Seven Hours On Board The Elvis Express
Each year 400 Elvis fans make a pilgrimage from Sydney to Parkes for the Parkes Elvis Festival. It's REALLY something.
Each January for the past 23 years, the small town of Parkes in central NSW has held the Parkes Elvis Festival in celebration and commemoration of Elvis Presley. It’s a five-day festival, which this year attracted a record crowd of around 22,000; a main event of which includes a seven-hour train ride from Sydney to Parkes with 400 hardcore Elvis fans.
Last week we sent Junkee’s staff writer Meg Watson and photographer Bonnie Leigh-Dodds to cover it. Mostly because they wouldn’t stop talking about it, but also because it’s pretty interesting.
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8am
As we tentatively step into the grand hall of Sydney’s Central Station, not knowing quite what to expect, the faint and unusually deep throbs of ‘Winter Wonderland’ reverberate off the walls. A young man in a white jumpsuit is singing from a stage a foot or so above the ground. He’s lunging around in front of a DJ in a plaid golf cap and shirt with Presley’s face on it, whose MacBook is plastered in Elvis stickers. After casting knowing glances around the room, the young Elvis reaches down to flirtatiously graze the hands of a dozen older women.
Some of the women are dressed in poodle skirts and chunky neon headbands like the Pink Ladies of Grease; others are in Mexican Mariachi hats. None seem to be preoccupied with the fact the song’s not exactly an Elvis classic, nor is it traditionally performed in January in the height of Australian summer. All look as though they’re attaining a state of pure bliss I’ve never truly known.
There are about 400 people milling around Platform One waiting for the train to leave. Some are chatting to bewildered reporters who drew the short straw at the morning news briefing, others are swing dancing, and everyone — or, more accurately, the few who didn’t know each other already — is making friends and taking photos. Three 70-something men in neon jumpsuits who don’t look unlike geography teachers are flashing big smiles for anyone who asks. A group of regulars in pea-green Elvis print are sharing details of the tailor who made their matching outfits. Four middle-aged guys in matching Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts are milling around with their wives, getting ready to pose.
“If you want to get noticed, you’ll need your maracas,” one of the women says in dead seriousness, fishing a collection of novelty children’s instruments out of her backpack.
A fair few cops are lined around the building’s entrance. Some are shuffling along to the music. Others are less into the groove. There’s been a series of recent assaults by ice addicts from the adjacent park.
“I get the Elvis costumes,” one officer tells me with a furrowed brow. “But why the Mexican stuff?”
I tell her this year’s festival theme is Elvis’ 1963 film Fun In Acapulco.
“Ohhh, that makes total sense,” she says.
“… Does it?” I reply.
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9am
The three Elvii — I’m told very matter-of-factly that this is the official plural — who performed over the past hour have stepped down from the stage with their feathered showgirls and joined the masses after countless hugs and photos with women who know them by name. As everyone’s getting ready to leave I spot a single black comb laying unclaimed on the ground. In this moment it seems like both the saddest and most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.
Many fans are checking in identical Elvis-themed luggage and old men in rhinestone jumpsuits are determinedly wheeling grey suitcases towards the train door — the kind which have probably been slotted into countless overhead compartments on important business trips over the years.
“Is this the train going to Parkes?” one fan asks someone who works at the station. “Sorry, this one’s heading to Acapulco!” he replies joyously. We all have a laugh, Bonnie and I significantly more wide-eyed than others.
On board, the train seems normal enough. We’re next to a welcoming Parkes council worker in a workplace-issued dress covered in flamingos, a member of the festival’s small young PR team, and a lovably dorky mother and daughter who’ve been going to the festival for the past five years.
Staff from the ABC and Sydney Morning Herald jump off around Penrith once they’ve got their photo opps and we’re officially the only media on the train. It’s around this time two men stride in and firmly fasten a speaker the size of my torso to the baggage rack with cable ties. It’s apparently a regular feature of the trip and will blast segments of Elvis’ greatest hits over the course of our journey. Not full songs. Just segments. On repeat.
