October 17, 2004 During the past two weeks, I spent a lot of time in the Municipal Auditorium here in Shreveport, Louisiana. It's been fifty years since Elvis made his professional debut there; the anniversary concert was last night. I was there to sell tickets to the event. Maintenance workers came and went throughout my stint as a ticket seller, but mostly I was there alone. I was locked in, so the only ghouls I had to fear were the kind that haunt the building, not the kind who roam the streets of the decayed neighborhood surrounding it. There's a cemetery across the street, an old one. I've even heard that the Municipal basement was once the city morgue. While I've put in a few hours in that neat old building, I haven't had a chance to explore the basement yet. Don't know if I ever will. But I know the halls, the stairs and the stage are heavy with the presence of the personalities that passed through there: Hank Williams, Johnny Horton, Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley and countless other cowboys and crooners. These people were bigger than life when they were alive, so I guess it's not surprising that they each left some small piece of themselves here; after all, they had plenty to spare. The first time I walked into that building, the hair on the back of my neck stood up a little bit. But then, I just love old buildings - all of them. Before I moved here, I had never heard of the Louisiana Hayride, nor did I know that artists who'd had such impact on popular music had started out here. As I was filled in on the history of the place, it seemed like the walls stood up a little straighter, as a proud old man might throw his shoulders back and raise his chin when hearing someone near and dear to him fill a stranger in on his war medals. He's too proud to mention them himself, but he appreciates that someone knows and cares where he's been. The walls in the auditorium can't really talk, but they have stories to tell, and I think they want those stories told by SOMEONE. Anyone. Just so long as they're not forgotten. But these past weeks were pretty quiet. I brought my guitar with me to kill the time when the phone wasn't ringing. I enjoyed the acoustics of the front foyer because it made my voice sound a lot more powerful than it really is. Maybe that's just part of the magic of the building; it's on your side, it wants you to do well. On Friday morning the front steps and sidewalk were crowded with press and speakers and official looking people, all there to unveil the new statue of Elvis erected in front of the buidling. I felt a bit of the excitement; the air felt electrically charged for a short time. I think Elvis himself wandered among the crowd, once again humble and appreciative, as he appeared in his early years. There were little ladies who'd followed Elvis since he appeared there the first time, and there were the aged musicians who'd stood behind him on stage so many years ago. I imagine that for those men it was a unique experience, some of them having known the King when he was just a nineteen year old kid who wanted to sing. One has to wonder what "it" is, that something that makes one person stand out from the others, and makes others flock to see them. I wonder if these men felt it when they were with him, or if they inwardly shake their heads that people went nuts over a quirky singer with a Southern drawl. Whatever "it" is, Elvis had it. I'm afraid I can't count myself as much of an Elvis fan. Yet if there's an old Elvis movie on t.v. (except that lame one with Mary Tyler Moore, where he hardly sings at all) I have to admit I'll be sitting there with some popcorn and M & M's, watching the whole thing. And enjoying every corny, ridiculous minute of it. The presence he had was somehow captured enough on screen to attract generations of fans who weren't even born yet when he died. My kids have been able to recognize Elvis' voice on the radio and his image on t.v. since they were old enough to sort of pronounce his name. I distinctly remember that as toddlers they would just stare at the t.v., big smiles on their faces, when he was on. It's remarkable, that kind of appeal. Last night the tribute concert finally happened, after months of buildup. Maybe I was just tired from having been there twelve hours, but I felt let down. The man who sang his songs in front of his old bandmates was a wonderful singer, and sounded remarkably like Elvis in his best vocal form. Yet the truth was impossible to ignore - Elvis had left the building. He wasn't there anymore, and never will be again, at least as we knew him. Alas, the King is dead. The statue that now stands in front of the Municipal is a decent likeness, but it doesn't come close to capturing the excitement of what happened there so many years ago. I don't know if the people who were there felt that history was in the making, but it was. Whether you loved him or hated him, you can't deny that Elvis had a major impact on popular culture. His first few moments in the spotlight created a ripple effect that was probably more far-reaching than most of us will ever realize. It crossed the ocean and helped create the Beatles, and even they acknowledged that. I'm not well-versed enough in the history of music or pop culture to be able to properly analyze and log the difference he made. Over the years, the hits were fewer and further between. The man became addicted and bloated and a mere (though very large) shadow of what he once was. He became a prisoner of his own fame, in a time when no one else had ever had to endure that kind of constant scrutiny, adoration and harrassment. He was an unwitting guinea pig, an idol who obviously couldn't figure out how to stay a human among other humans when he was worshipped like a golden god. Kind of a pitiful end to a story that started out so upbeat (pardon the pun). So I left the Municipal last night before the show was over. I was too busy to see most of the show, and disappointed when I finally made my way up the back stairs to the balcony for a peek at what was going on onstage. I left the old building while it was enjoying one more night with the spotlights pointing at the night sky outside and a decent crowd inside. I don't like the idea that there are ghosts chained to that theatre, that they're stranded there because that was about as good as it was going to get for them. No, I like to think that Hank and Elvis and the others happily stop in to wander through the Municipal from time to time, the way they'd visit any old friend - free to relive the excitement of the nights they graced the stage, when their fame was new and they still loved the taste of it.
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