The King and I
Elvis gave everything to his role. He was The King, undisputed.
If you were to ask around the many people who enjoyed his appearances in Blackburn at the turn of the 21st century, none would be able to give his birth name. But they didn’t need to, because he was Elvis.
Blackburn’s Elvis was about five foot nothing tall. His stage costume was pure ‘Live At Las Vegas’, a dazzling white flared-leg jumpsuit studded with rhinestones, an outsize belt slung around his hips, and a black wig that stopped just on the far side of the boundary between panto and barking. Skinny and bird-like in his build, it was hard to tell whether he was getting on a bit or had led a hard life. Maybe both.
But he was channelling Elvis, and was clearly at ease with his muse. When I met the tiny performer, he was standing incongruously among the bright yellow bins of paint brushes and lawn feed at the local B&Q. They had hired him to do a novelty ‘meet & greet’, and he was doing it as it had never been done before.
It would have been easy to sneer at him, ignore him, or step round him. But I was fascinated. He sang ‘just can’t help believin’, just for me. We chatted, and when we parted he wished me a nice day, uh-huh.
Some months later I happened on a short article in the local newspaper. In summary, the bird-boned Blackburn Elvis impersonator had died of heart failure, and was laid to rest in his full stage regalia.
The King was dead. Long Live The King.
If you were to ask around the many people who enjoyed his appearances in Blackburn at the turn of the 21st century, none would be able to give his birth name. But they didn’t need to, because he was Elvis.
Blackburn’s Elvis was about five foot nothing tall. His stage costume was pure ‘Live At Las Vegas’, a dazzling white flared-leg jumpsuit studded with rhinestones, an outsize belt slung around his hips, and a black wig that stopped just on the far side of the boundary between panto and barking. Skinny and bird-like in his build, it was hard to tell whether he was getting on a bit or had led a hard life. Maybe both.
But he was channelling Elvis, and was clearly at ease with his muse. When I met the tiny performer, he was standing incongruously among the bright yellow bins of paint brushes and lawn feed at the local B&Q. They had hired him to do a novelty ‘meet & greet’, and he was doing it as it had never been done before.
It would have been easy to sneer at him, ignore him, or step round him. But I was fascinated. He sang ‘just can’t help believin’, just for me. We chatted, and when we parted he wished me a nice day, uh-huh.
Some months later I happened on a short article in the local newspaper. In summary, the bird-boned Blackburn Elvis impersonator had died of heart failure, and was laid to rest in his full stage regalia.
The King was dead. Long Live The King.