Long Live the King

“It’s a symphony, not a rock concert,” my daughter-in-law (DIL) reminds me. 

“A symphonic tribute to Elvis,” I say.  “There’s aways drunk chicks when Elvis is involved.”

I remember girls screaming and crying when Elvis appeared on television.  I never saw the appeal.  The Beatles--now there was a group worth screaming and crying for.

Two police horses doze in the heat as we walk past.  Bags are half-heartedly checked.  “We figured this group wouldn’t be tossing things at the stage,” the woman selling water chuckles.  This is the Houston Symphony, not Nine Inch Nails.

Instead of drunk chicks, the group in front of me is several generations of a genteel, elegantly coifed family.  They sip white wine from plastic cups.   

The conductor taps his baton, and the orchestra begins an overture of Elvis tunes.  I suspect my son and his wife are the youngest people in the audience.

And then, Elvis himself struts onto the stage in a blue jumpsuit bedazzled with rhinestones.  Obviously not The King, but a reasonable facsimile.  The audience sits up.

“There’s an impersonator?” my DIL asks.  “I thought it was just symphony music.”

Elvis launches into That’s Alright and the audience whoops.  My toes start tapping—they can’t seem to help themselves.

Elvis gives us a sly wink and a twist of his hips and sings the first bars of Sweet Caroline.  By the time the chorus arrives we pump our fists and shout “So good!  So good!  So good!” with him.

And then Elvis wipes his sweat with the scarf around his neck, tossing it into the crowd.  There’s a roar and dozens of women rush the stage as he hands a white scarf to the next lucky lady.  I hope the paramedics are stationed close by.

Launching into All Shook Up, Elvis wipes and sings and tosses more scarves handed to him by the conductor.  I look for a way to rush the stage, but I’m hemmed in by canes and oceans of white hair.

One of the genteel ladies has made a break for it, though, and charges the stage like she is 16 again.  Who knew drunk chicks could be so classy?

We clap and scream our way through many of the Elvis hits.  I cry when he croons Amazing Grace.  And when he sings My Way.  And when he wails In the Ghetto.

The police horses are still dozing as we file sedately out of the arena. 

It turns out it’s not just drunk chicks who sing at an Elvis concert.  Genteel ladies and those of us not so genteel just couldn’t help ourselves.  We couldn’t Help Falling in Love Again.

I wonder if the Houston Symphony will ever do The Beatles.

Many, many thanks to the Houston Symphony and Patrick Dunn, Elvis impersonator extraordinaire.