Goin' to Graceland
It's gonna be great!
I'm so happy I just can't wait!

I am now another statistic. 1 of ~600,000 per year. I knew it would happen one day. It was only a matter of time.

I did it. I finally did it. I’ve been musing, threatening, and sometimes (mildly) yearning, to go to Graceland for a lot of years. And now the deed is done.

I had no expectations other than a laugh and the right to say I’ve done it.

But in true form I came away from the experience with something I didn’t predict. Nothing profound or original, but something unexpected. Especially from Graceland.

Before I share my Graceland experience, let me state loudly and clearly for the record: I like early Elvis®. I respect and admire what he did, the ground he broke and the way he did it. King? I don’t agree with that. Any kind of monarchy in rock and roll is wrong. But. I’ll go with original innovator, perhaps even father of rock and roll. What he did with and for music in those early years is indisputable. 50 years after the initial recording, That’s All Right still scratches an itch like no other song can. And if you’re not weepy mid-way through Love Me Tender there’s something emotionally missing in your life.

But. Then success happened. The spoils of victory and an apparent lack of self respect combined with an addictive personality and questionable management. The mighty fell. Hard. And became a joke. And took a lot of pills. And died.

Apart from getting misty eyed listening to Love Me Tender my emotional attachments to Elvis® are minimal. And they have little to do with Elvis® and more to do with my dad. No, no, my dad is far from an Elvis® “fan.” But, throughout my life (to this day) there have been peaceful suburban Saturday afternoons jolted into raucous spontaneous dance parties by my father dropping the needle on an Elvis® record signaling the beginning of Saturday night. Sometimes my dad just gets the urge to shake it up a la Elvis®. And really, who doesn’t? My emotional Elvis® attachments are of my dad picking me up and twirling me around the living room to the beat of Don’t Be Cruel. As far as I’m concerned it has nothing to do with Elvis®. What I feel is all about my dad goofing around and dancing with me. Elvis® just happens to be the catalyst. I don’t hold Elvis® aloft at a higher status than the rest of us mere mortals and I attach no emotional significance to him personally.

Consequently when I found out business was taking me to Memphis Graceland wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind. I was so wrapped up in the details of my business trip that I forgot about the significance of Memphis for reasons other than my work. It wasn’t until a client suggested we go to Graceland that it all clicked in my mind. “Oh yeah, Graceland. Oh! Graceland! I’m gonna go to Graceland!”

And that’s where it all began, my trip to Graceland.

For reasons I cannot explain there’s some part of me that wants to see Graceland.

Like most non-Elvis® fans I have a mocking interest in Graceland. You gotta go, right? You have to go for the pure mockery of the whole thing. You just have to go. It’s on many “before I die I want to see...” lists and has been the goal of many road trips where the destination bears little significance to the journey. To wit, the night prior to my departure a friend toasted me with: “The journey of thousand laughs on a Graceland tour begins with one shot (of vodka).” Also like most non-Elvis® fans, I have just enough respect for his early work to shell out the money for the tour. I don’t feel quite so bad about spending the money touring the place if I justify it with, “hey, Love Me Tender is a great song...” I’ve never bought an Elvis® recording. I didn’t have to - along with the myriad other musicians, albums, singles, tapes which were always around the house, my parents, my older siblings, cousins, geeze, I think even my grandmother had an Elvis® Christmas album - Elvis recordings were available to me. After listening to them all these years paying for tour Graceland seems like the right thing to do. I should contribute something to Elvis®, right? Some tithe for all the times I’ve heard and enjoyed an Elvis® song seems fair. Okay, well, you’re right about the estate not needing any more money, and right about me not being much of a fan and consequently getting minimal enjoyment from Elvis® recordings, but at the very least I owe Elvis® a little financial compensation for all the times I’ve laughed along with the Dead Milkmen shouting Going to Graceland at the top of my lungs.

See what I mean? Graceland is so woven into the tapestry of our Western lives that it’s not just the epitome of our zeitgeist, it defines it. The Dead Milkmen and Paul Simon wrote popular songs specifically about road trips to Graceland. Alice Cooper, Merle Haggard, Richard Thompson have songs about Graceland.**

It’s Elvis® but it’s also beyond Elvis®. It’s a marketing business model. It’s a global cultural cosm of sociological behavioral study. It’s just, well, it just is Graceland.

And I was going. I was going to Graceland.

It is sad that for all his early greatness, for all he did for modern music, that he is reduced to a megamillion dollar marketing scheme. But hey, when in America, live like an American. Market, spend, get bored, throw away, rinse, lather, repeat.

