by John Connell
I heard about it on the radio last year and thought it would be a bit of a laugh and a good excuse for a road trip with the boys. We basically came here for a boys’ weekend and to get on the beers, because, hey, you’ve got keep your fluids up in this heat … especially when you’re wearing an Elvis jumpsuit … . I think over the past two days I’ve made it onto every news station, got to dance with more Priscillas than Elvis ever did and have been constantly posing for photos … it’s been bloody fantastic.
In fact there are many bearded Elvises, plenty of bald Elvises (but the wigs at least cover for that), a few sex-changed and cross-dressing Elvises and considerable numbers of overweight, sweaty Elvises.
It is all so tacky that it works: as one festival-goer said, ‘I love the tackiness. I love the not-quite-rightness of it’. People ‘let loose, they have an excuse. It’s a small rural town and it’s a socially acceptable way to play dress-ups’. But tackiness is not merely forgiven and forgotten – it is expected and essential.
Inevitably, some do not dress up, especially the first time around. Yet, as Anne Steel had observed:
These blokes come up from Sydney and at 10 in the morning their girlfriends are urging them to buy a jumpsuit and get into the mood. They are equally determined not to look silly: ‘No way!’ By midday they’re back: ‘It’s such fun, where can I get a suit?’
Not everyone is so moved. They simply come, and perhaps congratulate themselves on wearing something more appropriate for the weather; they observe, hum along, purchase and consume, and then go home. Such people are the essence of most festivals, neither fans nor fanatics but simply people on a day or weekend out, with friends, family and partners, for whom it is not crucial that it be Elvis. At the core of the festival are the fans and fanatics who make it what it is, but there is a large periphery for whom fun, family and escapism dominate.
Atmosphere is everything and sometimes nothing in particular. We asked a very basic question – ‘What did you enjoy about the festival?’ – and got equally basic responses. By far the single most frequent one was a simple ‘Everything’, or even ‘What’s not to like?’. Visitors take pleasure from straightforward and simple things – multiple Elvii, constant music and friendliness, a place where the local people made you feel at home, having a good time out of home, the right atmosphere and continuous entertainment. People are in exactly the mood to find community and country hospitality everywhere. A friendly town, friendly people and unadulterated enthusiasm for Elvis make it all worthwhile. Hair can be let down, piled high, slicked back or tucked under a wig, at every opportunity.
Do-it-yourself entertainment in the pubs and clubs and people-watching are at least as attractive as any of the formal events: ‘It’s a people-watching paradise, mate.’ Participation can take more basic forms. A couple in their fifties from Queanbeyan recognised the need for getting into the mood:
We go to pretty much every pub up along the street. Oh yes, shit yes, every day. Every day you do the walk, you do the walk to the bottom and the walk to the top. Somebody’s gotta do it, you know … We do all the hard yards. Every time beer o’clock strikes.
Some feel an apologetic admission is necessary; they are uninterested in Elvis but enjoy the festival regardless: ‘Not being a great Elvis fan I still found the weekend great. I thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing’. Some highlights exist without Elvis at all: ‘the Thai restaurant’, ‘fantastic weather’, ‘getting out of Sydney’ and ‘cold draught beers’; but each contribute to atmosphere and enjoyment.
That the festival proves to be fun is evident in simple statistics that show that many visitors return over and over again. More of these are the fanatics and fans but they are far from alone. As early as 2002 one in five of the festival-goers were return visitors, and the proportion gradually grew in subsequent years. Between 2010 and 2015 around half the festival-goers were returnees, even as numbers increased. But the future was always uncertain: ‘Never know. Life’s short, a lot of things to cram in’. At the end of the festival, for some, ‘right now we feel we might be a little bit Elvised out by the end of this ... but we’ll probably be back’. Mostly they were.
