AUTHOR SHOCKS CONFERENCE,

DENOUNCES "THE GOSPEL OF ELVIS"

MEMPHIS--Author Louie Ludwig, whose 1995 book "The Gospel of Elvis" helped to bring the concept of Elvis Presley as a new Messiah to national attention, shocked participants and spectators at the Third International Conference on Elvis Presley by renouncing his own work and pleading with his publisher to ban the book.

In a scene reminiscient of Sinead O'Connor's infamous "pope picture" episode on Saturday Night Live, Ludwig ended his address by tearing up a picture of Elvis, urging those present to "fight the real enemy."

This followed a speech in which Ludwig quoted the First Commandment and described Elvis as "a first-rate singer doing largely second-rate material, except for the songs he nicked from writers like Big Mama Thornton and Chuck Berry." Ludwig also referred to King of Rock and Roll as "a country boy come to the city, trying to look cool and show he had 'class.'"

Calling on his publisher, The Summit Publishing Group, to ban his own book, Ludwig compared himself and other Elvis authors to Elvis' manager Tom Parker, "talking souvenier deals at our supposed messiah's funeral, looking to make a buck off the gullible marks who just can't let their rock god go."

"The best way we can honor this singer we claim to love so is to finally let him die. Good show, not a dry eye and all that, but it's time to go," said Ludwig. "After all, he said thank you and left the building."

When asked the reasons for his renunciation, Ludwig claimed he no longer wished to "out-Parker Parker" and offered "my own cynical, selfish professional reason. As a record producer and music publisher, it would be nice to see the market get over Elvis and save some room on the airwaves and record store shelves for a few new artists. Okay, he's King--give the new guys a break already."

Ladies and gentlemen, scholars, distinguished guests:

I would first like to thank Dr. Chadwick for inviting me to speak at this Conference, a rare honor, and to apologize for the neccessity of departing from my prepared text. I was planning to expound on the similarities between Elvis's life and the hero-myths of many cultures, in particular the Christian gospels, and to explore the implications of our predeliction for celebrity worship. Such paralells can be drawn, and our desire to do so tells much about us. I myself have filled a book with such observations, a book held in some regard in this field, which, incidentally, I came here to plug mercilessly.

Yes, like most of us assembled here, I came to spread my media virus and peddle my pieces of the true cross. However, after much soul-searching, I must offer a very different address, one at odds not only with the majority of the Conference's attendees, but with my own work. Please understand that I don't make this move lightly, I recognize the impact it may have upon my reputation and professional life. And let me emphasize here that I in no way seek to offend those who do not share my views.

Elvis Aron Presley didn't start life as a particularly unique or notable individual, except for his outstanding singing voice. He did, however, have that essential element present in anyone who is destined to change history: He was in the right place at the right time.

At that time, the young consumers of America were beginning to chafe at the cultural yoke of their society, funding a revoltion by jamming nickles into juke boxes and sneaking under bedsheets to tune into Alan Freed and the few others who dared play "race" music on high-powered radio stations. But media moguls of all stripes were beginning to face the reality that listeners weren't going for the standard wartime formula of a crooner backed by dance orchestra.

Those nutty kids seemed to prefer gulping hillbillies like Buddy Holley and mad shamen like Little Richard. Still, none of these upstarts had the longevity or complexion, respectively, to become multi-media icons on the order of, say, Sinatra.

What was missing was a personality who could bring this wild, new energy into the mainstream. Sam Phillips was being neither cynical nor racist when he predicted that "a white boy who could sing like he was black" could make him a million dollars. Father Sam's only mistake was in underestimation.

Perhaps all of us, including the man we have declared King, would be better off today if the good Sam hadn't sold Elvis' contract to RCA. If Elvis had been given time and freedom to get comfortable being a rhythm and blues success, part of an exciting, regional sound, he might be alive today to enjoy our excessive tribute, and August 16th would be noted only for such anniversaries as Babe Ruth's death or Frank Gifford's birthday. Instead, he was tossed to the publicity mill, nutted and homogenized, turned from prodigy to product, and eventually to parody, sold before his time.

Then, when the price of that sale was come due, when the binge eating, conspicuously tacky consumption and horrific drug addiction that he had substituted for self-respect and staying power finally took their toll and left this poor Tupelo boy with the beautiful voice dead on a toilet seat in that garish low-rent Xanadu down the road, what did we do? Did we have the decency to let him go, surely with a tip of the hat, perhaps with a shake of the head?

You know, it amazes me that the same people who laugh at Tom Parker's tastelessness after Elvis' death, cutting new name and likeness contracts before the body was even in the ground, those same people, with straight faces and hushed sincerity, fax their proposals and treatments into Graceland for marathon film fests and box set CD reissues and, of course, Elvis books.

Yes, I include myself among the accused. I, too, once thought I possessed the secret meaning of the rise and fall of Elvis Aron Presley, the new insight that would show the world he was more than the first rock star, more than a cautionary tale, he was a messiah, a prophesied warrior king, a seditious guerilla down from the hills who shattered a harsh, conservative regime that, without his advent, might have held his land in sway for a thousand-year reich. I, too, wrote The Gospel of Elvis.

