came out with a pretty good understanding of what happened, and ultimately I found it a satisfying, cohesive novel…which is impressive, since it had like 1,000 pages to fall off the rails…it didn’t.
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Elvis Presley disappeared 35 years ago today.
I choose the verb disappeared for a reason. Not because I’m a big believer in conspiracy theories or Elvis sightings — I am not — but because in a very real sense Elvis Presley didn’t actually die on Aug. 16, 1977, he simply moved on to a different level in the ether of superstardom. When asked what he planned to do once Elvis was in the ground, his evil genius of a manager, Col. Tom Parker, said it all: “Why, I’ll just go right on managing him!” As Elvis biographer Peter Guralnick put it, “RCA (records) would discover that Elvis was as great a sales phenomenon in death as in life.”
Even more phenomenal than the unquenchable hunger for Elvis music, Elvis impersonators, and Elvis memorabilia (black velvet paintings, ashtrays, liquor bottles, etc.) is the relentless outpouring of books about Elvis. I call it ElvisLit — a river of words that gives every indication, year after year after year, that it will never run dry. Guralnick described it as “the cacophony of voices that have joined together to create a chorus of informed opinion, uninformed speculation, hagiography, symbolism, and blame.”
The chorus of ElvisLit can be divided into several sections, beginning with straight biographies. Guralnick’s two-volume bio — Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley (1995) and Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley (2000) — definitely comes from the informed opinion section of the chorus. Running over 1,300 pages, with extensive source notes and 23 pages of bibliography that includes such heavyweights as W.J. Cash and C. Vann Woodward, it’s a magisterial work of biography, the perfect melding of dogged research, deft writing, and the ability to tell one roaring hell of a story. The key to Guralnick’s success, I believe, is that he was able to empathize with his subject without idolizing or patronizing him. Guralnick boils Elvis’s message down to this: “the proclamation of emotions long suppressed, the embrace of a vulnerability culturally denied, the unabashed striving for freedom.”
On the other end of the spectrum is Albert Goldman’s 600-page pathography from 1981, Elvis, an uninterrupted airing of vignettes about the appalling side of the subject: his mother fixation, his perpetual adolescence, his balky penis, his atrocious diet, the isolation and drug use that sent him to an early grave. The book gives almost no indication that Elvis Presley possessed talent, or that he had the power to drive crowds into a foam-at-the-mouth frenzy, or that he remade the landscape of American pop culture. You’ll want to take a shower after reading this book.
In between these two extremes is the respectable handiwork of a small army of fine writers, including Dave Marsh, Jerry Hopkins, Nick Tosches, Roy Blount Jr., and Bobbie Ann Mason. Here’s how Mason, a native of rural Kentucky, saw Elvis: “He was one of us, a country person who spoke our language…a barometer of the culture, a sort of hillbilly voodoo doll.”
A barometer of the culture…Now we’re getting somewhere, now we’re approaching the nut of why Elvis continues to inspire writers of all stripes, from serious scholars and artists to hacks shamelessly trying to turn a fast buck. The brilliant Greil Marcus, who wrote insightfully about Elvis when he was alive, uncorked a wicked book in 1991 called Dead Elvis: A Chronicle of a Cultural Obsession. Marcus explained his motivation for writing the book in this way: “I found, or anyway decided, that Elvis contained more of America — had swallowed whole more of its contradictions and paradoxes — than any other figure I could think of… I understood Elvis not as a human being…but as a force, as a kind of necessity: that is, the necessity existing in every culture that leads it to produce a perfect, all-inclusive metaphor for itself.” In his glowing review of the book in the L.A. Times, David Foster Wallace agreed, concluding that Elvis was a “synecdoche of America.”
I would go even farther than Marcus and Wallace and argue that Elvis’s life is a weirdly precise mirror of America’s story. Consider the parallels. Both the man and the nation began humbly — poor, neglected, despised. Both awoke to an inner flame, a gift, that was then harnessed to a ferocious drive. Both used that gift and that drive to create something unprecedented, something dangerous and irresistible and magnificent, which led to unimagined power and riches. Both were consumed by their power and wealth, became distrustful and insular, grew fat and sloppy, then slid into a terminal decline. Or maybe this is just a long-winded way of defining synecdoche.
