Icon: Elvis Presley

This is where it all began, in a small recording studio on Union Avenue in Memphis, when rock and roll was brought squalling into the known universe. Under Phillips' aegis, Sun Records was an independent Memphis production company that leased masters to larger labels, finding some success on its own with blues-based artists like Rufus Thomas and Billy "The Kid" Emerson, when Sam started working with a callow Elvis, backing him with guitarist Scotty Moore and bassist Bill Black. The records that would result over a one year period — incandescent classics like "That's Alright Mama," "Mystery Train," and "Good Rockin' Tonight" — would not only define the onrushing sound of rock and roll, but also prove to be some of Elvis' most unvarnished performances, full of pent-up emotion and the joy of discovery. What is most revealing about these recordings, beyond their innovation, is the incredible range and richness of his voice, and some of the slower songs — in particular, a beautiful "Blue Moon" — reveal the seduction behind the Presley hipshake. This particular reissue of the Sun sessions presents the masters and assorted outtakes in chronological order, showing how Elvis evolved and honed his persona in the first year of his skyrocketing fame.

On December 4, 1956, after a whirlwind year that saw him became a national phenomenon, Elvis dropped into Sun Studios on an afternoon when Carl Perkins was recording. A then-unknown Jerry Lee Lewis was playing piano on the session, Johnny Cash was on hand to watch Carl, and when Elvis joined them for an impromptu jam session, Sam Phillips turned on the tape recorder. What resulted was a singalong celebration of shared musical community, comprising gospel hymnal ("Just A Little Talk With Jesus"), old standard ("There's No Place Like Home"), blue grass ("Little Cabin Home"), a snippet of "Rip It Up" where Elvis jokes "It's Saturday night and I just got laid, uh, paid," a raucous "When The Saints Go Marchin' In," and giving us a fascinating fly-on-the-wall perch, the open microphone of "Elvis Says Goodbye."

RCA Victor bought Elvis' contract from Sun after his fifth single release, and began grooming him for national stardom. 1956 was the breakthrough year when Elvis (the Pelvis) became an icon, a media frenzy, a lightning rod for controversy, a role model and a rock metaphor. Here is the Elvis who played before crowds of screaming and flailing teenagers; who was censored at the waist on Ed Sullivan's television show; who bombed in Las Vegas; who had his own set of bubble gum cards; and who seemed to incarnate everything that was exalting or terrifying about untamed youth in the ascendant. The music was hardly formulaic — "Heartbreak Hotel" is sparse, haunting; "Hound Dog" is confrontational and sneering; "Don't Be Cruel," with its chirpy bop-bop backing vocals, or the balladeering "Love Me Tender," signifies the first steps toward domesticating the Presley id that would gather momentum as his career moved more toward the mainstream.

Everything. A five-disc assemblage originally released in 1992, this comprehensive collection begins with Elvis' cherry-pop, the "My Happiness" that he cut on a whim at Sun to gift his mother and caused him to be noticed by Marion Keisker, the secretary who brought him to the attention of Sam Phillips; to a final interview before he heads overseas to begin serving in the Army in December of 1958. The half-decade between inscribes his arc across the popular consciousness in meteoric fashion, including his greatest hits, film soundtracks, live performances, and a disc of rarities and outtakes. An essential odyssey.

Before his stint in the military, Elvis had easily proved he could act. His first film, Love Me Tender, in 1956 was more drama than musical; but with the overwhelming success of Jailhouse Rock and Kid Creole, the Elvis persona of the silver screen was formalized: a good bad boy with a taste for the thrill sport and a beautiful starlet by his side to whom he could croon and enfold in a final reel embrace. Tightly controlled, predictable and perfunctory, the movies have hardly lasted the test of time -- even in their own 60s era, when Elvis soon found himself swivel-hipped aside by the moptops of the British Invasion. Yet each film soundtrack had its hits, containing at least one or more memorable tunes — "Viva Las Vegas!," for example, or the divine "Can't Help Falling In Love" — most of which have found their way onto this two-disc collection; and the exotic locales which backdrop Our Hero have taken on the patina of Technicolor nostalgia. The speed at which the movies were produced means Elvis mostly plays himself, no mean task of method acting; and seeing him thus, his filmography becomes like home movies of his thrice-yearly vacations from Graceland.

Nearly eight years after last performing before a live audience, a black leather clad Elvis stepped out from the limbo of a stalled career and reclaimed his birthright. Surrounded by an intimate, thrilled crowd, backed by Scotty and original drummer D.J. Fontana, hardly confined by a stage that looked more like a boxing ring than a proscenium, the one-man show broadcast in December of 1968 gave Presley a comeback that might've been scripted from one of his films. It was not confined to live performance. The following year would see a reinvigorated Elvis once again recording in his hometown ("In The Ghetto" and "Suspicious Minds"), and in 1972, when "Burning Love" became his last Top 10 hit, he showed he could still start a conflagration.

I was there. The anticipation at Elvis' first appearance in New York for seventeen years on a June night in 1972 was highly charged. Even Elvis looked a bit nervous at he took the stage. For the first half it was performance as ritual, handing his scarf to a security guard to gift to a girl in the front row, striking poses that reminded me of diorama-like living tableaux while the Instamatic bulbs flashed, grinning humorous asides and reciting the dutiful prayers of "Hound Dog" or a medley of "(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear" and "Don't Be Cruel." But as the concert rose to its climax, he threw off pretense and closed his eyes, letting the lush epic production surround and wash over him: "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'," the paired cant's of "I Can't Stop Loving You" and "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You," and Mickey Newbury's "American Trilogy," which concludes with a statuesque "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." He becomes a living monument at that moment, taking his cape, spreading it across his shoulders, kneeling arms outstretched to the audience in shared fealty, beholden.

Elvis first showed his religious leanings in 1957, recording an EP that featured "Peace In The Valley" and the ever-blessed "I Believe"; in interviews, or even spontaneous jam sessions, he always stressed his roots in the gospel tradition. He had much to be thankful for, having been salvationed far behind his wildest dreams; and it is interesting to note that practically his only non-soundtrack work in the studio during his 60's concentration on movie-making, was an album of faith-hewn classics. His baritone as it ascends to an angelic tenor seems ready-made for the southern harmony tradition, whether white or black, and Elvis sings with a modesty and conviction that reveals how much he sought comfort in these songs as a refuge from a world that asked so much from him, even as he struggled to find his own answers. His version of "Crying In The Chapel" heightens the song's expression of received faith, reminding that no matter how larger-than-life one appears on man's stage, there is always someone more Lordly awaiting in the wings.

It wouldn't be Christmas without Elvis, and like another totem before him, Bing Crosby, his contribution to the Noel songbook not only color-codes the most heart-tugging of holidays, but does it in tinseled style. His tremulous voice is particularly suited to classics like "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "I'll Be Home for Christmas" even as the trajectory of his career could lend itself to New Testament interpolation. It is rare that a performer becomes a tradition, and so he is here, as decorated tree and present 'neath.

The final years of Elvis, puffed with pills, increasingly bloated and removed from daily life, only awaking to give his voice an unfurl on stage before retreating to his lair, have been recited for so long that it obscures his down-home humanity, the simple enjoyments he shared sitting around a piano or a guitar with his friends and singing for the pure joy of it. The Home Recordings captures such candid moments from 1956 to 1966, with an off-the-cuff sound quality that heightens these private interludes to which we are now privileged. Highlights include "Tumblin' Tumblewoods," nodding to the Sons of the Pioneers, and, accompanied by an arpeggiated acoustic guitar, a stark "Mona Lisa" that too reveals the enigma of Elvis' smile.