All salamanderish and moist is Memphis in July and August, and Elvis himself looks a little moist in this photo. Everything about him’s odd, from his crewcut to the piping on his cowboy suit. He’s got acne too. He’s in-between, amphibious: not quite the poor kid from Tupelo—he’s taken to wearing eye shadow, for one thing—but not a star yet either. He’s already recorded his vibrato version of “Blue Moon;” he’s yipped at the end of “Mystery Train.” In other words he’s still doing his best stuff. He listens to Dewey Phillips on WHBQ late at night. Surely, when this photo was taken, the night must’ve smelled of the Mississippi. Was there a dead catfish the size of a Cadillac upriver? The smell must have been heavy, humidity-borne, of diesel-tainted algae blooms, of the aforementioned dead catfish, of wet coffee grounds/newspapers/peanut shells, of sewage, of tropical fruit. Poor fucked-up Elvis, doomed to overflow his sequined jumpsuits, to wreak havoc on his health, to break a woman’s ankle while demonstrating his karate skills. After considering the facts of his life, I’m left with the Big Muddy. Such fecundity. Such a mess.