I’ll never forget that day 35 years ago today when my buddy Kevin rolled into my parents’ driveway, jumped out of his car, raised his black-banded arm into the air, and yelled, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”
The King had been great in the mid to late 50s, had become a tool for Colonel Tom Parker’s money-making Hollywood garbage machine during the mid 60s, had rejuvenated and become great again in ’68, and started to become a bad parody of himself toward the mid 70s. But he was still great and he always will be. He wasn’t the be all and end all of rock and roll or rockabilly, but none of it–not then, not later, not now–would have been the same without him.
35 years gone and we still love him. For all his greatness, for all his talent, for all his weaknesses, for all his faults. We still love him.
The King is dead. Long live the King.
Strangely, he died at the same age his mother passed on, and only two days after the date his mother passed away. Drug overdose: I can not help but wonder to this day if he took his own life, he was exceptionally close to his mother and he was not all that happy at the time. It’s such a beautiful thing that “everyone” seems to know who Elvis is no matter what nationality or what country they are from. I was in a public square the other day and Elvis came on…seemed 100 people were singing along or mouthing the lyrics. Long Live the King.
Can’t add anything to that.