Chuck D, Public Enemy
I always HATED ELVIS. I couldn't help it. A childhood trauma so intense was inextricably bound with him. I only had to hear "Love Me Tender" and I would flinch.
What, you ask, what could possibly be so awful that you can't hear The King? I'll tell you. Deep breath.
My uncle is an Elvis impersonator. Or was, back in the 70s. I don't mean as a tribute to The King upon his death, either. O dear me no. My uncle had a band in the early 70s who did Elvis covers. My uncle WAS Elvis. Or, at least, a short, unattractive guy in a white stretch fringed cat suit. With rhinestones. With clogs - white clogs. And - o look - see him drive up at weekends, in his stretch Lincoln Continental that can barely make it round the corners in London, asking my family to come and see him perform. In Working Men's Clubs. In East London. What joy. What a treat for a sensitive, prone-to-embarassment young lady like myself.
You can't die of shame. It just feels like it. Let me tell you, from experience, nothing will dull your appetite for Elvis like seeing my Uncle sing his songs, in the full gear. Then I met a woman who'd got into Elvis through her religion. O yes: she had a wall in her house devoted entirely to Jesus and Mary, the other to Elvis. And I'm not sure which one she prayed to more fervently.
But you mellow with age. Then I saw the 68 Comeback Special and That's The Way It Is and the scales fell from my eyes. I believe! I believe! Amen.
Or Elvis?
Tough choice for some!