Elvis Presley died on August 16, 1977. Here is a re-post.
I don’t care who you are. If you think you are worth watching, it’s got to COST you something. The great performers understand this. People with great pipes are a dime a dozen. The ones who are remembered actually leave bits of themselves up on that stage for the audience to pick up, and those pieces are lost to the performer forever.
But that’s okay. They’ve got more. That’s why they do what they do: to give it all away.
There is grainy footage of Judy Garland, as an adult, singing “Over the Rainbow” where she lets us in on her drowning hopes, her dying dreams. What she gives us there she cannot get back. She doesn’t want it back. It’s unbearable to live with so much feeling and so the whole point is to give it. As Kathy Bates said when she came and talked at my school, “If you’re lucky enough to have a gift, then just give it away. All day, every day, just keep giving it away.”
I see young performers sometimes and I wonder if they understand, actually, the job they want to do. I wonder if they actually get how much MORE they will be required to give, how much DEEPER they have to go. The great performers make it look easy, right? So it should be easy for me, too. But the great singers, even the ones who are not famous, understand the job. The great ones – the Lena Hornes, the Patti Labelles, the Barbra Streisands, the Frank Sinatras, and, yes, the Elvis Presleys – NEVER lacked understanding at what the job actually WAS.
Being young is no excuse.
Show business is a meritocracy. Get it quick, or get the hell out of the way. Or learn FAST. Steep learning curves are the name of the game.
On Season 5 of American Idol, Elliott Yamin did a duet with Mary J. Blige, which had to be the strangest pairing in the history of show business. They sang One by U2 together, and it is a perfect example of what an amateur looks like next to a full-blown professional. While he was protected from that when surrounded by other amateurs, Mary J. Blige comes on – and she is fully supportive of him, holding onto him the entire time, but she goes to another place. She is already at that place when she walked on that stage, because she understands that that is the nature of her job. You can see Elliott playing catch up, furiously, as the song goes on. “Oh … oh … she’s … that big? That into it? That … huge? Oh … shit, I gotta get my game up …”
Unless you are prepared to leave something of yourself behind on that stage, you have no business being up there.
Which brings me to the clip above. I appreciate Justin Gaston’s words on Elvis, and his understanding that Elvis is “iconic”. That’s nice.
But watching Justin Gaston singing “If I Can Dream” in that studio hurt me, the way it hurts to see anyone not actually understand what their job is.
Dear Mr. Gaston, if I were your coach or your mentor, I would have nothing to say about your voice. Your voice is fine. I would only say this to you:
Why don’t you take your goddamn hands out of your pockets while you sing this song, and just see where that would take you?
Just see what it would be like to actually commit to a gesture. As the great John Wayne said (and nobody could do a gesture like John Wayne): “I think that’s the first lesson you learn in a high school play — that if you’re going to make a gesture, make it.”
Making a gesture changes how you actually FEEL. Try it. You’ll see. You have no idea how safe you are being, sir. You have no idea how much you are willing to skip off the surface of the water. You want to be a singer, but you don’t understand the job.
The Art of the Gesture is a dying art, in today’s more casual “over it” world. The singers who actually commit to gestures (and I’m not talking about dance moves, I’m talking about Elvis Presley-Judy Garland-Liza Minnelli GESTURES) are few and far between. I could pontificate on why this is, although that would make me boring. I think perhaps it’s a generational thing. You don’t want to seem like you give a shit. You don’t want to betray your heart.
Anthony Hopkins came and spoke at my school. One guy asked him a question, referring to the scene in Nixon where he broke down while praying with Henry Kissinger. The guy said, “You were so vulnerable … I was just wondering … how you protect yourself doing something like that?”
The great Anthony Hopkins was kind, but it was clear he didn’t even understand the question. He looked quizzically at the questioner (almost like: “Are you an actor? Really?”) and said, “Oh, but you mustn’t protect yourself.”
In my opinion, if you don’t know that going in, you will never know it. Directors always say it’s easy to tell someone to “pull back” and “give less” but it is nearly impossible to get someone to “give more” (at least not consistently: you could browbeat someone into giving the performance of a lifetime, but it could not be repeated).
The great ones know going in: Okay, well, this is gonna COST me.
Perhaps the true magnitude of the cost cannot be known at the outset.
Elvis Presley, as a 19-year-old virgin wailing “That’s All Right” in 1954, couldn’t know how MUCH it would cost him in the end, and how much he would actually be asked to give … and give … and give. He couldn’t have known the loneliness of the kind of fame he would achieve. Who could know it? No one had been that famous before. But at the outset, at the outset, from his very first moment performing live, when his wiggling leg made girls scream, he understood the job. I’m sure he didn’t even question it. I’m sure he never asked himself at the outset the question that that “actor” asked Anthony Hopkins. The great ones rarely look for escape routes from commitment and engagement, at least in their art. They do not flee from the implications of their greatness. They never actively avoid revealing themselves. That is why they are great.
Singing a song, even in a studio where no one can see you, with your hands in your pockets, betrays a complete misunderstanding of what being a performer is.