Inevitably, not everyone wants to return. However much fun it was, there were other places to see and other festivals to get to: ‘You go there, you’ve been there, done that, then you go and look at something else’ and ‘We’ve had a great time. I love the people of Parkes. I reckon they’re the friendliest people in New South Wales. I’ve been twice now, but I’m done. It’s off the bucket list now. There’s only so much Elvis you can listen to’. And Elvis is not confined to Parkes: ‘I’ve come this time thinking I don’t think I’ll need to come to Parkes again, if I go to Surfers each year’ and ‘We’re from Brisbane and we saw Elvis in Daydream Island. That was much more convenient and not so hot’. Distance makes a difference. For a couple from north Queensland, ‘We’ve been twice. I love it, but I’d like to go somewhere and do something different. Yeah, it’s a long way for us to come. Five hundred dollars in petrol’s a long way. That’s the only reason’.
Elvis is not for everybody for eternity: ‘I was an Elvis fan when I was younger but I’m certainly not an Elvis fan forever’. Costs concern others: ‘It’s become very expensive; I’m not sure we can afford to come back, and especially get into the ticketed events, now we’ve retired’. Nor can some choose more expensive motels when tired limbs tell them that caravan parks and camping grounds are no longer for them. A few perceived a problem ahead: ‘As the Elvis group is about our age it would be wise to broaden the festival to incorporate more rock ’n’ roll as Elvis fans are getting older so the festival will die’. An astute visitor had pointed to what the event management industry call the problem of ‘cohort replacement and generational succession’ – the need to ensure that the festival does not fade alongside the baby boomers.
No festival can perfectly satisfy everyone. Usually it is hot in Parkes, occasionally so hot that tar melts and parade participants faint, a regular source of concern: festival-goers want ‘more cover please’, ‘more bottled water’. Seeking shade under the trees of Cooke Park is virtually a contact sport. But when it rains there is consternation (‘Why didn’t they shift that show to a better place?’). Even with yearly practice, a small town cannot always meet the demands of thousands of visitors (‘there were long queues in the Leagues club’ or ‘the toilets were poorly maintained’), but they were often compensated for (‘every bit of rubbish was picked up in Cooke Park; the locals were just like seagulls – grabbing it straightaway’). Indeed, within 24 hours, Cooke Park had returned to normality. It could be ‘too much Elvis and needed a bit more diversity’ or, more frequently, ‘not enough Elvis’. A popular local girl group, Amitie, who sang 1960s music but not Elvis, were found wanting by some. Covers of the Righteous Brothers and Dusty Springfield are similarly unappreciated. What ran nicely on time for some was too regimented and regulated for others. The parade was ‘too long’, ‘too noisy’, ‘had too many cars’, ‘should have focused more on the vintage cars’ and, afterwards, the main street is ‘too much like a ghost town’. At least one man sought ‘more women’. Men were less in demand.
In the end ‘everything is great’ and ‘can’t improve on perfection’ defined the mood of many. The Festival is regularly reminded to ‘keep up the great work’.
‘It really was such a night’
The formal Festival program reflects life in the country. The Poets’ Breakfast starts at 6.30 am, Elvis Central is in business by 8.30 am, while the evening’s formal entertainment closes down around 10 pm (despite Rod Toovey’s The Essence of Elvis rocking on till 11.30 at the Parkes Bowling Club – the exception that proves the rule). Parkes’ lone Thai restaurant has sold its last dinner by 9 pm. Even daringly nocturnal McDonald’s usually shuts its doors at 10 pm (staying open to a risky 11 pm on the Saturday). But that’s the formal program. The pubs and clubs have not shut down. Here is the place and time for revelry – even debauchery – as
the nights, and especially Saturday night, wear on. Here too is the spontaneity, the informal carnival, the cover band and karaoke scene, impossible to advertise or regulate, but integral to the festival.