But I think not. If Elvis went from man to metaphor during his life, I would argue that he has gone from metaphor to myth since his death. Every culture needs myths as much as it needs metaphors for itself, and those myths must be mutable. It helps if the source of the myth blazed early and died too soon (think of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Michael Jackson), because an incomplete life is easier to re-fashion and re-imagine than a long, full one. As Elvis biographer David Luhrssen put it: “In death Elvis became whatever anyone wanted to see in him.”
As the Guralnick and Goldman bios attest, two people can see a single life in very different ways. In my own case, a lifelong love/hate affair with Elvis has produced a strange strand of schizophrenia. There is so much to love — the Sun Sessions, kinetic masterpieces like “Little Sister,” the gospel stuff, the dance moves and the hair and the clothes, the pink Cadillac and the Stutz Bearcat. And there is so much to hate — the movies, the white jumpsuits, the Vegas shtick, fat junkie Elvis. This schizophrenia has led me to do some strange things, including getting tricked out in the Vegas kit I claim to loathe, on the occasion of a 10th Anniversary party on Aug. 16, 1987. Here’s the incriminating evidence:
By far the largest and most telling section of ElvisLit is the long shelf of books by and about People Who Knew the King. This includes everyone from blood relatives and true intimates to people way out on the margins, and the resulting books range from revealing to mildly diverting to downright schlocky.
So far we have gotten books by and about Elvis and his: momma (Elvis and Gladys by Elaine Dundy), wife (Elvis and Me by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley), family (Elvis by the Presleys by David Ritz), step-family (Elvis, We Love You Tender by Dee Presley, Rick Stanley, Billy Stanley, and David Stanley), step-brothers (Elvis, My Brother by Billy Stanley and Life with Elvis by David Stanley), uncle (A Presley Speaks by Vester Presley), aunt (The Forgotten Family of Elvis Presley: Elvis’ Aunt Lois Smith Speaks Out by Rob Hines), love interests (Baby, Let’s Play House: Elvis Presley and the Women Who Loved Him by Alanna Nash and Caught In a Trap: Elvis Presley’s Tragic Lifelong Search for Love by Rick Stanley), Lord (The Two Kings: Jesus & Elvis by A.J. Jacobs), president (The Day Elvis Met Nixon by Egil Krogh), bodyguards (Elvis: What Happened? by Red West, Sonny West, and Dave Hebler, and Elvis and the Memphis Mafia by Alanna Nash, Billy Smith, Marty Lacker, and Lamar Fike), buddies (Elvis: My Best Man by George Klein, Elvis: Still Taking Care of Business by Sonny West, Good Rockin’ Tonight: Twenty Years On the Road and On the Town with Elvis by Joe Esposito, and Me and a Guy named Elvis: My Lifelong Friendship with Elvis Presley by Jerry Schilling), guitarist (That’s Alright, Elvis: The Untold Story of Elvis’s First Guitarist and Manager by Scotty Moore), physician (The King and Dr. Nick: What Really Happened to Elvis and Me by Dr. George Nichopoulos), manager (The Colonel: The Extraordinary Story of Colonel Tom Parker and Elvis Presley by Alanna Nash, and Elvis and the Colonel by Dirk Vallenga and Mick Farren), maid (Inside Graceland: Elvis’ Maid Remembers by Nancy Rooks), nurse (I Called Him Babe: Elvis Presley’s Nurse Remembers by Marian J. Cocke), secretary (My Life With Elvis by Becky Yancey), and gofer (Elvis’ Man Friday by Gene Smith). There have even been cookbooks (Are You Hungry Tonight? by Brenda Arlene Butler, and Fit For a King: The Elvis Presley Cookbook by Elizabeth McKeon, which includes a recipe for that heart-smart favorite, butterscotch pinwheels).
All the books on this far-from-exhaustive list share one thing, and it’s not literary merit: they’re all predicated on the reasonable assumption that there is a market for any morsel of first-hand information about Elvis Presley — what he said, did, sang, ate, wore, read, thought, loved, feared, and loathed. In ElvisLit, no morsel is unworthy. To write this off to our culture’s voyeurism and obsession with celebrity is, I think, to miss the point. In death Elvis became whatever anyone wanted to see in him. Which is another way of saying he is now free to become whatever we want to see in ourselves. No wonder the river will never run dry.
