Rant n' Rave With John Nagle

It started with the oddest record collection in recorded history. My dad had an eccentric client named Mr. Streeter, who lived alone in a small apartment confined to a wheelchair. Eventually he moved into a nursing home and had to get rid of a lot of stuff. Almost every week for about a month, my dad would come home with a box and spend the weekend sorting through it. Mr. Streeter seemingly never threw anything away, so I would check out the boxes to see if there was anything worth taking.

The records were the most-time consuming. Mr. Streeter had at least ten boxes of them, the majority of which nobody in their right mind would have wanted. My dad sorted the records into piles, occasionally commenting on a particularly odd selection. “I’m My Own Grandpa and Other Silly Songs?! Why would anyone want three Dr. Demento records? The Ray Coniff Singers? This is a pretty terrible record collection John.”

It wasn’t all bad. Mr. Streeter collected old radio shows, which I found quite interesting. I rescued The Green Hornet, The Lone Ranger and Bergen and McCarthy from the trash can. My dad continued to sort through one of the boxes. He pulled a record out and examined it.

“Elvis Presley. Man, I will never understand Kent’s taste.”

Elvis was the only artist in Mr. Streeter’s collection that I had heard of, but I didn’t know much about him. I knew that he wore ridiculous bejeweled outfits and drove pink Cadillac and had mutton-chop sideburns. This information largely came from a wrestler called The Honky Tonk Man, who my parents said was an Elvis impersonator. I’d heard plenty of Honky’s music, including his latest hit “Hunka Hunka Honky Love,” Honky was a terrible singer. I wondered what the real person sounded like. I asked dad if I could have it.

“You wanna listen to the King John?” He asked, with a slight smirk on his face. “Be my guest.”

The album Mr. Streeter had was called Pure Gold. Released in 1975, it was the zillionth greatest hits record released to capitalize on his name. It’s a really odd greatest hits record, because there is no rhyme or reason to it. It’s got “Jailhouse Rock,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” and “Love Me Tender,” but also has his cover of “Fever” and “It’s Impossible.” It’s not the ideal introduction.

Ironically I had inherited Mr. Streeter’s old turntable, so I took the record to my room and put it on. The opening track, “Kentucky Rain,” was pleasant enough. “Fever” sounded like something my grandmother would listen to. None of this sounded like rock n’ roll though. Then “Jailhouse Rock” came on. Everything clicked.

There was an actual guitar riff, and pounding drums and I couldn’t decipher what Elvis was singing. By the time “Don’t Be Cruel” came on, I loved Elvis. He became the focus of my life. When I get obsessed with something, watch out. Friends and family had to put up Elvis’ music, Elvis trivia and Elvis movies. All my friends listened to the Spin Doctors. I tried to convince them that “Suspicious Minds” was an infinitely better song than “Two Princes.” The passage of time has shown that I was correct, but I didn’t know how to form an argument at nine years old. I found a life sized poster of Elvis and hung it on my wall. I watched every single Elvis movie on TNT, even Kissing Cousins. I was truly devoted.

But like so many of my obsessions back then, my obsession with Elvis lasted approximately a year. By fourth grade, I’d moved onto The Beatles. Elvis joined Dick Tracy, Rocky and the Statue of Liberty as things that I had brief but passionate love affairs with.

When I was a teenager, Elvis was almost a skeleton in my closet. I’d started reading rock criticism, and through that I began to subscribe to the belief that Elvis was nothing but a white boy who stole black music. Little Richard was the real King, because he said so.

My attitude started to change in late 2006. Rolling Stone mentioned a clip that was floating around on YouTube of one of Elvis singing “Unchained Melody” a few months before his death. I thought it would be good for a laugh, but I was blown away. Watching a bloated, pilled-out Elvis nail the high notes at the end of that song made gave me goosebumps. Maybe Elvis Presley deserved a second chance.

In the summer of 2007, I started writing for 411Mania.com. In November, my editor announced that 411 was going to start a music hall of fame. Elvis was one of the first inductees, and I offered to write his article. For the next two months, I immersed myself in Elvis Presley’s world. I bought the Complete ‘50s Masters box set and read Peter Guralnick’s masterful two-volume biography, Last Train to Memphis and Careless Love. The more research I did, the more I realized how wrong I’d been. Elvis Presley wasn’t a white boy stealing the black man’s music. He was an integrator, a person that blurred the color lines in the segregated south. He was the son of a poor sharecropper who became an American icon. He was a deeply flawed human being who was given an incredible gift. I spent two weeks writing the essay, hoping to give him the respect he deserved. It ran on the front page the next day.

So what is the difference between my initial obsession and my love for Elvis now? Back in third grade, Elvis was part of my overwhelming desire to be different. I couldn’t comprehend the profound impact he had on American culture. Now I am able to appreciate the things I didn’t quite understand before. It’s not based on face value. Elvis had major flaws. He was a drug addict who was extremely possessive of his wife. He made some really awful music towards the end of his life. He made many crappy movies where he played a singing race driver, or fisherman, or heir to a pineapple juice fortune. I am totally aware of his shortcomings, and I love the man anyway.

Next Week: “The Most Offensive Thing I’ve Ever Seen.”