The King is Dead

Today marks the 29th anniversary of Elvis’ death. My firm has an office in Memphis, and we just had a “Dead Day” breakfast. There were life-size cutouts of him, one in his Jailhouse Rock days and the other in his rhinestone jumpsuit. There were copious amounts of peanut butter banana sammiches. I had never had that combination before. It was delicious.

I’ve never been a big fan of Elvis’ music, but last night the husband and I watched a program on PBS about Elvis’ gospel music. It was fascinating. They showed footage of Elvis, resplendent in rhinestones and polyester, singing classic gospel songs. Even though he looked wasted and tired, you could tell that he poured his heart into every note. Then, after performing two shows nightly, Elvis and his backup singers would sing gospel songs until the wee hours of the morning. I felt truly sorry for him, there he was, listening and singing this beautiful music, with a shot glass in his hand, stumbling about, and looked like he was trying to find some semblance of peace. He seemed absolutely tortured.

I remember the day that Elvis died. I was 6 years old, living in suburban Long Island. It was a typical Levittown sort of neighborhood. All of the houses were very close together, and you really knew your neighbors. My across the street neighbor told us of Elivs’ death. She had tickets to see him for a performance in a couple of weeks.


Rest in peace Elvis...rest in peace.