Elvis is Alive and Well But… by John Cunningham

Saturday 24th January 1987

Sound-checking the venue’s PA system, Jesse strapped on his battered jumbo guitar, and proceeded to tune it. After all these years, he thought, he could still tune his instrument by ear. He adjusted his microphones to accommodate the position of its hole for amplification, and his height for vocals.  The house lights were on, revealing a square, empty floor, with a bar down the left hand side of the room, and a number of tables and stools on the other side. The place itself, still reeked of last night’s booze, no matter how much they’d disinfected it. It was a cramped, dark walled room with graffiti on the walls, and smudges of faded reds and greens for effect; reminding some who came in of a run down ghost train.

Jesse: ‘Testing, testing,1,2,3.’

Aaron:  ‘What do you think, brother?’

Jesse:’Just fine.’

Aaron: ‘You bet! We’ll kill em!’

‘Where ya from?’ the proprietor, Freddie, had asked when Jesse first enquired about the possibility of a gig, the week before. But he could never remember. He remembered his twin brother though. Not his features, just his voice. Sometimes, he thought he could remember his face, but then it receded far into the distance. Sometimes the image in his mind was young, tanned, elastically sexy and yet his look seemed to be as corpulent as the lady he thought was their momma but couldn’t be sure. Finally, in his mind, he also saw himself, as bloated and pasty faced, with sunken, frazzled, guarded eyes. He heard himself slurring his words towards a noisy, dark sea of people in a smile and smoke filled room.  Aaron’s voice occupied every corner of his brain;  a voice, he would brag, which rocked till they dropped, in the studio, at the hoedowns and county fairs, and then nationally, on those tiny black-and-white tv screens back in the day. Gyrating in front of the drums, the guitars drenched in echo and double slapped bass bopping to desperately pleading, hungry and urgent, climactic roars.

 When Jesse turned up that afternoon, Freddie was pleased to see him, as she hadn’t been too sure he would make it. He didn’t seem to have an address or telephone number. She didn’t care, though. She was used to flaky artists.

‘I liked your tape,’ she’d said. ‘It’s a pretty good impersonation. Are you American?’

‘Tennessee, Ma-am,’ he replied, and after pausing, continued under his breath, ’I think.’

Old school politeness, she thought. Lucky to get a genuine American impersonator.

‘What’s on your set list?‘  she enquired. ‘Not that it matters, but a good mixture of old and new always works with this crowd. Our last impersonator would only do the Vegas stuff.’

‘Don’t worry Ma-am! I start with the early stuff,’ he replied, with an air of shy charm, ‘then about midpoint, I sing a few songs from the movies, the good ones, that is, and then finale with a selection of Vegas stuff.

When he said this, Jesse had a sudden memory blast of gospel singers, and a heavy orchestra propelling him with nervous desperation towards a finish which could best be described as strangulated. He seemed to remember feeling as though his blood vessels were going to burst from trying to reach those ear piercing high notes. Coupled with the sensation of being in a fog of an ill prescribed dosage, he was fearful of experiencing the same sensations tonight.

‘Cool!’ she said. ‘It’ll be a good mix, I’m sure.’

He sat at the side of the stage whilst the bar staff and cleaners went about their business. He kept his guitar on and vamped a few blues riffs, humming vaguely. They worked around him.

‘Will you be wearing a costume?’ asked Freddie, later, as she passed him, still sat on the stage. ‘Leather or sequins, a few karate moves, perhaps?’ she said, laughing.

Aaron: ‘Just let our voices do the talking, Jesse.’

Aaron’s voice reverberated around his head in a disgruntled fashion. Jesse could almost see the latter’s lip curl.

‘No, Ma-am,’ he replied. That politeness again, she thought. English singers, especially those new bands, hadn’t anywhere near this guy’s class and manners.

‘Just a country shirt and jeans,’ he said, ‘the clothes I’m wearing now.’

‘That’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Come and see me at the end of the night and hopefully the take will make it worth your while.’

‘We just, I mean, I, just like to sing, Ma-am.’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll get something for your trouble, even if it’s a bag of crisps and a drink.’

Freddie now looked at him, carefully. His grey, quaffed, greasy hair smelt vaguely of cloves or was it cinnamon spice? He had a beard, heavy greying sideburns, the colour of lead, but she could tell that his hair had once been jet black with a bluish tinge. Some streaks of both still remained. He had a slight paunch, but seemed fit enough. It seemed, she thought, such a strange occupation for a man of his age. She guessed about fifty five but he could be older; she couldn’t tell, really. Acts didn’t require a cv for such things anyway, she laughed to herself. Her gigs attracted an eclectic bunch of impersonators. This one was different though. He made no attempt to look authentic but the tape he sent told a different story. Hopefully, it wasn’t a scam. Looking at him now, she perhaps thought it would be. His humming seemed a bit reedy, insipid even, but she’d heard singers always rested their voices before a gig.

‘I can’t wait to hear you later,’  she said, trying to engage with him.

After pausing, trying to fill the awkward silences, she said: ‘Listen, do you have anywhere to go in the meantime? You worry me. We are not open until a few hours from now.’

