It’s a scene of almost unimaginable hysteria. During a roof-raising
performance of Suspicious Minds, Elvis Presley has run to the edge of the
stage and fallen prostrate to the floor to hug a lady in a wheelchair. You
can see it’s not easy for him – his white Aloha jumpsuit straining – but he
looks strong as she grips his neck and kisses him. His sweat and inky hair
glitters as the cameras go wild. A woman looking on bursts into tears. A
child is rushed over to put a Hawaiian garland around his neck.
This is Blackpool, June 2007. We are in the fabulously named Norcalympia arena
in the Balmoral Wing of the frankly not so fabulous Norbreck Castle. It’s a
monster hotel (with no relation to a castle, other than its phony
crenellation) that is playing host to the National Federation of Tenant
Management Organisations in another of its wings and tomorrow will be home
to a Royal Marines annual shindig.
Tonight, however, it’s the site of the Ultimate Elvis Contest, a European heat
in the first worldwide contest for Elvis impersonators. Organised by the
Elvis estate in Memphis, the prize is the dream of every ETA (Elvis Tribute
Artist, as they prefer to be called) – a trip to Graceland to compete in the
Grand Finals during Elvis Week this month.
By now Elvis, or rather Paul Larcombe, 36, a former Navy officer from Crewe,
is back on his feet. He has just been told he has won the ticket to Memphis,
by one point. He waves to the Caesar Palace band to slow things down, or
rather gets the sound man to press pause on the CD machine. Panting, he
looks up at his beaming audience: “Huh, I gaht to tell you, seriously. I am
not going to cry but . . . uh, can I be myself?” he slips into a Northern
accent: “I can’t believe this. Thank you so much. Now I got to go back to
being my idol.”
He leaps up, the horns kick in and he finishes off with some impressive leg
stretching, a lot of twitching, some windmilling and, finally punches both
arms out. His head lolls down in triumph.
Elvis impersonators have always been the runt of the entertainment litter. But
with the estate finally conferring legitimacy by hosting this competition,
it looks as if things might be on the up. It was becoming impossible for
them to ignore the phenomenon, really. There aren’t exact figures for just
how many ETAs there are, but what is known is that there were between 37 to
150 working when Elvis died in 1977. Today there are well over 30,000 in the
US alone. Add to that the Elvis armies in Asia and Europe, and the popular
statistic bandied about on fan sites – that by the year 2020 one in ten
people will be an ETA – doesn’t sound so implausible.
More than 30 heats have taken place in the Ultimate Elvis Contest. The last,
next week in Norway, is charging the most of any – $150 (£74) to enter.
Back in Blackpool, more than 60 of Europe’s finest have battled it out. They
come in all shapes and sizes, though there are no women and the only dark
skin is due to heavy make-up. There are however a whole lot of pompadours
and stuck-on sideburns. And, although the contest is for three decades of
Elvis – Fifties, Sixties and Seventies – it is noticeable that there are a
lot more snug Las Vegas-era jumpsuits than slimfit GI outfits.
Matti, 20, from Finland, is an exception. A professional rugby player, his
imitation Epiphone acoustic is swinging at his side, a pink shirt peeps out
from his herringbone jacket, “I wanted to do an Elvis my age. I’m too young
for a jumpsuit.” He’s been practising for only a month and a half, and he
wasn’t pleased with his performance (each gets a shot at two songs). “I
think it went not so well, not like in rehearsal. It’s a shame my wife is
not here, but she said if she had to stay in a room with 60 Elvises her head
would explode. She likes Robbie Williams.”
Another youngster is Gino Monopoli, 30, a former bricklayer from Toronto. He’s
the spit of the bambi-eyed GI Elvis and he knows it. Turning from checking
his mascara in a silver ashtray, he leans in to murmur that his ambition is
to “find a good woman and make some beautiful children”. He’s already taken
part, and lost, in a contest held in Ontario and is planning to keep going
till he wins. His plan will eventually pay off, last week he won in his home
town of Ottawa.
Contrary to popular belief, most of the entrants are really nice and basically
sane. The most you could accuse them of is overzealousness. And it’s not
hard to see why they do it. A few are jobbing performers but most have
mundane jobs. Here, they get to strut their stuff and, of course, everyone
loves their material.
Just like in real showbiz, there are fans from 8 to 80 running around after
them. Morgan Valentine, a nine-year-old from Wrexham, has ten autographs so
far. “My schoolfriends are all like ‘football, football, football, but I
like the King. My Nan got me into him.”
One of the most spry and vocal supporters is Candy Davies, 70, a former line
dancer from Tampa Bay, Florida. “The English are too laid-back,” she says.
“I feel like an idiot shouting. In the US everybody would be screaming. If
you like them, you let them know.”
She first saw Elvis in 1956 at the Paramount Theatre in New York. “I was in
love with Mario Lanza at the time, but that was it. The life. The country.
We loved him as teenagers because here was someone sticking up for us.”
Davies has come up to Blackpool from Liverpool where she is visiting friends
she met over the internet a few years ago. “Last time I came to see them, my
husband of 40 years had died the year before, and I ended up falling in love
with my taxi driver. Kismet! We’ve been married two years now.” Kenny
Davies, 55, now lives with Candy in Florida, where among other things they
make the scarves for an Elvis Tribute Act called Jelvis.
There’s a good camaraderie here. A peek into the dressing room shows Elvises
helping each other with eyeliner and comparing the all important jumpsuits,
“B&K is the Rolls-Royce. You get one of those and you’ve arrived,”
says Darren H, 34, by day starring in the touring production of Mamma Mia!. B&K
suits are made from the original patterns and overseen by Bill Belew,
Elvis’s designer. They cost up to $5,000. “Mine actually isn’t a B&K,”
Darren whispers. “I’ve found a UK company. I’ve had everyone asking about
it. They’d kill me if they found out how much it cost.”
He won’t reveal his source as he’s hoping to get commissions, but later Julie
Mundy, the impossibly glamorous and salty editor of www.elvis.co.uk
and one of the event’s judges, declares that it must be Wested Leather, of
Kent, also makers of the Indiana Jones jacket.
There are, of course, a few odd-balls. Ray Howells, 53, is walking around in
civvy gear with moist eyes, his pint held close to his heart. He won the
King of Spain Elvis contest in 1987, but six months ago his dog bit him in
the neck and he’s been unable to sing since. A veteran of more than 150
contests, he is quite scary when he insists: “I’ve been doing this all my
life. Before Elvis there was nothing, after, everything.”
And then there is Kjell “Norwegian Elvis” H. Bjornestad whose rumoured surgery
is the first thing anyone wants to talk about. The alleged figures start at
a modest £10,000, but by the end of the night they’re at £50,000. Backstage
after a storming set he does look uncannily like him, Seventies, posttuck
period, at least. He won’t be drawn on the subject of surgery. “I do a lot
of work with muscle movement,” and, he says, waving his hand dramatically
across his face, “it’s fantastic what you can do with paint.”
He says that he likes to be normal when he’s at home, but then reveals that he
has built himself a mini-Graceland in his home town of Lyngdal. “I even have
the columns.” Bjornestad is one of the revered few who make a living
out of being an impersonator, but it hasn’t been easy for him. Asked what
his parents think of his career, he sighs, exhibiting a pathos that his hero
knew only too well. “It’s been a long road, but they are proud of me now.”
— The Ultimate Elvis Contest takes place in Graceland, August 12-17. www.elvis.com