Yes. I am jaded and cynical. Yes. When I learned I was going to Graceland there was a permanent sardonic smirk affixed to my face. Every time I said, “I’m going to Graceland” the smirk would turn to a wince, then I’d guffaw, laugh and the sardonicism would return to a smirk. I was taking the whole thing seriously, very seriously. I don’t mess around with mockery, I take my mockery very seriously.

And now I know that’s the problem with Graceland. For us non-Elvis® fans it’s difficult, if not impossible, to take Graceland seriously as anything other than a really good joke. And Elvis®, the man, gets lost in that joke.

And I mean really, in fairness to us non-Elvis® fans, it’s very, very difficult to take any man who wears a jumpsuit seriously. We might have been able to get past the horrendous movies, it was the ‘60s, after all, and we might have been able to get past the mutton chops, it was the ‘70s, after all, but a jumpsuit? I mean c’mon, that’s asking a lot.

But in the end the joke’s on us. We’re the ones who pay the money for the tour. We’re the ones who are willing to fork over hard earned money for the right to gawk and mock and say, “yep, I went, I saw Graceland and oh my goodness what a riot.” And Robert Sillerman is $10 - $68 per visitor wealthier. Better Graceland than American Idol, but I'd feel better if Lisa Marie were getting the tourist dollars instead of the bazillion dollar corporation behind American Idol. Oh well. C'est la viva Las Vegas.

Who’s laughing now?

Well, for one, me. I’m laughing. Still. At Graceland and at myself.

I got off “easy.” I had clients who wanted to go to Graceland. So I procured advance V.I.P. tour passes on my company’s dime. Hey, if you’re gonna go, go big, go all the way. Especially if you can legitimately pass it off as a business expense. (And here’s where I have to say: This perk almost makes up for some of the crap I’ve endured at work in the past year. Almost.)

I know the clients quite well so I was comfortable with their level of enthusiasm and mockery of the whole thing. So when I got to Memphis I headed straight for the first Elvis® shop I could find (like shooting fish in a barrel in Memphis) and bought Elvis® t-shirts.

Hey, hey, rock and roll.

We planned to go in the afternoon, after our meetings concluded. We were going to leave the meetings, change into our Going to Graceland outfits and, well, go to Graceland.

Unfortunately our last meeting went into double overtime. A few issues arose. There was a long winded question and answer session. All the while us Graceland goers were shifting uncomfortably in our chairs, passing furtive concerned glances at each other, checking our watches, fidgeting, and in one case (who shall remain nameless, ahem), doodling caricatures of Elvis® and peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

When the meeting finally wrapped up we were like children released early on the last day of school. Business schmusiness, we’re going to Graceland!!!

Going to Graceland, going to Graceland, going to Graceland!

We'll get to make some cheap jokes
And buy cheaper souvenirs
If this were Disneyworld
I'd buy a pair of Elvis ears

We donned our Elvis® shirts, comfortable walking shoes and made sure we had spare batteries for the cameras. I secured directions to Graceland from the concierge. One of my clients acted as navigator. “Right on Third! Watch out for the school kids! Left on Winchester! Right! Right! Elvis® Presley Boulevard! Turn right here! We’re here! We’re here! Get in front of that tour bus! Cut him off! We don’t want to get stuck behind those senior citizens!”

Okay, so, like all good tourist traps, you don’t actually just drive through the gates and up to Graceland. You have to navigate a mammoth parking lot with car, truck and tour bus parking areas, then make your way through a bunch of gift shops, an ice cream parlor, vendors hawking commemorative photos, caricature drawings (hey! maybe a new career!), and your name and Elvis’® spelled out in real gold before you even get to the visitor center. If The Amazing Race people really want to give the contestants a real challenge they should just drop them at the Memphis airport and challenge them to get to the actual front door of Graceland before closing time.

And yes, yes, of course the gift shops are important. Heck, really, in terms of Graceland that’s as important as the site itself. Marketing, baby. Like a Turkish bizarre they flock from all over the world to be teased and tempted by goods found nowhere else on earth. But when you’re running late and you just want to see the Jungle Room, snow globes, shot glasses and Love Me Tender underpants can wait.

And then there are the teaming throngs of tourists. The masses of gawkers, mockers and loyal fans on their pilgrimage. Thousands of them. Every age, color, nationality, language, religion, political inclination, social and cultural status is represented. Young leather clad and scarily pierced hardcore punks mingle with double-knit pant suited middle aged church ladies. Japanese teenagers in über cool garb rub shoulders with Pakistani Elvis® impersonators. French businessmen in really nice suits make way for young entwined cooing smitten couples. Senior citizens, pre-schoolers, high school bands, and the day I was there, a Russian rugby team.

It is a small world, after all.

