A pitch for: the resurrection of a king, and an inevitable anti-climax

Steven Wilson
Jul 23, 2017 · 5 min read

Elvis Aaron Presley was escorted to the backstage area, and found it to be swarming with kids in t-shirts, smoking waiters, bodyguards, cleaning ladies, balding guys in tour jackets and the odd fella having a go at the first buffet setting. And the Suits, of course. Where do those pricks come from? Is there some kind of a fancy school that…farts these kids out of a classroom, and right in to his face (like a big fart in my face!)? In later years, some of them were so fresh that they comfortably called him “Elvis” from the get-go, without appreciating he was already Mister Rhythm when they were still getting there asses whooped (or wiped, probably more like it). Even the hookers called him Mister Presley, for Christ Sake! It was like they were talking to a record of his, or something. Like talking to that dog in the His Master´s Voice picture. Elvis. “Elvis”. Eeel-vis. El. Vis. Saying his name over and over again under his breath made the five letters seem strange and unknown. Elvis? What is Elvis? He snickered inside himself as he was ushered deeper in to the corridors. This had happened to him before, that his mind couldn’t seem to recognize his Christian name. For the few moments the sensation lasted, Elvis would picture his name, in the form of the 30-foot tall light-bulbed capital letters that made up the backdrop of his gargantuous Vegas shows. He saw himself standing in the darkness before entering the casino stage, the radiation of the letters touching him, glowing the emeralds of his white jumpsuit, like a sunrise on Mars, or Vulcan, or somewhere. He then wondered, where did the giant letters go after all those shows were over? Were they thrown in those giant dumpsters (the ones in the back of the casinos, right next to the artist entrance; ´fuck is up with that?), along with the empty Jack Daniels bottles, lipsticked napkins and cigarette butts? Or had they been given to one of those old crazy broads, with their aging blow-job eyes, who had hung them over her bed in some giant mansion? Or were they simply stashed behind the stage, ready to be erected once again, whenever Elvis would finally “come back to his senses”? Here in the present, he imagined himself as a side-burned Willie E. Coyote, breathing out a small typhoon in relief. This wasn’t one of those shows. The sensation vanished. Elvis. That’s me, boy. Are you looking for trouble? Well you’ve come to the right place.

Elvis finally entered the pre-show area, and was immediately the target of the eyes and tipsy nods from horn blowers and guitar players.

No-one else smiles in celebration, the way players smile. Maybe, because they share the knowledge that a stage with spotlights is out there, somewhere. Splintered and smelling of old beer. Perhaps just a few feet away. Or maybe way over on the other side of Life. A light that will shine on their blessed faces, while others stand in the dark.

Elvis thought of a deer, mindlessly stunned by headlights speeding straight ahead.

The most piercing look came from the soot black and white dude sitting in the midpoint of the room, surrounded by kids, boozers, gypsies and an impressively sized ash can. The man was dominating an oil-black Fender guitar and looked like he could collapse backwards in his cheap folding chair, at any time. Pleasantly alarmed, the thin man arose, shot his chest out, chin back and drove towards Elvis. “Hey, man!” But even for all his adrenalized grogginess, he instantly looked like the bona fide owner of the joint, as if the Madison Square Garden was just a used-car lot. And his tobacco colored eyes which prowled underneath his blackening brows, told of a man who effortless knew who you were, like a pimp, or a snoop. Elvis´ inner Hollywood reel was getting carried away; Keith Richards was simply the musical general of the Rolling Stones.

“This is such an honor, King, you know, mmm. So you´re cool with the gig, then?”. Elvis could now see, behind the threatening mascara, the boyish eyes of a man that had loved Roy Rogers as a kid. “We´ll call you out for the encores, man, so just hang out as you please. We are your humble servants”. Elvis remembered that Keith had used this expression on the telefax as well. Keith dived over to the ash can to put out his cigarette and sproinged back, as if his feet were glued to the floor, so not to turn his back on him. Elvis laughed a little at this pseudo-acrobatic maneuver, finding himself completely at ease around the infamous guitarist, even though the safety net of his flunky entourage was long gone. He demonstrated his readiness for the gig by doing his Elvis-does-Elvis impression, holding a thin, imaginative microphone and sang lines from the song he was going to join in on. “Am I hard enough, am I rough enough!”, “Yeah I´m ready! Great to be aboard!” They chuckled like successful criminals. Everybody relaxed. Elvis had had more than one Heineken, but the rest of the ensemble had begun to possessively suck down the booze bottles, making Elvis think of some sort of voodoo ritual, or the moment of a orgy when everyone begins to loosen up, and get, real comfortable.

The Stones maneuvered towards the stage, and climbed the shaky metal staircase (who is this asshole making all of these shitty sets of stairs? At every place…) behind the monitor-mixing table. They reminded of too-experienced veterans entering a fully armed B-52, with poor intelligence on which village they were going to hit. Elvis felt he could breath the audience´s steam and perfume into his lungs as he was shown to his private dressing room. On the door hung a large star with the letters K-I-N-G in the middle.

Elvis found himself being alone.

Although, he was greeted by two guitars resting in each of their stands: a blonde Gibson Hummingbird, and a black Everly Brothers flattop. Elvis appreciated the sentimental gesture, but he sighed, so tired of the Muppet-like jangling of the Guitar Man. The Past. Surrounding the mirror were the light bulbs. Elvis looked at himself while undressing. As he unbuttoned his Wrangler jeans shirt, he conveniently hunched a little, as trying not to reveal his formidable chest scar. He still had a way to go.

Going Clear, that´s what Priscilla and his new friends called it.

The Rolling Stones had entered the stage.

If you start me up! If you start me then I´ll never stop!

You make a dead man coo-oome!

Elvis felt very much alive.

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