Hanging With The King: The Single Most Offensive Thing I’ve Ever Seen
Growing up, I spent many happy summers at my grandparents’ house. They live in Colorado, and opened up their house to me for a week. There was always something to do or a place to go. On the rare moment we had downtime, I was flipping through the channels and came upon A Hard Day’s Night. I started to watch because my dad had trained me well. After a while, my grandmother came in and started to watch with me. During the joyous performance of “She Loves You,” my grandmother said something quite odd.
“You know John,” she began. “I was never offended by The Beatles. I don’t know what my generation was so threatened by. They are wearing nice suits and are generally clean cut. Now that Elvis Presley on the other hand, well he was the most offensive thing I’d ever seen.”
My grandmother is one of the most sophisticated people I’ve ever met. She’s always open to trying new things, so that comment puzzled me. When I thought of Elvis, the word “offensive” never entered my mind. There was nothing offensive about a guy that swung his hips while he sang. His songs never mentioned sex or violence, so her comment made no sense to me. I knew she wasn’t kidding because she put “that” in front of his name. For several years, whenever she mentioned Elvis, it was always “that Elvis Presley.”
My grandmother was about my age when Elvis exploded on the world’s stage. She was married and a mother of three. She wasn’t too far removed from teenage culture, but there was a much clearer divide back then. With the internet, iTunes and cable television, it’s not hard to meet a 24-year old Justin Timberlake fan. In the 1950s, musical boundaries were very clear cut. There was music for adults and music for teenagers. My grandparents liked crooners like Jack Jones, Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. They were classy, sophisticated and romantic. They stood at a microphone and sang. Sinatra hinted at sex occasionally, but it was never overt. He might have been banging a cocktail waitress in real life, but in his songs he was just strolling down a dewy lane.
Elvis was not a nice boy. He had long greasy hair, wore pink jackets and wasn’t backed by a big band. Elvis was a purely sexual being in a time when people weren’t supposed to be sexual. He wasn’t subtle. That pelvis was shaking and gyrating in front of impressionable children, and he didn’t care. When censors tried to restrain him, he didn’t care. He wiggled his finger, cocked his eyebrow and sneered.
It was more than the gyrations, it was also his voice. Elvis’ voice was raw and emotional. Even when he was singing a ballad, there was nothing sweet about it. Men were supposed to be strong and silent, Elvis was emotional. He was an affront to everything the American male was supposed to be. He was dangerous.
Unfortunately we have no reference point to how dangerous Elvis was in 1956. We’ve become so desensitized to sexuality that when Lil’ Kim asks “How many licks does it take to get to the center of her?” we don’t even bat an eye. Elvis’ early work is compelling because its all about the suggestion of sex. He didn’t have to say a word or raise a middle finger, but something in that sneer was unsettling. Today’s pop stars would be wise to take notes. Suggestion is a powerful thing.
A couple years ago I was talking to my grandmother about music and Elvis’ name came up. I expected to get the same spiel I’d gotten dozens of times. Instead, I got this.
“I must admit, he was a damn good singer.”
I considered it a personal triumph.