His eyes lifted up from the ground, where they had been deep in concentration, legs dangling over the stage, his frame slumped over the body of the guitar.

‘Hope you don’t mind, Ma-am,’ he said ‘but I’d rather stay here.’

‘Of course not’, she said, and shouted over to the bar man:

‘Jimmy, bring a table out from the back, will you, and let this gentleman sit down somewhere sensible.’

Jimmy came out from backstage, carrying a small round table in one hand and a chair in another.

‘There you are, mate, he said.’ After which he returned to behind the bar, wiping the surface down whilst staring at him.

Jesse, by now, had sat down, still clutching his guitar, which he continued to strum whilst staring at the wooden floor.

He sat there until about fifteen minutes before the venue opened.

Freddie’s venue was called The Clambake, a small place, down an alleyway near the docks in a coastal college town.  It had developed a reputation over the years for being a ‘go to’ for students and locals alike. It was a bit hit and miss, though, gig wise. She felt that bands were too loud; her pa system couldn’t cope with the volume, so she stuck to single, cover singers. On an average Saturday night, a good cover artist would make the beer flow and tills ring; especially if it had a 50s flavour. In the past, she’d brought in a few Elvis impersonators. Some were serious but many played for laughs. Some brought the house down. After a few drinks, everyone would be laughing their heads off at the way those old classics were murdered by the paunchy, sequinned, songsters she hired. However, she thought, this one seemed the real deal. Although, looking at him, she hoped he wasn’t too serious.

Nicole and her friend Jasmine were some of the earliest punters to arrive, having waited outside for an hour to get in. It was a cold night, early January, and their first night out since the beginning of the year. When they’d heard that it was “Elvis Night,” Nicole tried to back out, but Jasmine insisted they went in.

‘Beside’s my dad used to like him. They played one of his songs at his funeral. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, of course’ replied Nicole, the memory was acute. Jasmine’s dad had died during their first year at Uni, just after they’d met. Her grief brought them together and they’d been mates ever since. Jasmine, Nicole was beginning to realise, was the kind of mate you met in the first week of university and was going to be stuck with, for better or worse, for the next three years.

They paid their entrance fee and went in, running for a table closest to the stage.

‘Mine’s a lager top!’ said Jasmine, with an arch smile. Nicole pulled a disapproving face.

‘What?’ Jasmine continued in mock protest. ‘I got the last one. Remember? Last night at Hawaii’s?’

‘Yeah, alright!’ Nicole replied, who had already started to wend her way through the incoming crowd to the bar. She always felt that she had no bar presence but managed to squeeze through a couple who were finding it difficult to choose their drinks. She ordered two lager tops for herself and Jasmine, and whilst the bartender was pouring the pints, she turned to face the empty stage. She wasn’t an Elvis fan, it was going to be a long night, she thought. Still, it was better than a dry night over a text book in her digs. She had one foot on the pole near the ground which ran the length of the bar, and the other on the ground itself, whilst her elbows rested on the surface. She then began looking around the room absentmindedly. Across the room, towards the stage, sat the act at a table, head down, his body slumped on his jumbo guitar. She looked at him idly, initially, but her attention towards him grew. Every now and then, he would wipe his greasy hair across his fringe.  She wondered if it was dyed or genuine. At which point, he looked up, and their eyes established some sort of brief contact.

Aaron: ‘You got a fan over there, Jesse. Make sure, you sing one of them love and lonely heart songs to her. That’s if you ever get started.’

Jesse: ‘Be still, will ya? You know who my songs are meant for. She’ll return, you’ll see. You know it too. And then remember, Aaron, you’ll have to go, for good.’

Nicole heard snippets of him saying the latter, turned round, pretending not to have noticed anything, to see the bartender waiting with some impatience for the money for the drinks. He looked across to the act.

‘Don’t mind him,’ he said. ‘he’s harmless enough. Sort of self absorbed. Guvnor thinks he’s great. Best impersonator we have had, according to her, from the cassette she’d heard. So, you and your friend over there may be in for a treat.’ He winked at her, and then over to Jasmine. They both ignored him and she returned to the table.

‘That guy’s weird!’ said Nicole.

‘Who, the bartender?’ said Jasmine, looking over towards him. ‘He looks alright to me.’

‘Who him?’ said Nicole, glancing at the bartender, who was grinning lasciviously at them. ‘No, the singer. I swear, he was talking to himself. But, lover boy over there said we are in for a treat. Apparently, his boss thinks he’s the best impersonator they’ve ever had.’

‘That’s great,’ said Jasmine, wiping off some of the lager froth from her mouth with her sleeve. ‘I told you it’d be a good night. I’m looking forward to this even more.’

Freddie climbed up onto the stage, beckoning the singer to join her, which after some hesitation, he did. She informed him that it would be a good idea if he stood in the wings, explaining that she will introduce him once the place got a bit busier. He was due on at 8.30, for a 90 minute set with a break in between.

‘Are you sure you have enough material?’

‘I’m sure, ma-am?’ he replied.

