The King and I: a cultural journey

Nearly 30 years later, I can see that I was drawn to Elvis in the manner of a convert. The music was unpretentious, exciting and uncomplicated. Its sheer vitality held me spellbound. It was a testament to the music that it managed to cut through the language barrier. Surrounded by the familiar and unfamiliar, my family was busy negotiating the everyday of our new home. But anything more than basic encounters across the cultural and language divide were rare. Elvis came to represent an almost exotic landmark in our journey to understand the social and cultural fabric of our new home.

On the surface, Perth was a shining example of the archetype wealthy Western city that my parents expected as the setting for our new future. It was at once comfortable and friendly. But we knew immediately that beneath the smiles and the glass and steel edifice lay a grid of cultural surprises. The most noticeable was the attitude of its citizens, particularly their lack of inhibition in public spaces.

My mother was shocked by the openness of the women who walked so freely down the streets in little else but bikini tops and couples young and old who kissed in public. Coming from a culture where conformity was paramount and social etiquette demanded individuals refrain from displaying their feelings, especially in public, such displays of affection and erotic flesh were extremely confronting. Personal freedom and expression on this scale would be unacceptable in Korea. Have they no shame, my mother would exclaim. Admittedly, I think she was also intrigued and impressed in equal measure by the self-assertion of these women.

It was in this way that my enthusiasm for Elvis helped me to access a unique aspect of the culture of my newly adopted country: one that celebrated personal expression through the extroversion and exuberance of rock'n'roll. In contrast to the modesty and reserve I had been taught, I found the physicality and the devil-may-care attitude Elvis exuded appealing and liberating.

Later, as a teenager, following the invasion of British pop at my school, I took to wearing black from head to toe. I suddenly cringed at Elvis' penchant for ostentatious suits, a cross between a Victorian gentleman's attire and Evil Knevil's wardrobe. I am ashamed to say that I distanced myself from this period of his career, often citing to anyone who would listen that I was strictly a fan of the young Elvis. Thankfully, my misguided efforts at being "cool" in front of my peers did not last.

I now appreciate that they were perfect for him, reminiscent of the Southern showman sensibility and self-consciously shunning the bohemian chic of the hippy era. You can take the boy out of the deep South, but you can't take the deep South out of the boy. Of course, I also now find his '70s performances thrilling to watch.

As a young fan, his tragic end was a mystery to me as I had to yet learn of the vicissitudes of a rock'n'roller's life. Unaware of his addiction to prescription drugs, I was under the impression that being found dead in the bathroom was due to some sort of fall after slipping on the tiles. It was only much later that I understood the difficulties of his off-stage life. As I became more immersed in his music, I came to care about him in a way that you might care about a member of your own family. And in a funny way, it felt like I had grown up with him.

Having been brought up in a culture where family closeness is mandatory - and in our case, magnified by migration - we developed a tendency to be overly involved in one another's personal affairs. It was in this context that I was by turn, appalled and saddened to learn about his decline into drug dependency and weight problems. I couldn't fathom why a good-looking, slim Elvis of the '50s could become so unrecognisable 20 years later. And I thought I knew the reason: Elvis lacked genuine support in his life.

I realised that while the shy teenager had become a confident, unbridled performer, he had remained a teenager in his indulgences. With unlimited money and unfettered freedom he developed bad eating habits, albeit prepared by a personal cook on 24-hour duty, and found willing medicos to feed his drug addiction. I felt that he was let down by his so-called friends and family who should have done more, instead of growing rich on his payroll. I was puzzled by their lack of initiative about his diet, why hadn't they persuaded him to lose weight? Or convinced him to stop the drugs? This was when I was naive about addictions. Even more naively, I thought I was in a position to judge his friends and family so harshly. While his music was uncomplicated, his life was not so.

As I have grown older, his personal story and struggles have resonated more deeply. My favourite description of Elvis, one that sidesteps his iconic status, is provided by Elvis' aunt in Last Train to Memphis, the definitive biography on Elvis, by Peter Guralnick. During a drive around the streets of Memphis with the author, she casually mentions a fond memory of Elvis, sitting at a soda fountain, alone, shoulders hunched over his Coke, a shy teenager who spoke softly, waiting for his cousin to finish work. I would give a lot to go back in time to spend five minutes on the stool next to him.

It was painful to watch one of his last live performances, sitting at a piano, struggling to breathe and hold a note that would normally have been easy for him, sweat gathering around his puffy eyes, clearly uncomfortable. He manages to get through the song, but his brave wave of the hand at the end of the performance betrays a sense of loss. For a moment I thought I saw a flicker in his bewildered eyes, wondering what had happened to that shy teenager sitting at the soda fountain. I wondered too.

Elvis will always be associated with that awkward period of my life, a Korean kid in the middle of suburban Perth who was trying to fit in and who was glad she found a connection with a dead guy on TV who will always be in the building.