Editor’s note: Half a century ago, anyone who thought Elvis Presley’s career died when he joined the Army realized — with just one concert — that the King had regained his throne. The ’68 Comeback Special, as it came to be known (the original event was called simply “Singer Presents Elvis in His First TV Special”), re-established his lofty reputation, not just as a performer, but as a cultural icon. As we approach the fiftieth anniversary of that unforgettable event (originally broadcast on December 3, 1968), we thought readers would enjoy this piece by John Floyd, former music editor for the Memphis Flyer, which focused a light on the astonishing range of music from the King’s final years. This story first appeared in the July 1993 issue of this magazine.
So much of Elvis Presley’s musical and cultural legacy is based on the work he did in the 1950s that, for the average observer of pop music, Elvis may as well have died when his ducktail was buzzed off in the Army. With a few exceptions, the miles of criticism sparked by his 23 years of recording are based primarily on the work he did, not through the course of his career, but over a few scant and separated years.
Esteemed critics such as Stanley Booth, Peter Guralnick, and Greil Marcus have all expounded at length on the importance and impact of Elvis’ 1950s recordings, and they all acknowledge the obvious highs of his later years; unfortunately, neither of the three seems to have a grasp on the importance and impact of his later music. Only Dave Marsh, in his 1982 book Elvis, places Elvis’ body of work in the context it deserves, the context being, as Marsh states in the book’s discography, that Elvis “was not a great singer for one or two isolated years, but for two decades almost continuously.”
Obvious as that fact should be, pitifully few music writers — and even fewer fans of rock-and-roll — know anything about Elvis’ mid-1960s and 1970s output beyond the wretched movies, the sequined jumpsuits, and the Hershey-bar sideburns. The 1954-55 sessions for Sun; his initial recordings for RCA; a few post-Army singles during the early years of the 1960s; the legendary 1968 television comeback; and the handful of singles that carried the momentum of that TV special into 1970 are the moments for which Elvis is best remembered by the scores of music critics and rock-and-roll hipsters. The legions of fans/fanatics, who pass en masse by the trio of headstones, which drive home the finality of Elvis’, Gladys’, and Vernon Presley’s deaths, may have another story, but their story borders on such extremes that its content is at best suspect, at worst disposable.
These are the people for whom Elvis’ every uttered breath — at least the ones captured on recording tape — is tantamount to mutterings from the peaks of Sinai, be it an execrable stab at “My Way” or a legitimately great Southern soul shot like “I Got a Thing About You Baby.” Their portrait of Elvis is painted in so many layers of inflated pastels and tear-soaked watercolors that the final image of their savior becomes not so much a cultural icon of the possibilities of great rock-and-roll, but an impossibly attained model of full-blown sainthood. As the post-death cliché goes, Elvis was above all a good boy, and boys as good as Elvis wouldn’t dream of making music we shouldn’t hear.
Anyone who’s made it through entire playings of such Elvis film soundtracks as Clambake and Double Trouble knows that’s not true. Elvis’ recording career is riddled with potholes of rampant banality and vacuous expoundings. Flashes of profound brilliance, beauty, and shimmering sexuality collide with insufferable moments. Unfortunately, the two camps which surround Elvis and the legacy he left — the ones who rally ’round the early work, and the ones who consume it all — both give a distorted view of their rock-and-roll cultural hero and object of slavering adoration. The fanaticism of both factions cheapens the legacy Elvis left behind, not because of the mere mania of both camps, but because his music doesn’t always support the trite arguments from either side.
The one thing it’s agreed upon from both sides is that Elvis’ most influential work was done in the 1950s, before Uncle Sam gave him his draft papers and just after he yesma’amed and yessirred his way into Sun studios. The bedrock of Elvis’ reputation is built firmly upon such cataclysmic blasts of lust, rebellion, and earnestness as “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” “Baby Let’s Play House,” and “My Baby Left Me.” These are the songs that spoke to untold factions of global youth — the songs which whispered, shouted, and danced about madly in celebration that the possibilities of pop music didn’t have to end with doggies in windows, moons in June, and strict divisions of black rhythm-and-blues and white pop.
But to proclaim, as the former of those factions believe, that Elvis suddenly stopped doing this with his music on those levels once he shed his Army fatigues and wiggled into his Hollywood persona of race-car driver, carny acrobat, or cowboy, is irresponsible and ludicrous. The evidence speaks for itself, perhaps not as boldly as those first and follow-up sessions at Sun and RCA, but every bit as assuredly and (on the numerous ballads and gospel recordings from this era) beautifully.