He had jumped up, and walked off to the left of the stage as instructed, his guitar now slung round to the back of him. His sudden confidence had not gone unnoticed by some of the incoming crowd, who gave a small cheer.

8.30 came around quickly, and Freddie proceeded to introduce the act to the packed venue.

‘And now folks, all the way from Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee, the King of Rock and Roll himself.’ She then paused for effect: ‘No, but seriously folks, a King of Rock and Roll anyway, from what I’ve heard, let’s give a great big hand for Jesse.’

She glanced over to him in the wings, a little nervous, as she always was for her acts.

‘Over to you, fella!’

Stepping aside, as he walked across the stage with lithe stealth, he suddenly seemed to her like a leopard about to pounce on unsuspecting prey. He came to the microphone, held the moment until the applause died down, waved his hair from his eyes, and then started his first song with a desperate howl.

‘Well, since my baby….’

The crowd immediately whooped and hollered; including Nicole, despite herself, and Jasmine. As the night rolled on, every song came and went to rapturous applause.

‘By Christ, he’s good!’ The bartender said to anyone who happened to be listening, and the drinks continued to flow. Freddie, with a mixture of pride and dismay, looked around at her packed venue. Her punter’s eyes were shining, and sometimes their beer glasses were almost stuck between chest and mouth as he hammered each song home. Even though he only had an acoustic, the audience was dancing on the bare floor. Fingers were tapping the tables to the propulsive beat of his chords and licks.

‘Where the hell did you find him, Guvnor?’ said one of the waiters at the tables, passing her with a tray of empties, trying to make his voice climb above the clamorous applause which was now roaring through his songs.

The Guvnor couldn’t speak.

Suddenly Jesse stopped mid song. His eyes were fixed on the audience, squinting into the harsh lights, and he took off the guitar he had been wielding, placing it beside a stool on the stage. Someone had switched the house lights on, in order to steady what apparently was sudden palpable distress.

Their ice cruel glare emphasized his stringy, grey locks, and the sickly pallor of his pale, white cheeks.

Aaron: ‘I was dying on those Vegas stages, Jesse, and no one even noticed.’

The crowd had eased itself into a silence. The sound of clinking glasses being swept up from tables also gradually ceased.

Aaron: ‘I mean really dying, Jesse, dying from the pills, the money, the fame. I was a puppet, a carney attraction, a freak show to be exploited by the Colonel.’

Wow, thought Freddie nervously, she wasn’t expecting performance theatre too.

Aaron: ‘I was dreading those high notes, Jesse, but I reached them this time. Did you hear me? Like the old days. Are you proud of me, Jesse? For a moment back there whilst I was singing, I thought I caught a glimpse of her in the audience but…but…it couldn’t be….she’s gone. Isn’t she Jesse? Gone for good. Gone off to a new life , as I didn’t, or so she said, address her needs.’

Pause

Aaron:  ‘We gave her everything, Jesse, and just like Momma, she’s gone. And they thought I’d died too!  Let me tell ya, folks, money can buy anything. The Colonel arranged that, like he arranged everything. The world thought my money had been squandered on the big man’s gambling debts but.. but…where am I now? This place looks strange…’

‘Quit griping, fella,’ a beery voice from the audience shouted out, ‘ sing us another song.’ Other hecklers clamoured to join in, resulting in a slow, escalating hand clap underneath the bright glare of the house lights.

Nicole couldn’t take her eyes off the stage. There was so much sweat and black mascara on his face, it was hard to tell if he was sweating or crying.

‘This is so embarrassing,’ said Jasmine.

‘It’s more than that,’ Nicole said, without averting her gaze, ‘did you hear what he was saying? I swear, he is talking to himself. You know lots about the King, don’t you?’

‘Only what my dad told me,’ Jasmine answered.

‘Elvis had a twin, didn’t he? Stillborn. Jesse was his name, and that man up there seemed to be thinking he is…as if he was… talking to Elvis. He mentioned the name Aaron. That was the King’s middle name, wasn’t it? Remember that video you showed me? It was his last concert, when he was all bloated, doped up and straining for his notes? I swear he was referring to that.’

‘You’re drunk, nuts even,’ Jasmine replied, ‘and so is he!’

‘Look!’ Nicole said, pointing to the bar. A group of punters were surrounding Freddie, asking for their entrance fee back, and she was clearly flustered. Meanwhile, the men on the stage were rambling incoherently, laughing, as if at some private joke, until Jimmy proceeded to escort them off. The laughing finally stopped and they went quietly backstage, offering no resistance. Jimmy had placed a white towel around their neck, which they used to occasionally wipe the sweat from their faces.

They left by the side entrance, a fire door, which scraped then clanked heavily on their departure, a similarly dissonant accompaniment to the sound of the dissatisfied crowd inside.

 Elvis Aaron Presley had left the building.

‘Besides,’ said Jasmine, re-emphasizing her point to Nicole after guzzling down the dregs of her drink, ‘he was nowhere near as good as the real thing.’

John Cunningham

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay – a microphone on a stand in a busy venue. the background is blurry.