I: What If?
Have you seen the Jim Jarmusch movie Mystery Train? I watched it the other night for the first time in years. I was 23 or 24 or 25 the first time I saw it, and it left me so inspired that I tried to write about it. I sat at my computer typing disconnected observations until finally, suddenly, I became too scared to continue. What if I couldn’t commit my thoughts to paper in a way that sounded good enough? What if people hated my writing? What if they thought I was stupid? I stopped typing and closed my laptop and, most likely, had a panic attack.
I don’t miss my early 20s. Anyway. Mystery Train.
Jim Jarmusch makes movies that are mostly screened in cities. They feature performances by beloved weirdos, like Bill Murray, Steve Buscemi, and Tilda Swinton, or slightly hipper weirdos, like Tom Waits, Iggy Pop, and John Lurie. Notable siblings Cinqué and Joie Lee show up in Coffee and Cigarettes, along with notable rumored siblings Meg and Jack White. Sometimes these movies are eventful, but mostly, they’re about vibes. Forest Whitaker practicing with his sword in Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai makes me want to study martial arts. Method Man freestyling in an empty laundromat in Paterson reminds me of the fun of ordinary life. Eszter Balint dancing to Screamin’ Jay Hawkins in Stranger Than Paradise is an ode to a boring night at home. In all these movies, plot progression can wait. Sit back and dig these vibes.
Mystery Train is, for sure, a vibe. Three separate stories unfold on the same night in Memphis, Tennessee; the connective tissue, therefore, is Elvis Aaron Presley. I didn’t care about Elvis when I saw Mystery Train at age 23 or 24 or 25, but for some reason I was inspired enough to write notes until I panicked. Clearly, a total bummer part of me cares too much about what people think. What if no one likes my writing? What if no one understands my writing? What if, what if, what if? Man, what if you just vibe?
Anyway, art is subjective—some people hate Jim Jarmusch.
II: Mystery Train
Once you notice Elvis is everywhere, he’s impossible to miss. He’s the pompadour in black and white photos. He’s Bruce Springsteen’s existential hard on. He’s both the template and the warning for promising young celebrities. He’s a snow globe, a magnet, and David Bowie’s lightning bolt. He’s everywhere. Inescapable. And while he is dead, he lives on.
This phenomenon is hilariously (and accurately) explored in the first of Mystery Train’s three intersecting stories, “Far from Yokohama.” Mitsuko and Jun, a teenage couple from Japan, arrive in Memphis during what we assume is a rock and roll pilgrimage across America. After a tour of Sun Studios—which appears both over and underwhelming for Elvis-obsessed Mitsuko—they sit in front of the statue of Elvis that stood on Beale Street from 1980 to 1994. With the theatrical flick of a finger, Jun ignites his Zippo, lights a cigarette, and then tosses the lighter into his front jacket pocket. The move is cool—so cool, it must have taken hours, if not days, of practice. Mitsuko, meanwhile, only has eyes for the Elvis statue.
“Elvis Presley. King,” she sighs.
“Carl Perkins was better,” says Jun. This is surprising, considering Jun’s slick black pompadour and ostentatious lighter flicking. Still, dorky boyfriends can’t help asserting themselves, and Jun, if he’s honest, is probably intimidated by the King.
“Elvis,” says Mitsuko.
“Carl Perkins.”
“Elvis.”
“Carl Perkins.”
Their back-and-forth continues for several seconds. Jun sounds like a joyless robot with each utterance of the name “Carl Perkins,” but Mitsuko’s every “Elvis” comes directly from the heart. Eventually, she ends the argument by covering Jun’s mouth with her hand and uttering one final, “Elvis: King.”
They check in to the Arcade Hotel, operated by night clerk Screamin’ Jay Hawkins and bell boy Cinqué Lee. Inside their room, Mitsuko unpacks her scrapbook.
“Did I show you my important discoveries?” she asks.
She instructs Jun to study the portrait of Elvis hanging above the hotel bed and flips open her scrapbook. Pasted to one page is a photo of an ancient statue carved from stone, and on the next page is a black-and-white photo of Elvis. The resemblance between the two faces is impossible to miss.
“This guy was an ancient middle eastern king,” she says. “Looks just like him, right?”
Mitsuko’s other “important discoveries” include connections between Elvis and Buddha, Elvis and Madonna, and, most symbolically, Elvis and the Statue of Liberty.
“Elvis was more influential than I thought,” groans the Carl Perkins-loving Jun, who could be making fun of Mitsuko, but could also be telling the truth. It might be difficult for Jun to admit that Mitsuko—a girl—knows something he doesn’t about archetypal American coolness.
Later, Jun quietly gazes out of the hotel room window while Mitsuko waits for him in bed.
“What are you looking at?” she asks.
“Memphis.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“To be 18...feels cool. And so far from Yokohama. It feels cool to be in Memphis.”