You don’t want to pay the price. You don’t want to give too much of yourself away, because you fear you won’t get it back. Well, kiddo, you won’t get it back. That’s the gig.
Ask Judy Garland. Ask Elvis Presley.
Yes, Elvis was “good-looking”, as you note, and “talented” and he had a lot of airplanes, which makes him super-cool. All true. He also had an arsenal of guns, a veritable zoo of animals, and a girl in every port ready to have pillow fights with him at a moment’s notice.
But he ALSO paid a price. I’m not talking about his early end, his death, his drug addiction. I’m talking about the performing itself. The reason WHY he had a lot of planes and a zoo and girls in every port was because he paid a price onstage, from when he was a young pimply boy to when he was an overweight ill man. He would collapse after shows. Sometimes he would lose seven pounds in a night from sweat. That’s how much he put out there on that stage, that’s how much it cost him! Night after night after night. When he made a gesture, he was with John Wayne: He MADE it. You can FEEL those gestures, even today, so many years later. They hover over the performing landscape like an afterimage, reminding us of what we miss. Reminding us of who is no longer with us. Who makes gestures like that anymore?
Even at the very end, when Elvis was bloated and very ill, he wouldn’t be caught DEAD singing a song with his hands in his pockets.
Now about the particular song in question: “If I Can Dream” was the epilogue to Presley’s 1968 television “comeback special”. Steve Binder, director of the special, had been at a loss as to how to “sum up” Presley in the special and needed a song to do it. Peter Guralnik, in Careless Love, describes what happened next:
[He] approached Earl Brown, the vocal arranger, about writing a song. “I took Earl aside, and I said, ‘Earl, let me explain something to you. We’re under the gun now, and what I need – instead of having him do a monologue at the end, let’s do a song where we incorporate what his monologue would say. That was all I contributed: this is what I would like the song to be. So Earl went home and at seven o’clock the next morning he woke me up and said, ‘Steve, I think I’ve got it. I really think I’ve nailed the song.’ So I went into the studio, and Earl played the song for me – it was called ‘If I Can Dream’ – and I said, ‘That’s it. You’ve just written the song that’s going to close the show.'”
There was a slight problem in that Colonel Parker, Presley’s manager, was still under the impression that they were all actually working on a Christmas special and thought that the show would end with Elvis singing a Christmas carol. Binder was on a roll now, though. He bypassed the Colonel and went right to Elvis.
“So now I go to Bob Finkel [executive producer], and I say, ‘Bob, I’ve got the end of the show.’ And he said, ‘Do you realize what you’re doing? The Colonel will blow his stack. It’s got to be a Christmas song.’ I said, ‘It can’t be a Christmas song. This is the song Elvis will sing at the end of the show.’ I arranged for Elvis, Billy, Bones and myself to go in the dressing room, and Earl sat down at the piano and played it through. Elvis sort of sat there listening. He didn’t comment; he just said, ‘Play it again.’ So Earl sat there and played it again – and again. Then Elvis started to ask some questions about it, and I would venture to say Earl probably played the song six or seven times in a row. Then Elvis looked at me and said, ‘We’re doing it.'”
The network was nervous too. They had been expecting a Christmas song, too. But when Elvis said Yes, he got his way. Makes you realize his power, which he used so rarely. He used it onstage, but offstage he played along as best he could, making the best of every situation. But when he said, “Yes”, mountains moved. Even the Colonel didn’t fight it.
But here’s what I wanted to say. Here is what I thought of when I saw that poor misguided boy above think he can actually get away with singing anything with his hands in his pockets.
Once “If I Can Dream” was decided upon, then came time to record it. Recording was done on June 23, 1968. Elvis did only five takes. It took so much out of him that he fainted after one take. Binder describes the recording session. They did four takes. When it came to the fifth take, Elvis – perhaps knowing that this next one would be the one – asked that all of the lights be dimmed. The studio lights were dimmed, the control booth lights were dimmed. Elvis began the fifth take. Binder, in the control room, looked out at the darkened space, watching Elvis sing. He remembers:
“I think he was oblivious to everything else in the universe. When I looked out the window, he was in an almost fetal position, writhing on the cement floor, singing that song.”
You can see how much it is costing him in the actual production of it below. At the 1:31, 1:32 mark, when he sings “We’re lost in a cloud …”, he comes forward a bit, hand out, it’s a lunge, and no matter how many times I’ve seen it, it’s still startling. That gesture, made from his heart, wants something from me. It demands engagement. Nothing less. Indifference is the worst sin in a performer. The great performers know that it is up to them to bring us out. There are a couple of breathers in the song during the short bridges where you can see him collapse almost, and then gear up again to go back into the song. And he looks absolutely wrecked by the end of it. His final gesture is a gasp.
It is all he has left.
Singing that song cost him something. And we out there in the darkness are so much richer for it. He left something behind, for us, eternally. He left something behind that he could never get back. Something precious, something he might have been able to use himself had he hung onto it. But that’s not what his job was. His job was not to hoard that energy force. His job was not to hang on to his gift.
His job was to give it away. All day, every day, just keep giving it away.