Since everyone acknowledges the brilliance of Elvis’ 1960-61 singles, we’ll skip the years which yielded such Kingly epochs as “Little Sister,” “His Latest Flame,” and “Follow that Dream” (although it should be restated that his first post-Army album, 1961’s Elvis Is Back, is a near masterpiece). Elvis’ re-entry into the pop arena may have lost some of its blues-based thump and lascivious growl, and many of the songs he was handed pale when compared to the material being cut at the same time in the studios of Phil Spector and Berry Gordy. But on the occasions when he had a song worthy of his talents — and there are plenty of them hidden on even the worst soundtrack LP — Elvis always delivered, always surprised, as if he had been waiting months to get his hands on something worthwhile.
That kind of enthusiasm permeates dozens of songs from the early 1960s, but not many as fervently as his performance on “King of the Whole Wide World,” originally released as a single in 1962. Over an action-packed layer of booting saxophone, tingly guitar, and skittering drums, Elvis tears into a lyric that he had to have found ironic: After detailing the wants and desires of men both rich and poor, Elvis concludes that “the man who can sing when he hasn’t got a thing is the king” — pause for six rhythmic blasts — “of the whole wide world.” From the perspective of a man who would be King for the duration of his life, but would eventually die alone in spite of friends and fame, this song, more than anything he cut in the 1960s, provides a harbinger of the tragedy to come.
It’s believed that Elvis in the 1960s abandoned the rock-and-roll fire and exuberance that defined his Sun and early RCA singles. Once again, listening closely to the music contradicts that myopic theory. Unless, that is, you can think of another name besides rock-and-roll for the careening “Please Don’t Drag That String Around” and “One Broken Heart for Sale,” the relentless and swaggering “Viva Las Vegas,” and the ebb-and-flow pile-driver “Devil in Disguise,” all of which were cut in 1963, one of the supposed dry years. And anyone who claims Elvis forgot his R&B upbringing during these years obviously hasn’t heard his take on the Coasters’ “Little Egypt,” released in 1964 on the Roustabout soundtrack. From the lowdown saxophone up Elvis’ throaty vocal, it beats what should’ve been an unbeatable performance.
From his eerie 1954 reading of “Blue Moon” up to 1976’s “Hurt,” Elvis established himself as a pre-eminent ballad singer, something a lot of people forget in the flurry to hail his anarchic rock material. “It Hurts Me” from 1963 isn’t the first great ballad of his career, but it’s one of the finest. Recorded in Nashville at the same session which yielded his supple version of Chuck Berry’s “Memphis, Tennessee,” “It Hurts Me” fuses Elvis’ love for gospel melisma with the heartache of a lover forced to stand on the sidelines of a romance. He approaches the song — a forebearer of the Four Seasons’ “Silence Is Golden” — at first delicately, as if he’s afraid any force would snap the song’s tension. By the second bar, the song is all tension, with the pain of watching the right woman with the wrong man becoming too much to bear. When the roaring finale comes sweeping through, its two minutes and some-odd seconds seem to have encompassed a lifetime of anguish.
(Even for an Elvis nay-sayer, “It Hurts Me” is a startling benchmark of passion, but it’s hardly an isolated moment. In 1966, Elvis waxed some of the most gorgeous, impassioned gospel sides you’ll ever hear, the best of which were corralled that year for the How Great Thou Art LP, the second of three gospel albums he would release in his lifetime. Space prohibits the kind of analysis this music deserves, but suffice it to say that anyone who hears this magnificent album will realize Elvis never stopped caring about the music he sang.)
Along with Elvis Is Back!, Spinout may be the most criminally ignored album in the pantheon of Elvis’ work during the 1960s. That’s probably because the confidence, variety, and complete command over the material rips the cover off the arguments from the pre-war Elvis camp. And while the 1966 release doesn’t quite do the job as demonstrably as his 1950s LPs, Spinout is an album which flaunts nearly every facet of Elvis’ talents. From the gospel-tinged melancholy of Bob Dylan’s “Tomorrow Is a Long Time” to the sleazy blues of “Down in the Alley,” Spinout is not only the greatest of his soundtrack albums, but a piece of work which solidifies the mastery Elvis had over every style he ever approached.