I wonder if any of my grandparents felt cool to be 18. World War II was ramping up, so coolness probably wasn’t a concern. Some of them smoked cigarettes, but so did doctors and dentists. My grandmothers never mentioned Frank Sinatra to me, but they had a lot to say about scrubbing floors. (Or, in my maternal grandmother’s case, “scrubbin’ fluhs.”) Maybe nothing for them was that cool, especially not being young.
Imagine surviving World War II and believing that you were safe. Imagine meeting a veteran who liked you so much he risked talking to your dad on the phone to ask you out on a date. Imagine getting married and really believing the ‘til death’ part. Imagine buying a house and procreating without hesitation. Imagine sitting in your front room—your first born asleep in their crib—and watching a guy play guitar on Ed Sullivan while a mob of young people scream. Looking down at your calloused hands, you wonder, “Who are these young people? Why do they have time to be cool?”
III: Carl Perkins
The morning after rewatching Mystery Train, I looked up and saw Elvis. He appeared in the form of an illustration printed on a bright yellow t-shirt which hung in a boutique window across from where I was having coffee. I stared at the shirt, chuckling to myself about how unattractive the designer made Elvis look. Then, it hit me: “Carl Perkins.”
I don’t know much about Carl Perkins beyond the fact that he wrote “Blue Suede Shoes,” a song I never put on voluntarily because I’ve never once thought to. I opened my phone and pulled up a picture of him online. His long, chiseled cheekbones reminded me of The Giant in Twin Peaks. I laughed as I thought of Jun and every other insecure boyfriend who prefers Carl Perkins types out of pure, jealous spite. I plugged in my headphones and hit “play” on his version of “Blue Suede Shoes.”
For two minutes and 13 seconds, I preferred Carl Perkins. The song sounded more sophisticated. Subdued. Free from Elvis’ trademarked voice, the song is just a song; a fun, toe-tapping ditty to enjoy with black coffee. My head bobbed slowly up and down and a man at the next table smiled at me. Maybe Jun wasn’t a poser; maybe he had a point. When the song ended, I took out my notebook and scribbled: “Might prefer Carl Perkins’ version. Slower. Less hectic. He does say, ‘Lay offa dem shoes.’ Guitar is real fun.” I put my pen down and stared at the t-shirt. The King stared back. The sun felt warm and comforting and I wondered if my arms would tan.
In the 33-page Elvis essay I’ve been working on for a while, I write about my earliest memory of Elvis. Coincidentally, it features “Blue Suede Shoes”:
My first-grade teacher taught me that Elvis Presley was the King of Rock and Roll. If I close my eyes, I can see details of Mrs. Duddleston’s classroom: the Garfield memorabilia and the papier mâché crocodile; the American flag standing proudly to the right of the big, green chalkboard. In this flashback, she lowers the lights, fires up the overhead projector, and when she hits “play” on the boom box, 30 first graders shout along to the blue-inked words on the screen. For such a vivid memory, one key detail is missing: Elvis’ voice. Did Mrs. D play it for us? Or did she find a cassette with nothing but instrumentals? Either way, I don’t remember hearing his voice—I only remember myself singing, “Blue, blue, blue-blue...” In retrospect, this lesson was more about words than music: “suede” looks funny when you’re still learning to read.
In a way, “Blue Suede Shoes” has been stuck in my head since that day, even though I don’t know where I heard it the second time. Another music class perhaps, or a third-grade chorus performance. Through osmosis I learned the song was important, but I never understood why it was popular. I picked up my phone again, and for the first time in my life—and for the sake of a fair comparison—I put on Elvis’ “Blue Suede Shoes.” Right away, I could hear that Elvis is goddamn young. Carl Perkins pauses at the beginning of “Blue Suede Shoes,” but doesn’t quite pay off those pauses with enough big energy. Not only does Elvis bring big energy, but he also ditches the pauses and shaves 13 seconds off the song. Holy moly, that’s punk. I grabbed my notebook and scribbled: “It’s SO much fun. You can’t help but picture his stupid little butt. Oh my god, he said, ‘lay offa them’! It’s so much more modern. I’m smiling like an idiot.”
There must be essays about this song by people who know music—people who understand theory and can hear all that hidden math. I can’t worry about those people—those people who know things that I don’t and make me wonder, “what if?” What if I’m not smart enough to talk about Carl Perkins vs. Elvis? What if I’m not good enough to finish the 33-page Elvis essay? A part of me wants to find proof that I don’t know what I’m doing—that I can’t commit my thoughts to paper in a way that sounds good enough. What if people hate my writing? What if they think I’m stupid? I should shut my laptop and have a panic attack like any self-respecting neurotic. Christ, insecurity is boring! What a boring way to live!
Anyway, art is subjective.
Anyway, Elvis is a vibe.
Your writing is a *vibe* - I don't know how to tell you I love reading every word without sounding hyperbolic, but I do. I laughed out loud at "Bruce Springsteen's existential hard on." (Fucking so true!) Just want you to know I am totally on board your Elvis train. Keep 'em coming.