On Friday and Saturday nights the festival enables a range of activities and aspirations. People have been paid and a host of opportunities have arrived in town. Rugby teams and many impersonators get started drinking on Saturday morning – standing room only in the Commercial Hotel by 11 am – a hint of things to come. When the sun goes down, the festival takes on a different personality, as a new performance begins. A social media-savvy student shows us the Tinder account on his smartphone: at this moment there are 40 suitably matched individuals in Parkes looking for action. The Elvis Festival is performing another important contemporary social function. Even as it has supplanted the agricultural show, it is now replacing the B & S (Bachelor and Spinster) balls, once so crucial to rural social life: a rare opportunity for country folks to party hard, let hair down, and hope to meet potential partners. With so many visitors present, and Tinder dating apps to hand, there is the added frisson of possible liaisons with folks never otherwise in town on an average Saturday night. Amicable bouncers, cheap beer, good-natured banter, unpretentious attitudes: anyone can, and will, talk to anyone else. In quieter corners there are moments of overtly gay sexuality; a prominent and very friendly local propositioned one of us in 2015, late on a drunken evening. ‘Fancy coming back to my place to party?’ Coming out in the country was temporarily possible. Tinder partly resolves the question of whether some are lonesome tonight. Visitors can be enthusiastic participants: ‘We’re fully being cougars here’, ‘The Priscillas have found the rugby boys. There’s now a pub crawl on. Catch them because there are playing rules, so when the whistle blows all kinds of funny things take off …’
The pubs fill to overflowing. The two Chinese-Australian restaurants struggle to cope with queues and orders. The cover bands tune up instruments and do sound checks, the karaoke machines are turned on and the volume turned up. Each pub and club has its own little scene. The bigger clubs have theatre rooms with organised performances by professional impersonators, formal concerts by the best tribute artists in town. Literally and metaphorically at a different level, downstairs in the same clubs and in the pubs, rooms are decked out as ‘Elvis lounges’ featuring cover bands and less subtle or skilful impersonators. In the bistro and around the pool tables the scene is much rowdier. Towers of uncollected empty beer glasses teeter precariously on wet tables, snooker cues in play bump into walls (and nearby patrons). TV screens hang around the walls and the Big Bash cricket plays on. But there’s no way to hear cricket commentary over the din. Few want to; the screens are relegated to the status of a mobile art installation. A sea of laughter, drinking, arguments and a decidedly earthy, rural Australian carnival atmosphere. Indeed, as Rosie Jones recalled: ‘There’s music, dancing, sweating, absurd quantities of alcohol and that irreplaceable rural Australian sensibility that makes it perfectly OK to piss in the sink in front of other people’. Good taste is not at a premium late at night. Perhaps Elvis has temporarily left the building.
One middle aged rock ’n’ roll addict from Lithgow had told us earlier: ‘The great thing about this Festival is the relaxed atmosphere, possibly because it’s a country town but also the fact that you have a lot of older folk here who are just relaxed and there are no youth mucking up and misbehaving’. He, however, may have generally gone to bed early. At 2 am local youth try hard to disprove this theory. The pubs along the main street take things up another notch. It’s nothing to do with Elvis any more, but it is Elvis who has vicariously sanctioned a big night, sponsored the carnival and turned Parkes upside down. Nothing suggests that Elvis himself had many wild nights, but as one fan suggested: ‘If Elvis were looking down from up there, he’d laugh and smile and wonder what on earth was going on down here … but he’d probably love it’.
The Star Hotel, the classic country pub on the corner, is seemingly unchanged since the new publicans took over back in 1956. Its hand-painted slogan is ‘We don’t keep the BEST BEER in town. We sell it’. Walls display faded posters for beer brands that ceased to exist decades ago, and the local footy tipping comp chart. The classic middle bar draws in drinkers like a magnet, clamouring for access to the bartenders in and among patrons crowding the space. No-nonsense meals (‘Silverside – $7’) stream out from the kitchen to feed hungry punters sitting at rows of plastic tables. Backs of knees sweat underneath. On stage the karaoke machine is getting a workout, and the hit act is a duo of young blokes in Blues Brothers costumes singing everything from Elvis to AC/DC. At the bar sit colourful locals with reddened jowls and potty mouths. These are the Saturday night fixtures with privileged access to the prime spots, for this is their regular watering hole. Out of town visitors perhaps unwisely strike up a conversation with a group of larrikin locals. One thing leads to another and there is an invitation to carry on the party back at their place, as well as an invitation from a rather forward local man to engage in rather more amorous activities. There are no takers.