“How many hours of Elvis, non-stop, at this volume level, do you think you can take?” Bonnie asks excitedly. It’s around this point a Snapchat is filmed of me looking sincerely defeated.
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10am
The punters are hitting the mid-strength Carlton Dry and aren’t afraid to show it. Trays are coming back from the buffet carriage stacked with four cans, and at one point a professional-looking Elvis in a baby-blue jumpsuit walks the aisles dishing out freebies like a flight attendant.
“Beers? Soft drinks?” he offers, casually. He’s carrying a rainbow cooler bag full of tinnies.
As I settle in for the journey, two women come screaming down the aisle, laughing with fake sideburns stuck to their faces. One has two huge pink balloons shoved under her sheer white knit top like it’s a hen’s night.
“Write that down,” Bonnie says. “10.26am: balloon tits.”
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11am
As the scenery flattens out on either side of the train, I walk around the carriages chatting to anyone I cross paths with. With everyone gathering in doorways, taking photos, and befriending their neighbours, that turns out to be an awful lot of people.
Danny from Sydney’s Eastern suburbs is on the train because it’s his aunty’s birthday, though he assures me he’s also a big Elvis fan. An older woman grins and waves from next to the window as Danny tells me all about his costume; he bought the white jumpsuit from a specialty store for film and theatre and is very proud of it. When I eventually move on, he says “thank you, thank you very much” in Elvis’ iconic Southern drawl. I realise I’m gonna get a lot of that.
At the end of the next car I meet four long-time friends who’ve travelled together from Western Australia for the festival. One of the women, the self-proclaimed devotee of the group, has seen Elvis twice in person — once right before his death in 1977, when she was 22. “HE KISSED HER HAND AND SHE’S NEVER WASHED IT,” her friend screams gleefully.
They’re all sitting next to four similarly aged men who, when they’re not dressed as Elvis, work as mechanics and tractor operators. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” one of the women says while gesturing to the guys. “There’s Elvis, Elvis, Elvis and Liberace!”
Everyone erupts into laughter and between chuckles she yells “WHO NEEDS DRUGS OR ALCOHOL!”. There are tins of beer and bourbon regimentally stacked all over the carriage.
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12pm
People are getting restless with the fact no Elvis tribute artist (ETA, as they’re often referred to) has performed yet, especially the ladies. Each carriage is promised two acts during the journey and the Elvii are all relaxing in their own car towards the centre of the train.
Showgirls in bejewelled bras and underwear are sleeping, sprawled awkwardly over the carpeted seats. One performer — Young Elvis, as we secretly nickname him — has changed out of his white jumpsuit into everyday clothes and is also taking a nap. Another — Friendly Elvis — is bouncing around in a soldier’s outfit with a big smile; he’s happily chatting to us, the staff and the fans. The final Elvis is wearing a leather jumpsuit that’s been zipped down to his waistline. He’s alone, slouching back in his chair while demolishing a burrito. For reasons that aren’t entirely apparent in this moment, he’ll later become known to me exclusively by the name Sex Elvis.
It’s around this time Sex Elvis is approached by an energetic elderly lady in a shirt emblazoned with the words ‘The Elvis Sisters’ — a forthright statement dwarfed only by that of another group carrying giant red novelty ties which read “I’m single!”. She unsubtly lobs her arm over the top of his seat, preventing any possibility of him leaving without her consent, and starts chatting him up. He looks tired.
I return to my carriage, sit down for five minutes, and five people burst through the sliding doors chanting “Elvis conga!“, holding one another by the waist. There are a couple of Elvii. Some ponchos. A woman in a mask. It all happens very quickly.
Six minutes later they come back in the opposite direction with four more people in tow.
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1pm
The lunch rush in the buffet cars has died down and everyone’s happily snacking on their pre-packaged Mexican food. From my seat I hear the woman behind the counter repeatedly tell people they’re “ALL OUT OF WHITE WINE” in a way that’s somehow both polite and forceful. We’re only halfway through the trip.
