The Epitome of Cool
The Peabody, Memphis, TN
Today we toured Graceland and Sun Records. So much style coming from here: Beale Street and Lansky’s to Sam Phillips, Jerry Lee Lewis, and The Man in Black himself, Johnny Cash. But Elvis man, Elvis was on another level.
I don’t remember how old I was, but I was very young, seeing a clip of the ‘68 Comeback Special on TV and thinking, “this is the coolest guy I’ve ever seen. That is what I want to be.” They were sitting in the round, playing all the old songs and Elvis was rocking the pompadour and huge sideburns, but he was also rocking the more modern, rock and roll leather suit. To be fair, Gene Vincent and others had rocked that look before, but they weren’t Elvis.
Listening to Peter Guralnick’s Last Train to Memphis, you learn that Elvis was a flashy dresser long before he made it famous. He was insecure, but instead of blending in, he stood out. In spite of the whispers and jokes, he drew attention to himself. In spite of how legitimately shy he was, he had balls. Then, when he sang, he backed it up. He wasn’t just a pretty boy in loud clothing, he had talent. That, my friends, is the definition of cool.
Netflix has a great documentary on the ‘68 Comeback Special that you should watch, but this was his re-introduction to the music fan after playing himself in movie after movie for six years. Some of his movies are pretty good, some of them are dogshit, but there was a lot on the line for him to return to music after eight years. So much had changed since he went into the Army, not least of which was the Beatles. By 1968, everything was pretty hippy dippy and a long way from Cadillacs and sideburns. He didn’t grow his hair out and adopt “flower power”, he went slicked back and greasy, sweat and snarl, black leather and the acoustic guitar.
The first part of the show had some good tunes, “Trouble” is among my favorites, but it was the latter part of the show that is really the pinnacle. On stage, still cool, dressed like a rock star from another planet, but conversational and relatable.
This was another side of the ‘60s. Much like the New York art scene centered around The Factory, this wasn’t white, upper-class college kids telling everyone how it should be, pontificating about utopian ideas they regurgitated from someone else. In the South, the darkness is inherent. It’s not spending your Spring Break doing a sit-in at a lunch counter and patting yourself on the back, it’s sneaking around to see black friends or girlfriends so that neither of “your people” find out about it. The New York scene was self-indulgent, but aware. They cared only about art. The hippy cared about nothing but themselves as well but dressed it up in the cloak of selflessness. Because unlike the New York scene who saw themselves apart from society, the hippy saw himself above society. In the South, if you were working class or poor, you were all just in the shit together with little hope of getting out.
What did you have to lose by dressing crazy and wanting to be a musician? You weren’t projected to amount to a hill of beans anyhow. If you want people to believe you’re something special, then first, you have to think you’re something special. The trick is, do that without coming off like an asshole. I still haven’t figured that part out myself, but I’ll let you know if I do.
See, being deeply insecure myself, I tried to just earn my way into acceptance when I was younger, but it didn’t work. I just kept getting stepped on. Then came Oasis and I adopted their bravado and all of a sudden, things changed. Doors opened, girls picked up the phone. Yeah, some people thought I was an asshole, but most of them were just insecure and envious that I was doing something. The others were just self-righteous. Not saying I wasn’t abrasive at times, but I was never malicious, so the attacks were unnecessary. Overall, most people were at least entertained by me, and once you spent some time with me, you got to see the down to earth me, and that guy is pretty likable.
The point is, sometimes the best offense is a good defense. Dressing flashy, acting loud, these things are a defense against the attacks you know are going to come anyhow. This way, they’re attacking what you’re wearing, not who you are. Whatever it is you’re trying to present, embrace it. Don’t pretend to be Mother Teresa when you’re really Caligula. If that’s a slightly Nihilistic New York artist like the Velvet Underground, step into it. If that’s an upwardly mobile hillbilly from the shotgun houses of Tupelo and the housing projects of Memphis, then go for it. Don’t be who you think they want you to be, be who you are. Even if they hate you for it.
There’s nothing cooler than that.