Fortunately the advance V.I.P. passes carry some clout. If you’re going to Graceland to be a tourist but can’t stand being with other tourists, I highly recommend procuring advance V.I.P. passes. I was told this is how all the rock stars see Graceland. I’m not sure I believe Bono doesn’t get a private tour, but hey, the first thing I learned about Graceland is that they take V.I.P. status seriously.

While the minions throng and wait in line for their tickets, us V.I.P.s go straight to a special, calm check-in desk. There we were given special fancy tickets and even more special fancy V.I.P. “backstage pass” type badges to dangle around our necks. You know, like V.I.P.s at concerts. Rock on. Despite the silliness of the badge, especially hanging against our Elvis® t-shirts, we dutifully donned our passes. We all wore them, like a badge of honor, throughout our stay at Graceland.

Hey, when in Rome. And you know, really, if you’re going to go to Graceland, why not just throw yourself into the spirit of the whole thing? It’s an all or nothing adventure. If you’re going to do it, do it right, do it all, embrace the experience.

We were escorted to a special V.I.P. coach, a large van, a cushy comfy transport vehicle to take us across the street and through the gates and into the promised land of Graceland. Unfortunately because we were so pressed for time we didn’t get to stop at the gates for photo ops.

We were on a mission. Jungle Room or bust.

That’s when it hit me: The tour guides, at least the tour guides on the V.I.P. tour, are really, really nice. They’re proud of Graceland and thankful and respectful of the visitors and it shows. They’re just really nice. As in almost weirdly nice. I know, I know, Southern hospitality and all that. But still, really, really nice. Maybe it was our Elvis® t-shirts. Maybe they assumed we were huge fans and they were being extra nice to us.

Which made me feel bad. Because I wasn’t there for the “right” reasons. I assumed they assumed that because we paid the money for the V.I.P. tour and wore Elvis shirts we were all respectful, adoring, reverent fans on a pilgrimage worthy of their warm hospitality. But I, we, weren’t there as loyal, caring fans. We were there in our ironic t-shirts to mock the place, see how bad it really is, and cross off an item from my “before I die...” list.

I was: Disingenuous. And the super nice guides made me feel ashamed and bad about my intentions. I don’t deserve this tour, I don’t deserve to be here, I don’t deserve to be treated so well by the tour guides. In short, I don’t deserve their respect. With so many true, respectful fans in the world who would love to be in my place, I felt bad. Really bad. I began to regret the whole thing. I had to either conjure up some respect and reverence for Elvis®, pronto, or at least get my mind in a place to fake it really well because these people are sincere and nice and it’s just wrong to mock that which they hold dear. (And in the case of the tour guides, that which pays their salary.)

Heretofore I thought most people who go to Graceland are going for the same reasons I wanted to go: Mockery. Curiosity. A quest. I mean, do you know anyone who wants to go to Graceland to pay respect to Elvis®? Even the Elvis® fans I know don’t take Graceland seriously - they’re all about the music, not the weirdness or merchandising. In my defense, I couldn’t have known there are so many people who take Graceland, and Elvis®, so reverently. And there I was in a cushy comfy V.I.P. tour van driving up to Graceland with two very enthused and nice tour guides pointing out all sorts of insider Elvis® trivia. As if we cared. I pretended to be in rapt attention out of respect for the super nice tour guide.

Life is funny.

Lessons in humility are taught when and where you least expect it.

One for the money, two for the show...

As we glided up the driveway Graceland came into view. There, looming in front of us, perched on the crest of a hill flanked by large trees, was a nice but modest sized home. I’ve seen photos, of course, but somehow I never grasped the scale of the place. It’s small. I wasn’t disappointed, but I was surprised. Kind of like going to the Alamo. And like the Alamo, my first reaction was, “That’s it?” I’m not kidding, it reminded me of the houses in my hometown. Nice but modest suburban homes of the ‘50s and ‘60s. Nice, pleasant, but nothing special and nothing huge, certainly nothing ostentatious.

Because we were V.I.P.s we had a special window of opportunity to view the front of the house on our own, in privacy, for a few minutes before the next tour started. Again - no lines, no one else but us. Just us taking in the modest size of Graceland.

The tour guide lined us up, placed us on the perfect Kodak picture spot, and snapped photos for us on our cameras. As a group and as individuals.

After the photoshoot I made a disturbing discovery. I’m not a Graceland scholar. I read the news releases when Lisa Marie sold most of her shares of the place because I was interested in the business and marketing aspects, but beyond that I haven’t kept up with Graceland news. So I was more than a little surprised to learn that, along with the Alamo, the White House, Mt. Vernon and Monticello, Graceland is a National Historic Landmark. The honor was bestowed in 2006.

Erm. Seriously. You know I rarely, if ever, use this, but if ever anything deserved it, it’s this: WTF???

Labels: Elvis, Graceland