Oh, To Be Elvis
I went on a blues road trip recently. We drove from Memphis to Nashville. I couldn’t find anything to eat but BBQ-the-lot and some oatmeal I would heat up in a cup at Subway. I went to BB King’s ebony bar. I saw Robert Johnson’s grave. I lined up for Graceland. Sun records. I danced with old men to KoKo Taylor and drank cider for the first time.
Saturated with so much Elvis imagery, it was hard not to notice his style, especially early Elvis. The uniformity of his look. The commitment to keeping it. While the later days brought on those ill-fitting white jumpsuits, it was his jailhouse look: that Hound Dog, comb back, hip-thrusting, trouser wearing, loafer strut that still feels right. I want to be Elvis, I think. The way he sexualized classic American workwear is appealing to me. The way he electrified a white t-shirt. The way he did it every day. The way it needn’t cost much to keep it all in good nick.
So sweat a little. Roll your sleeves and tuck your tee in tight. Loose your bra. Rumple your shirt, try a jean a little higher waisted, shine those boots.