When I moved to elevate the Gospel from punk prank to authoritative text, my partners and I entered into a publishing agreement with Len Oszustowicz of the Summit Publishing Group, who seemed to understand the subtle marketing needs of a work half serious history and half satire. Soon into the publication process, however, Summit appeared to drop the ball on every play of the game, printing review copies with only half the text and firing publicists in the middle of campaigns.

My partners and I grew from perplexed to angry, believing officers of the company to be at best incompetent and at worst, reactionary fascists out to suppress the truth about the importance of Elvis. I would like to take this opportunity to publicly apologize to the people at Summit for the things I have said about them.

More than apologize, I would like to thank them for the service they have done for our country and culture. Len, you were right to suppress this book, to prevent it from reaching a wide audience and spreading this fool notion of Elvis Presley's dvinity. This idea was wrongheaded and dangerous, and America owes you a debt of gratitude for nipping it in the bud.

I ask now that you go one step further, and publicly ban this book. It is a bad joke based on a worse lie, which I hereby publicly renounce and repudiate.

Elvis was no messiah. He was a first-rate singer doing largely second-rate material, except for the songs he nicked from writers like Big Mama Thornton and Chuck Berry, and acting woodenly in last-rate films that even Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis would have turned down. His taste in clothing, cars and home furnishings reflected perfectly his background: a country boy come to the city, trying to look cool and show he had "class."

Alright, admittedly, he loved his mama. A virtue, certainly, but not one unique to him. I'd venture to guess that nearly everyone in this room loves their mothers as much as Elvis loved Gladys. I'd further venture that there are at least two or three people in this room with outstanding voices who, given the best black music, could rock a white audience out of their seats.

So why do we deify this Lil Abner, so naiive that he signed over half his earnings to a carnival huckster whose claim to fame was making chickens dance on a hot plate, so repressed about his Oedipal problems that only a 14-year-old girl could represent a woman as worthy as his mom, so much in denial about his addiction that he asked the President of the United States to deputize him to fight drug use in the entertainment business?

Have we become so spiritually impoverished that we're ready to crown such a creature of pathos king? Even King of Kings?

At least the original King had the chutzpa to kick over the moneylenders' tables, saying the temple should be a house of prayer and not a den of thieves.

And therein, I think, lies the clue to our elevation of this pop star to avatar. Surely if we build the temples ourselves, we'll have first dibs on the best money tables, huh? I think if we were to take off our scapulas and our robes and look in the mirror, we would see an old man in a golf hat and sport shirt, talking souvenier deals at our supposed messiah's funeral, looking to make a buck off of the gullible marks who just can't let their rock god go.

Well, after a long hard look in the mirror, I'm dropping out of this new mystery school. I will no longer stand on line to out-Parker Parker. When the saints of the new millenium go marching in, I shall not be in that number.

If the metaphysicists are right and what we think of as ghosts are the souls of persons tied to this earth because of unfinished business and unfulfilled longing, then the best way we can honor this singer we claim to so love is to finally let him die. Good show, not a dry eye and all that, but it's time to go. After all, he said thank you and left the building.

There are many reasons to crown Elvis King with a capital K, and many reasons not to.

I'll let the theologians and sociologists duke out the big questions, and offer only my own cynical, selfish, professional viewpoint. As a record producer and music publisher, it would be nice to see the market get over Elvis and make some room on the airwaves and record store shelves for a few new artists. Okay, he's King--give the new guys a break already.

Still, it doesn't matter what I believe or wish, any of us here, really. We're much too early to make the call. History makes the kings and the messiahs. I'd like to see History treat Elvis as a fine singer from up country that came down to town and did really well for himself.

And what would he think, if he were alive, if he is alive, hanging out at that famous condo on Lost Celebrity Isle with John Lennon serving drinks to Janis and Jimi, tuning in the satellite and seeing us here this week, seriously debating his role as a mythic religious figure? Probably be shaking his head, wondering if you can still even get lives on the mainland any more.

And if he is indeed dead these twenty years, then what better time to stop digging him up and dancing him around like some gruesome sideshow attraction every year?

Please understand me. I wish godspeed to the soul of Elvis Presley, and pray that he made it to the heaven in which he believed, there to be reunited with his beloved mother and enjoy the rewards of his lifelong faith.

I don't know what faith you might hold, though I surely wish you the comfort of it. I cannot say I know the one true religion, or even that this proto-Elvisism growing here won't prove to be the winner in time. I have looked into a few of the all-time champs in the god game, and find I can't shake from my mind the words of one who has shown a lot of staying power: "I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me."

I'm sure there are many among us who don't give Yahweh the blue ribbon in the Divinity Sweepstakes. But if you see Elvis around this week, ask him what he thought about it.

Elvis, get a death. The rest of us, well, you get the point.

Fight the real enemy.

© 1997 Louie Ludwig