THE KING IS DEAD: Long live The King

The next time I see John Francis, I'll apologise and say to him, “You were right”.

The likelihood that happening however is pretty remote. The last time I saw him was over 60 years ago at Normal Intermediate School.

I don't remember much about primary school – just odd snapshots and moments – but intermediate was a bit different. I was put in a special class or some lower stream and my parents – not for the last time unfortunately – were disappointed and angry.

They insisted I be tested again and so one bright summer's day in February three other kids and I sat in a hot classroom and had some comprehension exercises and a few maths problems presented to us.

I remember that clearly because all I did was look out the window at the other kids playing on the field and wish I was out there.

I remained in the same class afterwards with Miss Crocker. My mate was a really big guy who I used to tease and punch but keep amused by jokes. His name was Graeme Paterson and I remember that because my Dad's name was Graham Paterson Reid.

Those two years were reasonably uneventful. I was in two school plays: Amal and the Night Visitors (I was a king visiting the baby Jesus) and Tom Sawyer (I auditioned for the lead and got Huck Finn).

There was a talent quest and when other kids got up and sang or danced or whatever, I recited Winston Churchill's “we shall fight them in the fields” speech. My Dad thought learning that off by heart would be instructive and in some ways it was, I love language although the judges of the show clearly didn't. In fact I think the hook came out from the wings when I was about halfway through.

I played soccer for the first and only time in a formal team and they appointed me captain, for reasons I could never understand.

There was a scandal whispered about when one of the male teachers had fiddled with some boys I knew underneath his house. His brother who also taught at the school was my teacher. I don't think he missed a day but even as a child who knew almost nothing about the whispered indecencies I knew that must have taken a lot of courage. I wonder if those brothers ever spoke again?

The most memorable moment came in October 1962 when I was out playing bullrush on the field. Everyone at home and on the radio was talking about Cuba and the missiles and Russia, and I remember seeing those aerial photos in the New Zealand Herald.

On that day at bullrush someone said Russia had bombed America and I remember quite clearly looking into the sky, fully expecting to see Russian bombers overhead.

I was 11 and expected to die in a fireball from the sky.

I've never been afraid of any news apocalypse since. 

On the bright side, I made some new friends in those years, one being John Frances who had hair full of Brylcreem swept back on the sides and into a ducktail. He looked like a real rocker although the freckles undercut the image.

One day after school I went to his place – Duke St in Mt Roskill as I recall – and I was amazed. His whole family were Elvis fans – hence the look – and he proudly showed me all their Elvis records.

Oddly enough, although I was an avid radio listener and we had records at home I don't ever recall hearing much Elvis. My older sister had some Cliff Richard pop singles and Voice in the Wilderness was my favourite. The B-side was Don't Be Mad at Me and even then I knew it was a bit like Adam Faith, or vice versa. I even had Cliff autograph that record for me when I met him.

But it seemed my sister went straight into beatniks and jazz.

Elvis was always there but no big deal, and so I was impressed by the sheer number of Elvis albums John's family proudly had. I guess some were soundtrack albums and greatest hits.

At that time my friends and I would go to the Crystal Palace cinema in Mt Eden to see whatever they were showing on a Saturday afternoon – stand for the Queen's song, cowboy serials, The Three Stooges and the main feature after interval – and every now and again an Elvis film would come up.

We all talked through the boring talking bits but shut up for the singing. As a 12-year old I knew they were rubbish.

It must have been at the end of 1963 when I was in Form Two when I visited John Frances' house and although I was impressed by his record collection (and Elvis posters and photos), I thought being an Elvis fan was pretty stupid.

And I said so loudly in the playground one day shortly after to embarrass him in front of all our friends. It was a stupid, kid thing to do and I remember he was hurt and felt betrayed. I was ashamed of myself but . . .

I don't think I had much to do with John after that, if anything. 

By that time there were new things happening and I'd heard the Beatles' Please Please Me and With the Beatles, the latter being my Dad's favourite album.

And that was it, everything had changed . . . and Elvis, Brylcreem and greased back hair was just old fashioned.

Given I only have those faded Polaroids of my younger years in my memory, I think my life began about then, from the time I heard She Loves You, the Stones' versions of Not Fade Away and especially It's All Over Now, the Animals, La De Da's, Joe Tex, the wicked Pickett . . .

It would have been about seven years on from Normal Intermediate and my shameful dismissal of John Frances' Elvis infatuation.

When I was at university my friend Barry and I would skip our science lectures and go to the movies like 2001 A Space Odyssey, Let It Be, Point Blank and especially – and repeatedly – The Good The Bad The Ugly (and any other spaghetti Western which rolled around).

One day however we went to see That's the Way It Is, which was an Elvis documentary of him in Las Vegas, rehearsing and doing his shows.

I expected we – with our long hair, me who wore skin-tight white pants and fringed leather boots – would laugh at it and talk throughout.

But right from the opening credits we were taken aback.

Elvis was brilliant, he exuded charisma, sang extraordinary songs . . . We both bought the soundtrack (“polk salad Annie, 'gator's got your granny”!) and belatedly announced, to each other if no one else, Elvis as The King.

I had every Beatles and Stones record; we'd shoplifted Hendrix, Sgt Pepper's and Cream albums; I was a huge fan of the Downliner Sect, the Who, Kinks and others. Only Elvis' In the Ghetto had really made any hip impact.

After that movie I went back into Elvis, rediscovered Big Boss Man and US Male (Barry and I had genuinely loved each although I think we kept it quiet in the year of Sgt Pepper and Jimi) and dug deep into the Sun sessions. I even found the odd decent song in those terrible soundtracks and visited Graceland. Twice.

These days I have Elvis box sets (the 1950 and 1960 masters), single albums, CDs and quite a few DVDs.

I'm a believer and have been since I was about 20.

I have written about The King many, many times. 

So if I ever see John Francis again in this short life as the clock is ticking, I will apologise for making fun of his Elvis fandom and admit it: he was right and, at just 12, “I was wrong”.

If you know John, please tell him.

I'm sorry.

.

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