The latest addition to the I-Knew-Elvis section of the chorus is a new book called Conversations with the King: Journals of a Young Apprentice by David Stanley, who, as the above bibliography shows, is a repeat contributor to the ever-expanding universe of ElvisLit. Stanley’s mother, Dee, married Elvis’s father less than two years after Elvis’s mother died. Stanley arrived at Graceland in 1960 as a wide-eyed 4 year old, and over the next 17 years he claims Elvis became his “father figure, mentor, spiritual advisor.” Stanley started accompanying Elvis on the road in 1972 as a “full-time personal aide,” and he had his last conversation with his step-brother/boss on Aug. 14, 1977. On that night a fat, scared and lonely Elvis asked him, “David, who am I?” Then he added prophetically, “The next time you see me I’m going to be in a different place, on a higher plane.” The next time Stanley saw him, two days later, Elvis was lying on the floor of Graceland’s master bathroom in the fetal position, tongue black, face turning blue, graveyard dead.
Anyone (like me) who was hoping for more along these lines — details of Elvis’s drug intake and long decline, or the Memphis Mafia’s shenanigans in Vegas and Hollywood — will be disappointed by Conversations with the King. Stanley, according to the book’s biographical note, is “a speaker in the field of self-development & authenticity,” and he claims that Elvis possessed mystical powers. Elvis could, according to Stanley, command clouds to move, stop rainstorms, and cure headaches. He also conversed regularly with the spirit of his twin brother, Jesse, who was delivered stillborn. But these anecdotes are merely a peg for Stanley to hang the story of his own “hero’s journey” from awestruck boy to hard-partying wildman to sobered-up evangelist to motivational smoothie. He urges us to read Deepak Chopra and Wayne Dyer while delivering mumbo-jumbo paragraphs like this:
My spiritual surrender made it possible for me to complete my hero’s journey. This led to my epiphany, which opened me up to having my transformative labyrinth experience. This freed me to shed my isolation and enabled me to at last shed my self-destructive habits, which gave me access to the courage I had needed to fully embody the greatness of my authentic self.
Such are the vagaries of ElvisLit, an uneven corpus that makes no promises other than inviting us to pay our money and take our chances. It’s a grand crapshoot. Sometimes the results are sublime, as in Guralnick’s and Marcus’s books. Sometimes the results are icky, as in those recipe books. And sometimes, as in Conversations with the King, they’re a reminder that certain morsels are, in fact, much more worthy than others.
So the King is 35 years dead. Long live the King.
Image courtesy of the author.
I’m not particularly drawn to biographies, and certainly not music biographies, but I make exceptions for Elvis. I was also swayed because I have heard Peter Guralnick’s books praised many times. Most satisfying about Last Train to Memphis, volume one of Guralnick’s two volume biography of Elvis Presley, was Guralnick’s ability to humanize his subject. The persona of Elvis, years after his death, is such a caricature, even a joke, that it can be hard to remember that there was a real, living, breathing person named Elvis Presley. The book contained what were, for me, some fantastic revelations. For one, Elvis was nearly done in when he was a youngster, not by the difficulties of his quest for fame, but by the swiftness with which it arrived. In a year’s time, he went from being a nobody to being one of the most recognizable faces in the country, a man whose presence literally caused riots whenever he appeared in public. For Elvis, it was a major struggle simply to adjust to this new life. Television documentaries and magazine articles often mention in passing that Elvis’ music and persona caused quite a stir, moral outrage even, when he appeared on the scene in the 1950s. Such stories sound quaint and exaggerated in this day and age, but with the context provided by Guralnick, I was able to see how groundbreaking Elvis really was, both musically and socially. Finally, I was enthralled by Guralnick’s portraits of Elvis’ supporting cast, quirky characters like Elvis’ mother Gladys, his manager Colonel Tom Parker, and the guy who gave him his first big break, Sam Phillips. The book rekindled my love, as it surely will rekindle yours, for the early days of rock and roll, and it left me with a serious hankering to read volume two of the biography, Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley sometime real soon.
