Thank You Elvis

Had I been born a month before Lisa Marie Presley, instead of a month after, I don't know who I would have been. But I wasn't, and my mom named me Lisa Marie. This makes my mom sound like some sort of fanatical Elvis fan, which she wasn't. Those fans didn't spring in to existence until after Elvis died, anyway. My mom liked Elvis the same way everyone did in those days. If she was nuts for anybody it was Priscilla Presley. Whenever anyone asked her why she named me Lisa Marie she'd say: "I figured if that was the prettiest name Priscilla Presley could think of, I couldn't do any better." Sometimes, depending on who was asking, she'd add: "I figure Priscilla must really be something. Elvis could have married anyone. He married her." And there would be awe in her voice.

But I can't blame my mom for all of it. Unless I inherited my being a copycat from her. Which I don't think I did since the one and only time my mom copied anyone was to name me. Copycat. The word seared itself into my grade school soul the day Jackie Letempski hissed it in my ear while we were lined up for gym class. Jackie had been the first girl in our grade four class to start wearing mismatched barrettes in her hair. I had been the second. Even though Jackie's hot breath had sent a bolt of fear and recognition clean through me, it was not enough to make me stop. I never changed. I was never the first to do anything and never smart enough to wait until a trend was safely established before joining in. I was always the copycat.

It was no surprise really when Lisa Marie Presley released her first album I became a Lisa Marie Presley impersonator.

There's more demand for a Lisa Marie impersonator than most people think. Elvis contests are still popular and I often got booked as the opening act. I travelled a lot, moving around from gig to gig and discovered I liked being on the road. It was at one of those contests that I met the real Elvis. That's right, Elvis Aaron Presley: The King of Rock 'n' Roll. It sounds unbelievable, I know. But it is the truth.

It happened at a bar in Niagara Falls which is fitting. Niagara Falls being one of those strange, twilighty places, floating somewhere between the real and the make believe. As usual, I was the opening act. The first thing I did when I got there was check out the stage, which was tiny, but the sound system was decent. There was already a crowd and they were people who liked Elvis, I could tell. Sometimes only hecklers showed up.

Backstage, about a dozen Elvises were primping, most from the rhinestone era. All the worst Elvis impersonators liked the Las Vegas stuff best. It was easy for them to hide under the hair and behind those tinted glasses. The white jumpsuit was never flattering, but that didn't deter them. It wasn't flattering to Elvis, either.

It was my policy not to talk to the Elvises. Any conversation with an Elvis led to him asking me one of two things: either he would want me to join his act and do the father-daughter thing, or he would want me to join him and do the drunk-naked thing. Either way, I wasn't interested.

I found the women's staff bathroom and squeezed inside to do my hair and makeup. Lisa Marie has got great hair, so thick and glossy. I guess it's no surprise when you look at her parents. I wasn't as lucky in the genetics department, which is why I bought some hairpieces when I was first starting out. While I was attaching them to my teased hair two of the waitresses slipped into the bathroom. They passed a joint back and forth between them and watched me put on my makeup.

"I don't even know what Lisa Marie Presley looks like," the taller of the two said. They both wore low cut t-shirts and push up bras.

"Just like her. Hey, you look really good," the other one called to me even though I was standing right next to her.

"Thanks," I smiled at them in the mirror.

"Want some?" she held up the joint.

"Can't. I gotta protect my voice."

They nodded sympathetically and were quiet until the tall one said, "I think Courtney Love smokes."

"She's not Courtney Love. Besides, Courtney Love sucks," the other said before flushing the tiny butt of their spent joint down the toilet. Then they left. In that second, while the door hung open, I listened for the crowd. The bar was getting noisier.

I was dressed and waiting when the manager knocked on the bathroom door and asked if I was ready. Eighteen Elvises stood bunched together backstage. From beyond them I heard a voice introduce me then the Elvises parted like a sea of shining sequins and I stepped on to the stage.

People who don't know anything about showbiz think it is the applause performers want most. Maybe for some it is. For me it is the light. That spotlight feels like love to me: watts and watts of pure shining love. Isn't that what people want most? To feel loved? Some people try to get it by marrying, or having kids. Some try to buy it. Some look for it at the bottom of a bottle. Others get up on stage.

I warmed the crowd up with a couple of stories about my childhood at Graceland. I try not to make anything up because I don't want to be disrespectful, but it's hard. Lisa Marie Presley doesn't give a lot of interviews and in the few she has given she's not been exactly chatty about her childhood. Understandable, I suppose. Still, it would have been a help to me if she'd reminisced a bit more.

That night I sang Lights Out and Here Today, Gone Tomorrow. Then my part of the show was over. The crowd clapped enthusiastically as I walked off stage. I could never tell if they liked me or if they were just happy the Elvises were about to come on.