The greatest cuts from Spinout — not to mention the scalding single from the same year, “Long Legged Girl” — hinted at the music to come, the best of which would pave the way for his re-entry into a pop-music arena that had changed considerably since his initial splash in the mid-’50s. “Big Boss Man,” “Hi-Heel Sneakers,” “Let Yourself Go,” the gorgeous ballad “You Don’t Know Me,” “Guitar Man,” and “U.S. Male” all laid the groundwork for the reaffirmation of inspiration and purpose which made Elvis’ 1968 TV special — and ensuing masterpieces like “Suspicious Minds,” “Kentucky Rain,” “Long Black Limousine,” and “Stranger in My Own Home Town” — the greatest comeback ever staged by a pop music performer. That televised declaration of intent is rightfully heralded as the landmark it is, but when you hear the singles which preceded it, you can’t help but wonder why the rock world was so surprised by the vibrance and vitality of the TV special.
If the films Elvis sleepwalked through during the 1960s came close to obscuring his artistic maturation, his finest music from the 1970s made sure that maturation was obvious. It all started with On Stage — February 1970, the first of many live albums Elvis would crank out during his last decade of activity. By that time, Elvis’ voice had deepened, and, much like Frank Sinatra did when his silken pipes began to rust, Elvis compensated by using his hardened voice to its full potential — bending syllables, using that throaty voice to push notes to the rafters and then bring them down to the depths of self-expression.
He assembled what may be the greatest band of his career, with rockabilly guitarist James Burton leading a group that included ace drummer Ronnie Tutt, bassist Jerry Scheff, and the pseudo-gospel backup vocalists Sweet Inspiration. The album balances white-hot swamp rock a la “Polk Salad Annie,” “Runaway,” and “Proud Mary” with covers of then-contemporary hits and a prophetic reading of Joe South’s “Walk a Mile in My Shoes” (which could be taken as a plea of comprehension to Priscilla Presley, who divorced her tormented King in 1972).
Even better is On Stage’s follow-up from the same year, Elvis in Person at the International Hotel, Las Vegas, Nevada. Elvis and band sound like hellhounds are chasing them, turning in blistering versions of “My Babe,” “Mystery Train” / “Tiger Man,” and “Blue Suede Shoes” along with a sharp mix of past hits and new covers (including a telling version of Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode,” Berry’s adaptation of Elvis’ meteoric rise from dirt-poor truck driver to American icon). Elvis’ live shows throughout the decade would take on aspects of pageantry, pomp and circumstance, and by-the-numbers entertainment, but these two artifacts capture the man before the on-stage rot set in — before Vegas crushed his creative spirit.
Live albums would come to define Elvis’ recording agenda in the 1970s, and why not? By the late-’60s, Elvis’ films had stopped making money, and Colonel Parker figured live albums were an inexpensive way to keep his boy in the public eye. So between 1970 and 1977, RCA cranked out eight concerts (one, Elvis in Concert, issued the week after his August 16th death). With the exception of the two albums listed above, the only remaining worthwhile live document is That’s The Way It Is, culled from the 1970 concert film of the same name. It’s his most diverse live set and it’s his best, with delicate pop (“Mary in the Morning”); tough, mature rock (“Patch It Up”); and a version of “Bridge over Troubled Water” that remains definitive. And “Stranger in the Crowd” is yet another subtle commentary from the inner mind of an artist who was losing all contact with the outside world that continued to shower him with unfathomable adoration.
Whatever limitations his slew of live albums reveal, five of the ten studio albums released in the 1970s stand as living proof that Elvis Presley’s command of both the recording studio and his material was as strong as it was during the 1950s. And, you could argue, even better, since the best of them are the product of a fully matured artistic talent. For the first time Elvis’ material seemed to reflect not the whims of the pop marketplace, but the position he occupied in American culture and the things that were running through this icon’s head. Few people have noticed how revealing much of Elvis’ soon-to-be standards were: It could be said that “You Gave Me a Mountain,” “Walk a Mile in My Shoes,” “Make the World Go Away,” and “Hurt” are the most honest songs of his career. Within the context of his Vegas-steeped concert tours, these were strikingly confessional songs.
