Tommy or Elvis
aka Life or Death

Fall semester of 1957, fourth grade. Up until then, this problem had not yet surfaced, much less become one, not for me anyway.

That fall, however, in my schoolyard, during each recess, the problem arrived with a vengeance: you had to choose. It was the one or it was the other, and if you’re not in the one camp then you’re in the other, the enemy camp—going both ways, of course. There was no neutral ground here: you are with us or against us; you are friend or foe; you are cool or a squashable insect.

Elvis Presley had entered world consciousness on quite a scale a year before, by 1956. A year later, by the summer of 1957, his English counterpart, Tommy Steele, made a similar splash in England and Europe, though nowhere near as big a splash—as in hardly a ripple—in America.

All the while Elvis grew splashier and splasher, both at home and abroad, with each new release, each new movie.

Me, going on nine this fall, was gleefully oblivious to all this.

As far as popular music was concerned, I knew only of Paul Anka and The Kingston Trio, and that was because the adopted daughter of my dad’s business partner (Ritva was her name, and she was what was then known as a “war child” from Finland, one of the many children who were sent across the Baltic to Sweden for adoption to avoid hardship—including starvation—during the second world war). Ritva was five years older than I and she loved this Anka guy and had many of his records—black, five-inch singles: I remember “Diana” and “You Are My Destiny” quite well to this day; and she had The Kingston Trio’s “Tom Dooley” which I then thought was an amazing song—still do.

“Anka,” by the way means “duck” in Swedish. I always found that name ridiculously funny. Paul Duck. Not too far from Donald Duck which in Sweden indeed was known as Kalle Anka (Charlie Duck).

While Ritva loved Paul Anka, she did not care for Elvis apparently, and even less for Tommy Steele, and to my knowledge had no records of either of them. Leaving my slate cleaner than the driven snow when it came to these two guys now competing for European—and, as of late, my schoolyard’s—hearts.

Okay, crunch time.

:

A little background first: In Sweden, at that time, a widespread hobby among us kids was collecting film stars which were small, mostly color photographs—roughly 2 x 3 inches with the name of the star at the bottom of the picture. You bought them in sets of 10 for about a quarter and then you collected and traded them. An obvious set to accumulate was as many different pics of your favorite star as you could buy or trade yourself into. At one time, I actually had over one hundred Brigitte Bardot film stars, though, to be honest, there were quite a few duplicates among them.

Some of these film star pics were quite rare, like a certain black and white Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan which could cost you ten or fifteen or as many as fifty other film stars in trade (for the avid Weissmuller fan, that is, who would consider this a good trade).

And, yes, of course, Elvis Presley was one of the pictured stars, as was Tommy Steele. Everyone seemed to have loads of pics of the one or the other. Not me, though, I was a Bardot guy.

Hence, crunch time.

:

“So, who do you like?” he wanted to know. The boy asking was bigger than I was, by some margin, and was not about to put up with nonsense was what I sensed, viscerally.

Both—not an acceptable answer.

Neither—not an acceptable answer.

Those answers could get you punched in the nose.

So, you had to, had to, had to pick the one or the other; and even then, you stood a roughly fifty-fifty chance to get nose-punched for siding with the enemy.

This bigger-than-I guy did have film star pics of both Elvis and Tommy, which he showed me. This, of course, did not give away who he supported. Pick one, he said.

Perilous situation.

He held out both pics, waiting. Who did I like? Who was I for? Who did I support? Which camp was I in? He would like an answer this recess.

I looked them both over, back and forth, and here’s the thing: I just did not like the looks of Elvis, his face was too fat, too slick, whereas I really liked the pictures of Tommy Steele. So, for no other reason than looks, I answered, “Tommy.”

This, for this one particular slugger, was the right answer. Not that he smiled or said “Yay” or anything, but he put away his card and didn’t punch my nose.

:

Eventually, I came to learn that Tommy Steele was favored by the majority (say, 60-40) at our school, perhaps for the same reason I did (was what I figured).

To this day, I cannot with certainty say that I ever heard Tommy Steele sing, though some notes are clinking about in the back of my mind which may be echoes of Tommy.

I have since heard Elvis, of course, I mean, who hasn’t? Still, I never really cared for the man. Even after all those hits, all those movies, and all those Vegas shows (some of which I’ve since seen on television).

Tommy Steele went on to work in musicals as I recall, and I remember wondering “What on Earth?” the first time I heard that he was starring in some London show or other. Not “my” Tommy, my Rock’n’Roller Tommy, surely.

Yup, it was my Tommy. Now West End Tommy.

Having to pick Elvis or Tommy was my first experience of factions and the blind illogic that formed and thrived them. They cared nothing for who you were, what you did, or what you hoped to be.

No, you are either for us or against us.

Much like politics today, I’m afraid.

::