Susan Richardson Elvis Is Alive and well and living in Antarctica. This is not another shopping mall sighting by a frenzied fan— six million Chinstraps can vouch for it. They recognise his tight, ice-spangled gear, the black stripes of his sideburns and the drifts of blubber which serve a life-preserving purpose here. It's not a lot like Vegas— his stage is a rock the wind sings into. And it's not a bit like Graceland— just one unduly spacious blizzard-themed room. At least the pill-popping's stopped— now it's strictly fish and krill. And there are no more frivolous movies—only the odd wildlife doc. Hip-swivelling's given way to the neck-thrusts and chest-pumps of his Chinstrap audience while "Don't be Cruel's" been replaced by the screeching of three million breeding males, a tune that reaches deep as winter compared to those he knew. Yet he still dares to croon a few lines of "Love Me Tender" to the light on the shy horizon— and for the first time ever he really seems (mm hnh hnh) to mean it. |