In 1971, Elvis Country funnels 17 years’ worth of genre mingling and stylistic jumping into a cogent, air-tight package. Whether he was crooning country standards (“Snowbird,” “Funny How Time Slips Away”), admonishing a soulful statement (“It’s Your Baby, You Rock It”), or gurgling old-time rockabilly (“I’m 10,000 Years Old,” “The Fool”), Elvis sounded more committed to his material than he had in years. It stands as one of his most overlooked albums.
That album’s follow-up, Love Letters from Elvis, is another ignored triumph, featuring a breathtaking turn on the title cut, a bevy of fine pop, and a scalding, five-minute rip at Muddy Waters’ blues anthem “Got My Mojo Working.” Even better is 1975’s Promised Land, yet another mix of hard blues, blistering rock-and-roll, and gorgeous country. Highlights are everywhere, but it’s the roaring arrangement of the title cut, another Chuck Berry-penned ode to the Elvis Legend, that throttles the senses — it’s possibly the hardest piece of rock-and-roll he ever recorded.
Elvis Today, released in 1975 just after Promised Land, is the last truly great album in Elvis’ canon. Where its immediate predecessors hit their peaks on the rock stuff, Today is a reflective, at times melancholic declaration. Elvis returns to the gospel verities on his majestic rendering of Faye Adams’ gospel-R&B hit “Shake a Hand,” while “I Can Help” (a hit that same year for its songwriter, Billy Swan) finds Elvis at his most humble: “Have a laugh on me,” Elvis ad-libs near the song’s conclusion, a subtle rewrite that is undoubtedly his most charitable lyric statement.
Elvis would never again sound so charitable. By the time he released the lackluster 1976 effort From Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, Tennessee, Elvis had become a drug-addled, overweight, paranoid hermit. (The album was recorded at Graceland because Elvis could not be coaxed into an outside studio, in part because of his deteriorating health.) For the better part of the album, Elvis manages to sidestep his personal state, but by the time he clamps down on Timi Yuro’s “Hurt,” he loses all composure. He transforms this weepy ballad from a remark of betrayal to an unnerving glimpse of a ravaged, confused, tormented soul. From the opening howl to the final, soaring crescendo, “Hurt” makes it obvious that the man would not be alive much longer.
One year later, he would be dead, a victim of stardom at its most elevated, inflated state. An album was released just before his death, Moody Blue, and while there are many things here worth hearing, Elvis’ death makes it hard to embrace the upbeat tone of “Way Down,” or endure the creepy “Pledging My Love” (written and recorded in 1954 by an R&B singer named Johnny Ace, who died on Christmas Eve that same year after a fatal game of Russian roulette). Ditto for the posthumous Elvis in Concert, a worthless recording which — like “Hurt” — merely confirmed what was already obvious.
All we’re left with now is a body of work — a catalog of recordings which, despite a fairly ambitious (and fairly recent) CD-reissue series, still cries out for an intelligent, comprehensive compilation. Unlike Louis Armstrong, Robert Johnson, Jimmie Rodgers, Frank Sinatra, Duke Ellington, Hank Williams, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones — the only voices in twentieth-century music whose influence has been as great as his — Elvis has never been the subject of a career-defining document which gathers both the grand hits and the equally grand loose ends and lost monuments. His artistry is celebrated, however piecemeal, in magazines, books, and television specials, but the scope of his work continues to be overlooked, its context never established.
In our culture Elvis remains, more than anything, an icon — an icon that is, unfortunately, more visual than musical. We think of Elvis in one of two ways: the young, pompadoured stallion who shattered America’s mores of race mingling, sexuality, and the cultural possibilities of pop music; and the sideburned, jumpsuited idol of millions who flock to Graceland on a daily basis to pay homage to what they think Elvis stood for but mostly to pay respects to what his life and music did for them.
The countless admirers of America’s most enduring music/pop culture idol — even the ones who prefer “Kentucky Rain” to “Good Rockin’ Tonight” — voted to place that young stallion on a postage stamp. But the mutton-chopped persona they voted against is more than just another image of 1970s fashion gone haywire — he has a story to tell, too. Until you listen to that part of the story, you’ll never understand why Elvis continues to confound music critics, rock fans, and the garden-variety January/August Memphis tourist. Studying the music that too many people sweep under the carpet won’t get you to the bottom of the Elvis Phenomenon, but it will give you an idea of how massive his importance to people’s lives really is — and how massive his contributions to American music and culture really were.