I knew from experience I wouldn't get paid until the end of the night. That meant listening to all the Elvises before I could leave. No one has seen more Elvis impersonators than I have and I've come to believe that everyone, regardless of gender, race or age, believes they can do a decent imitation of Elvis. This is so universal, yet so bizarre, I'm surprised there are not books written about it. Maybe there are.

I was sitting on a small stool in the wings, trying to keep out of everyone's way, when a husky voice whispered in my ear, "Come out on stage with me."

It was the oldest Elvis. Other than combing his thick silver hair into a tall wave that rose off his forehead, he hadn't done anything to make himself look like Elvis. He wore a black shirt with those pearly dome fasteners favoured by cowboys and faded jeans that were tight, but not too tight. His eyes were kind and filled with laughter.

I was still shaking my head no when he tugged me onstage. He must have been afraid I would bolt because he held both my hands tightly in his. I could feel the audience waiting in the darkness. Softly and without any musical accompaniment he began to sing In the Ghetto. It took only a few notes for me to realize this guy didn't need to look like Elvis: he sounded just like him. His voice filled that bar like warm honey. I was more than happy to just stand there and listen but he squeezed my hands and I knew he wanted me to sing the next line. I did, then gave the song back to him. When he reached the chorus he squeezed my hands again and we sang it together. That's how we sang the song: trading lines back and forth, then our voices blending together for the choruses while all around us the night went still.

I had never felt people listening that hard before. The only sound was of our two voices and I was smart enough to know it wasn't me they were listening to.

After we finished there were a few beats of stunned silence before the audience erupted into whoops and applause. Elvis flashed a crooked smile, first at me, then at the audience. They were still whistling and stomping after we walked offstage.

"Thank you, darling. I enjoyed that." But he looked sad as he walked away. I watched him saunter through the kitchen and slip out the back door. The next Elvis was onstage and already to the chorus of Jailhouse Rock before I realized he wasn't coming back.

When I burst out the door he was on the other side of the parking lot struggling to open the door of an old bus with Tennessee license plates. My heels clicked against the pavement as I half-walked, half-ran over to him.

"Wait" I yelled. "You're really good. You should be a singer."

That made him laugh so hard he doubled over and started coughing. I stood back, unsure of what to do. Eventually he calmed down and went back to tugging at the bus's door.

"You should at least stay until the end. I bet you're going to win this thing."

He looked sad again. "That's kind of you to say, but I never win."

"But you sound just like him!"

"Most people care more about the rhinestones than they do about the music."

"Not me."

He turned to face me, a teasing smile on his tired old face. "You really think I sound like Elvis?" Then he did an amazing thing. He started singing a medley of Elvis hits: Blue Suede Shoes, Hound Dog, Don't Be Cruel, Love Me Tender, All Shook Up. Just a few lines from each, but he wasn't standing still holding my hands this time. It was while he was singing and dancing, and not trying to please anyone but himself, that I realized he was Elvis.

Abruptly he stopped. He gave the bus door a good yank and this time it sprang open. "You know," he said, casually over his shoulder, "You're not bad either. Ever sing just as yourself?"

I had never even considered doing that. I'd spent so much time trying to fit my voice to Lisa Marie's I didn't even know what I sounded like. "No," I confessed.

"You should. Trying to be someone else is no way to live. It will never make you happy, even if you are good at it." That's the funny thing about truth, it cuts right through the noise of the world, right through the noise of your own brain even.

He climbed up the few stairs into the bus but came right back with a slip of paper in his hand. After jotting something down, he handed it to me. "I don't know too many people anymore that could help you, but maybe she can." It was a phone number with a California area code. Then he waved good-bye and drove off. For one wild moment I almost jumped in my car and followed him. There were so many things I wanted to ask him: How had he lost all that weight? What did he think about Paul McCartney being knighted? Was Kurt Cobain alive, too? But the thought of chasing after him made me feel like a hunter with the last Dodo bird in his sights. I let him go.

I've still got the phone number he gave me but have never dialed it. Of course, I like to think it would be Lisa Marie who answered the phone if I did. On nights when I can't sleep I imagine conversations she and I might have.

I've not sang as Lisa Marie Presley since the night I met Elvis. I couldn't after that. I knew Elvis was right. I was unhappy, and had been unhappy for so long it felt normal. When I told people I wouldn't be performing as Lisa Marie Presley anymore but as myself, they all cancelled my bookings. I quit the road, took a job as a dog walker and used the money I made to pay for singing lessons. I used to sing to the dogs. They're a good audience it turns out. When they eventually stopped howling I figured it was time to put a band together. Now I'm back out on the road. This time I write my own songs and only perform my own stuff, with one exception: I always close my shows by singing Walking in Memphis. It was the song I found myself humming as I watched Elvis drive away that night in Niagara Falls. I guess it has become my way of saying thank you, Elvis. Thank you very much.