I saw Elvis Presley perform live twice in Las Vegas, the town where I grew up. I was in high school, and his first performance at the International Hotel had a profound impact on me. So when I saw the movie trailer for “Elvis,” I was excited. It looked good. Then I learned it was directed by Baz Luhrmann and my heart dropped. Luhrmann directed “Moulin Rouge,” one of my least favorite movies ever (I almost walked out) and another clunker, a steroidal remake of “The Great Gatsby.”

My mother, a young woman in the 1950s, begged me to go see Elvis. Elvis Presley had been her music idol. But for me, a teenager in 1969, I was not a fan. I liked The Beatles and Jefferson Airplane. Elvis to me was kind of a joke, a washed-up hip-swiveler who made god-awful movies that played on late-night television (possibly your future Baz, if you’re not careful). I might as well go see – gulp! – Frank Sinatra.

“No, no, no!” my mother protested. “Elvis is great. So talented. Go see him. You’ll see.”

The fact was, I could see Elvis Presley for free. My stepfather was a musician in the two-man band Deuces Wild, which performed in some of the big hotel/casinos on the Las Vegas Strip. And he had “juice.” In Vegas juice is influence with a casino bigwig, usually a pit boss. With juice you get perks, like getting “comped” (free admission) into the big showrooms. I had nothing to lose, except a couple hours of my young life, so I acquiesced. If nothing else, I’d get a good meal. I took my girlfriend.

This happened back in the day when hotel showrooms had dinner shows, and you sat in comfortable couchettes if you were a high-roller or had juice (like me), right in front of the stage. My girlfriend was impressed. Turns out, so was I. Elvis came bounding out in his now-famous, dazzling white, rhinestone-encrusted caped jumpsuit to the strains of “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” that stirring, drum-pounding opening to “2001: A Space Odyssey.” At first such overblown stage craft seemed incredibly silly; I stifled a giggle. Then he belted out “Fools Rush In,” and I was suddenly mesmerized. Good God the man had a set of pipes – tremendous range, beautiful color, perfect pitch, powerful emotion. He nailed every damn song.

My mother had been right all along. So. Damn. Talented.

By the end of his performance I was on my feet, giving him a standing ovation with the rest of the screaming audience (mostly women, some of them now sans panties, having tossed their brightly colored undies onto the stage in a flamboyant but decidedly unladylike show of appreciation). I cocked an eyebrow at my date – eh? – but she was a sweet Mormon girl, so she declined, demurely.

I got the chance to see Elvis again a few years later. This time he lumbered onto the stage, and I thought he had tucked a pillow inside his jumpsuit as a joke. It was no joke. He must have gained 30 pounds. He slurred his words and forgot some of his lyrics. He was obviously in decline, and we would later learn about his precipitous fall from grace and his tragic fate, an early death from years of prescription drug abuse and too many peanut butter and banana sandwiches, a favorite late-night snack.

Elvis lives on though, and not just as a ghost pumping gas in rural Mississippi. One of the best (and most popular) shows at the Ogunquit Playhouse was “Million Dollar Quartet,” a musical play based on a real event, an impromptu jam session involving Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash in 1956 at the Sun Record Studios in Memphis, Tennessee. If you haven’t seen it and get the chance, go. It’s flat-out great. And now, coming to theaters June 24, is “Elvis,” the movie. I’m dying to see it, though I’m praying Baz doesn’t screw it up with his over-the-top pyrotechnic approach to movie making.

It’s reported that Elvis Presley’s last words were “I won’t.” Well, I won’t ever again doubt the man’s talent or his rightful place in the rock n’ roll firmament. Because that night in Las Vegas, so very long ago, he got me all shook up.

Steven Price is a Kennebunkport resident. He can be reached at sprice1953@gmail.com.

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