On the next corner, since most corners have pubs, the Royal, ‘home of the pickled porkers’, hosts buskers, karaoke and huge crowds, and sponsors the Boars. Down the road is the Cambridge Hotel (‘Don’t go to the Heartbreak Hotel, come to the Cambridge Hotel’), a big sprawling complex of bars and a giant, concreted beer garden. Its rendered frontage dominates the main street, without its original delicate Victorian awnings or subtle raw brick textures, not at all reminiscent of that ancient English seat of learning. Various rooms of loud music and an upstairs nightclub constitute yet one more temporary pick-up joint. Sweat and alcohol make a heady combination. For one visitor it was all too much:
Suddenly I realise I’m much drunker than I’d ever intended to be, much drunker than I can remember since my days of teenage stupidity. A loud crash signals that I have dropped my glass of beer on the outside pavers, smashing it everywhere. Two burly bouncers make their way over and my heart sinks. Here comes trouble! Quick thinking from a friend convinces the bouncers it was just an accident, and that we’re heading home soon. They let us stay, with a smile and a shake of the head. Amazingly, none of the other patrons seem perturbed or complain.
For the clubs and pubs it is far and away the best night of the year, and it may well be the longest.
Drunkenness is about the height of the weekend crime wave, so that town councillors are wont to remark that the festival is so harmonious that the ‘police go on holiday for the weekend’. In practice the police bring in a few extra colleagues from neighbouring commands and mingle with crowds on foot or by bicycle. It works, as their own statistics show that at the 2016 Festival two people were arrested, exactly the average for every other weekend of the year.
Out at the caravan park, less than a kilometre away, the night is long over. Nostalgia and reminiscing can be tiring, thank you very much. A few bottles are still clinking, but most are sleeping it off, ready for another day – a church service perhaps, bowling with Elvis or maybe just the full English breakfast that has nothing to do with Elvis or Parkes. Back on the main street few seem at all likely to get to the gospel service, or perhaps anything else, the next morning. The chemist, who advertises to those who are ‘all shook up’, is soon to become one of several instant Festival beneficiaries.
Random breath-testing Elvis. Newell Highway, 2015
John Connell
Parkes mayor, Ken Keith, 2015: ‘When I got involved in local government, I had no concept at all that I’d ever have to wear an Elvis outfit, but when you work for Parkes’ public sector, learning all the words to “Hound Dog” is almost part of the job description.’
Sally Chapman
Al Gersbach is a grader operator for Parkes Shire Council, but for one special week each January becomes Alvis, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll. Waiting at the station with Hamish Newham
Jen Li
‘You’ve got Elvis wine, Elvis beer, Elvis t
oothbrushes, there’s heaps of stuff – it’s really tacky … Louisiana mud … the tackier it is the better it is … I mean people are buying 45-foot Elvis rugs … which is just classic.’
8
AN ECONOMY REINVENTED
Festivals make money. In a vast number of other places, if not in Parkes, that is what they were intended to do. Huge festivals like Splendour in the Grass, or the regular resurrections of aging pop stars in vineyards, happen purely for that reason. They have nothing much to do with local communities. But of course the Elvis Festival makes money and generates income too, a key reason why it became more widely accepted and appreciated. Income grew over time, contributing to local viability as slowly but surely it trickled down from small businesses to the wider community: invaluable in hard times; welcome at any time. Employment was stimulated too for the obvious motels, restaurants and petrol stations, but beyond that for accountants, solicitors, and even tattoo parlours and veterinary surgeons. One vet was offering a very nice line in Elvis dog costumes, ‘for the smaller dog’. The tattooist doubled as a mobile phone repairer. Accommodation extended beyond the hotels, into camp cities and home hosting, and eventually well beyond Parkes. Food and drink came from many places. The Festival makes money, and benefits many, not just in Parkes but across inland New South Wales.
‘Got a whole lotta money that’s ready to burn’
Just as it is impossible to count how many people come into town, it is even more difficult to count what they do with their money. Hotel bookings and tickets are purchased beforehand, usually by credit cards online, petrol tanks are filled up somewhere en route, expensive jumpsuits ordered in advance, souvenirs purchased and forgotten about, and who admits to – or even remembers – late-night expenses in pubs and clubs (whose shout was it, anyway?). Who actually admits to buying a tacky plastic Elvis wig at a silly price when their partner wasn’t looking? In the middle of a festival, both focused memories and rationality are rare; sober calculations are easily displaced. When festival-goers were asked, ‘And for meals, food and drink, how much do you think you’ll spend in Parkes over the whole Festival period?’, responses were often along the lines of: