Faithful and Curious Alike Offer Tribute to the King

Gray-haired women rolled through the drizzle, curled into wheelchairs. Old men, too, limped along on canes or pushed oxygen tanks before them. Students tugged on their dreadlocks. Kids who weren’t yet born when the King died rubbed tears from their cheeks when they found themselves standing over his grave. Somber academics, mystified tourists and sheepish enthusiasts tromped in a motley line through the old house.

These are the fans of Elvis Presley, thousands of sweaty pilgrims caught up in a peculiarly American ritual. On the 25th anniversary of his death, they have come to the banks of the Mississippi, gathering to worship at a vast and unrepentantly gaudy shrine to the U.S.’ most beloved nondenominational saint. These are the visitors to Graceland.

Presley used to fret over his death, used to fear he’d fall into popular oblivion. But 25 years after he overdosed in his bathroom, the King is still packing them in. Crowds still are looking for salvation, escape or a cheap thrill in the rolling lawns of Graceland.

“It’s a bit scary, isn’t it?” asked John Hawkins, a 57-year-old tourist from London. He glanced around, ran his eyes over the sea of sideburns, sequins and jet-black shocks of hair. “He’s their God, isn’t he?”

The fans come to run their hands over the shag walls of his basement, peek into the bedroom where his mother slept and watch themselves climb down the staircase in the mirrored ceilings and mirrored walls. They gaze at his first-grade crayons, his scuffed Gibson guitar and his Army discharge papers. They stand in line for anything, even to sign up for Elvis Presley credit cards.

“You can feel his presence here,” said Bea Williams, 58, of Bay St. Louis, Miss. “As many times as I’ve been here, I’ve never lost that feeling. I don’t really understand the phenomenon myself, but you feel it.”

Williams was just 15 when she heard “Heartbreak Hotel” on the radio for the first time. She was a country girl from Mississippi, growing up with no television and few amusements, and that was all she needed to fall in love. She didn’t know what Elvis looked like for months--but it didn’t matter. She had the voice.

“You know how in your teen years you have all sorts of problems?” she asked. “You could always lose yourself in Elvis.”

Time eventually came between Williams and Elvis. She grew up, got married, had a son. Years slipped off. She lost her husband, opened a stationery shop. And, slowly, her girlhood adoration reawakened.

“I go to Graceland and I forget all my problems,” she said. “I feel like I’m 15 again, back in those happy days before all the bad things started happening.”

Elvis is everywhere in Graceland--his voice, his face, his imitators. But even here, the King stays somewhat hidden in contradiction. Presley was by turns a soldier, a surfer and a lounge lizard. He was a poor boy who made it big, but never forgot his mama. He was also a rich man whose excesses corrupted, bloated and eventually killed him. In his day he was a rebel and a scandal, but nobody seems to remember that anymore.

“There’s an Elvis for everyone,” said Erika Doss, an art history professor at the University of Colorado at Boulder and the author of “Elvis Culture.”

“He is a saint and a sinner. In a very simplistic way, what you’re looking for can be satisfied in the multifaceted images of Elvis.”

Among his faithful, there are bitter disagreements about what sort of man Presley was.

“He had all sorts of affairs,” offered Joe Hans, a 48-year-old retiree from Lexington, Tenn.

“I thought he was a family man,” protested Miriam Espadas, 33, from Philadelphia.

“Sure,” snorted Hans. “When he was around ‘em.”

Out in the parking lot, Mark Omdahl is rolling in from North Dakota. “Elvis was like a big brother to me,” said Omdahl, who was 13 when Elvis died. “He was the first musical note I ever heard.”

Omdahl was visiting South Korea years later when, on a whim, he stopped into a tailor shop to have his first jumpsuit made. “Give me the whitest material you got,” he told the clerk. The first costume was a flop--the fabric had no stretch, and Omdahl couldn’t gyrate properly.

Through the years he’s improved his selection. Now he’s got plenty of rhinestones, flared pants and capes. By day, Omdahl works at a home for the disabled. By night, he pretends to be Elvis, huffing and twisting and singing anywhere they’ll let him.

“He was a perfect person,” he said, climbing down from his truck. “All by himself, he was the American dream.”

The cloying scent of hair pomade hung in the heat outside Graceland on the eve of today’s anniversary. And everywhere, there were Elvises. Graying Elvises. Balding Elvises. Female Elvises. Asian Elvises. Elvises on walking sticks. Elvises too young to recall the man they are aping.

“It’s like its own kind of religion,” said a 43-year-old impersonator from Baltimore named Tom Connelly, eyeing his mother. “I hate to say that in front of her, because she’s very religious. But it’s true.”

A snow-haired woman steamed to his side. “Ohhh,” she squealed, poking the turquoise studs on his jacket. “Can I take a picture of you?”

Connelly’s face dropped into the trademark smirk, he pivoted on one foot and flicked his index fingers at the camera. “Thank you, thank you,” he intoned. “I’m a hunka-hunka burnin’ love.” And looking on, his mother giggled.

As the tour buses ferried them through the Graceland gate--a fence whose stone is almost invisible under the thick scrawl of fans’ names--Elvis pipes through their headphones. “Welcome to my world,” he croons, and the bus climbs past the lush lawn toward the front door. “I’ll be waiting there ... waiting just for you.” A soft sigh rose in the bus.

When they wandered through the front door, those hooded eyes and that swollen pout awaited them in the living room. They stared silent as churchgoers at the chandeliers, the stained-glass peacocks, the fireplace of marble and mirror--each one deaf to their neighbors, lost in the private world of an audio tour. They ran their fingers over the banister, caressed the doorknob, gazed in awe at the sofa.

They trailed downstairs, upstairs, past the fake waterfall in the jungle room, then out past the trophy cases and swimming pool. When they reached the fountain at his grave, they tossed in a penny, and muttered a wish. Then they turned to look.

The tombs are all but lost under a brilliant heap of plastic and paper. A stone Jesus stretches his arms. Teddy bears, fake flowers, messages written in imperfect English. They looked down. They cried. All these people, and they weren’t making a sound. The headstone is unequivocal: “He was a precious gift from God.”

They nodded. They sniffled. And then the fans turned and wandered from the garden.

*

Times researcher Lianne Hart contributed to this report.