So, I’m back again after a week in New York. We move to Chicago in three weeks, and after a summer living out of suitcases, an apartment all our own will be a relief. Over the past few weeks I’ve read four books. I read them on the beach, in cafes, in cars, subways, and airplanes, and in halflit, air-conditioned rooms over the course of long, languid afternoons. This has been some serious summer reading. I plan to get to all of them this week, beginning today with the modern classic and winner of the National Book Award in 1962, The Moviegoer by Walker Percy. I had never heard of this book before I started working at the book store, and it seems to be one of those books that is half-remembered and dimly loved by those who read it decades ago. The moviegoer is Binx Bolling, a successful businessman and a member of a prominent and eccentric New Orleans family. He is unmarried and enjoys the escape that going to the movies provides. He is unable to keep himself from dating his secretaries, and he is constantly trying to hold “despair” at bay. It is an existential novel of the American suburbs where Binx tries to find meaning or hope in the midst of mundanity. But it isn’t preachy or didactic, it meanders and searches, and one begins to wonder if Binx is a madman and not just a lonely bachelor. In this sense it has a lot more depth than some other books of middle-aged male suburban angst that I’ve read over the years, The Sportswriter and Independence Day by Richard Ford and Wheat That Springeth Green by J.F. Powers to name a few, and Binx seems far more ethereal than Frank Bascombe or Joe Hackett. It’s short and cleverly written, and I recommend the book to anyone with a taste for the internal monologues of a Southern thinker.I added Adam Langer’s much-praised debut, Crossing California to the reading queue, and I’m about to start reading part one of Peter Guralnick’s two-part biography of Elvis Presley, Last Train to Memphis. More soon!
I recently reorganized my bookshelves. I straightened and categorized the books, and I separated out all of the books that I haven’t read and that I hope to read sooner rather than later. These are books that I’ve bought at the store, received as gifts, and unearthed on bookfinding expeditions. There are 31 of them. For a while now, I’ve had a quite large “to read” pile, and I add titles almost every week, it seems. The problem is that stacks of books are constantly getting pushed aside while I read whatever book I’m most excited about at the moment. There’s not really anything wrong with this except that there are books that I really would like to read, but never seem to get around to it. So, since I obviously am not to be trusted, I have decided to take some of the decision making out of my hands: I have set aside a special shelf to hold my new “Reading Queue.” On it are all of the books that I own and would like to read but haven’t yet. From this shelf full of books, I will randomly select the next one to read. Before I get into that though, here’s my reading queue, some of the books that will keep me occupied during the coming year:Without Feathers by Woody AllenThe Summer Game by Roger AngellOnce More Around the Park: A Baseball Reader by Roger AngellGame Time: A Baseball Companion by Roger AngellAn Army at Dawn by Rick AtkinsonThe Sheltering Sky by Paul BowlesThe Hole in the Flag by Andrei CodrescuDon Quixote by Miguel De CervantesParis Trout by Pete DexterThe Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre DumasThe Last Amateurs by John FeinsteinA Season on the Brink by John FeinsteinLiving to Tell the Tale by Gabriel Garcia MarquezLast Train to Memphis by Peter GuralnickThe Great Fire by Shirley HazzardRound Rock by Michelle HunevenThe Known World by Edward P. JonesBalkan Ghosts by Robert D. KaplanShah of Shahs by Ryszard KapuscinskiThe Price of Admiralty by John KeeganEverything’s Eventual by Stephen KingLiar’s Poker by Michael LewisThe Coming of Rain by Richard MariusThe Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullersLooking for a Ship by John McPheeMoviegoer by Walker PercyFraud by David RakoffThe Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat by Oliver SacksEast of Eden by John SteinbeckQuicksilver by Neal StephensonMr. Jefferson’s University by Garry WillsOnce I had a full shelf to pick from, the only question was how to pick randomly. I thought about writing down names and picking out of hat, but that seemed like a pain, and I would have had to go look for a hat, so instead I located a random number generator to help me make my choice. I’m going back east tomorrow for two weeks, so I picked three books to take with me: Everything’s Eventual, Paris Trout, and Don Quixote. I’m guessing most folks will be pretty busy over the next couple of weeks, and so will I, so I’ll probably only post a couple of times while I’m gone. They should be good, though. Look for “My Year in Books” and a post about the books I gave as gifts. Happy Holidays, all.