More on the Tour
Rushed, I say.
Directed, says Julie.
Baudrillard, we echo each. Julie has just discovered Baudrillard so it all fits. I know Baudrillard so Graceland mirrors Baudrillard again. More proof of
me
di
a
tion
Enforced mediation, wear those headsets or else. Or else. Or else you will meet Elvis.
But there is a poignant moment for me I admit, in the gold records room with records from all over the world celebrating the selling of 400 million records, more than there are people in the USA. And the walls tower over you and there is the screen looping a short bit of Elvis in Las Vegas in 1968, or maybe one of his later shows, the King on the cusp of the glorious swivel hipped past and the slide towards 1977. He is putting on weight but giving it all he has and the sweat streaming down his face is proof of how much he must want to have it all again.He is giving it all he got then and it was still a lot, but you cannot watch it without the knowledge he did not know, how soon weight would overtake him and he would not sing as lustily again. Yet all the songs he sold, all of them. The wall of that room is made of gold.
And then the door spits you out to the tiny plot of land that is the family gravesite and you have to move it move it because there are people behind and ahead and everyone wants to see, to crowd, to be next to the King, and there is only so much time. Not enough.
It is a tiny plot of land and tiny time to spend with a man this big.
It seems to be so over in a blink, and you are handing over the headset and you feel Just What Do I Remember?
What I will remember is the pink cadillac and the exhibit on 1956 where on one screen Elvis pivots and wriggles, as obscene as Madonna in her prime time, and the other where Perry Como just stands there, his cardigan aglow like fresh snow, his smile as smug as his songs.
Directed, says Julie.
Baudrillard, we echo each. Julie has just discovered Baudrillard so it all fits. I know Baudrillard so Graceland mirrors Baudrillard again. More proof of
me
di
a
tion
Enforced mediation, wear those headsets or else. Or else. Or else you will meet Elvis.
But there is a poignant moment for me I admit, in the gold records room with records from all over the world celebrating the selling of 400 million records, more than there are people in the USA. And the walls tower over you and there is the screen looping a short bit of Elvis in Las Vegas in 1968, or maybe one of his later shows, the King on the cusp of the glorious swivel hipped past and the slide towards 1977. He is putting on weight but giving it all he has and the sweat streaming down his face is proof of how much he must want to have it all again.He is giving it all he got then and it was still a lot, but you cannot watch it without the knowledge he did not know, how soon weight would overtake him and he would not sing as lustily again. Yet all the songs he sold, all of them. The wall of that room is made of gold.
And then the door spits you out to the tiny plot of land that is the family gravesite and you have to move it move it because there are people behind and ahead and everyone wants to see, to crowd, to be next to the King, and there is only so much time. Not enough.
It is a tiny plot of land and tiny time to spend with a man this big.
It seems to be so over in a blink, and you are handing over the headset and you feel Just What Do I Remember?
What I will remember is the pink cadillac and the exhibit on 1956 where on one screen Elvis pivots and wriggles, as obscene as Madonna in her prime time, and the other where Perry Como just stands there, his cardigan aglow like fresh snow, his smile as smug as his songs.
posted by EvaB at 7:01 AM
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