Giving the staff what is either a brief reprieve from their work or the exact opposite of that, a horde of Elvii presumably juiced up on white wine then storm the counter. They find their way to the other side and stand arm-in-arm with NSW TrainLink employees belting out an oddly powerful rendition of Presley’s 1969 ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ The song’s one of the slowest and most tender in Elvis’ catalogue but here, in front of a stack of Four’N Twenty pies, it seems like a power ballad.
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2pm
The Elvis tribute artists have arrived in our small carriage and I’m mentally calculating if it’ll be possible to avoid any kind of audience interaction. There are at least two paying travellers here; they’ll rightfully get the most attention. The gender split is about even. I’m sitting in the aisle seat. The odds don’t look great.
First up is Friendly Elvis. He jokes around with the mother and daughter in front of me and casually slips in and out of character. Specifically performing as Elvis from his GI Blues era, most of his stuff is upbeat, silly and entirely adorable.
Presumably not knowing there was a sporadic performance of the same song not 30 minutes prior, things then get a little more serious with a rendition of ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ He serenades the younger woman, and after popping himself on the arm of her seat the pair start playfully flirting:
“Are you lonesome tonight / do you miss me tonight?”
“Not anymore!”
“Well, that’s a bit presumptuous!”
“Just kidding. I know you have a wife.”
She knows he has a wife.
This vibe then gets switched up as the Elvii swap over. Sex Elvis has been lurking around the back of the carriage in his re-zipped leather jumpsuit up until this point. He’s been lining up tracks on his iPhone and hasn’t said a word to anyone. We’ve watched. He’s had his head down, his face completely devoid of any emotion other than a tinge of latent rage and/or regret; as though his entire trip has been the result of an elaborate bet lost with friends.
Then he turns it on. As the music starts playing, he swings around and makes unrelenting eye contact — the kind that makes you involuntarily reassess who you are as a person. He’s working the women. He’s fucking the air. Traditionally light and fun songs like ‘Rock A Hula-Baby’ are getting pumped full of hip gyrations which, deliberately or otherwise, are directly at my eye level.
5 and a half hours in #elvistrain A video posted by Bonnie ? (@bonniemaie) on
Then I feel a tickle. He grazes the tips of his fingers along my bare arm and I know exactly what’s happening before it’s begun. Those fingers eventually run down to my hand and he holds it for a moment in front of his chest. He’s singing 30cm away from my face; his eyes intently searching mine, as if looking for a sweet spot that leads directly from a woman’s eyeballs to clitoris. It’s clear he hasn’t hit it and parts ways with an alarmingly tender kiss on the hand.
Sex Elvis does a more intense version of this to the older woman in front of me and I’m legitimately certain she has an orgasm in her seat.
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3pm
As it’s an annual tradition for the Mayor of Parkes, Ken Keith — please take a moment for that beautiful name to sink in — to get on board at Orange and ride the train triumphantly into town, we stop about an hour-and-a-half out from the destination. Keith is wearing a regal blue jumpsuit and cape and seems genuinely excited for the occasion.
With him comes Miss Priscilla (a local woman who won the annual look-a-like contest at last year’s festival) all dressed up in a tight dress with bouffant hair, Andrew Gee (a Nationals MP and Member for Orange in his mid-forties) and Al Gersbach. Al is a local roadworker, perhaps in his mid-sixties, who’s become the local ambassador for the festival after growing his sideburns out and rocking a white Elvis jumpsuit each year for the past decade. I don’t know it now, but I’ll chat more to Al (or Al-vis, as he’s often known) while he’s standing and singing on the bar at the pub nearest my motel at 12am the next day.
In Orange, the local media jump on and take quick clips of the performers singing for the evening news. The train accidentally takes off with them still on board and it’s a whole ordeal to get them off. When we eventually do, Sex Elvis sneaks away and changes into a singlet. When he comes back, Bonnie and I are chatting to Young and Friendly about their work. He cruises by, gives me a casual nod as if he didn’t essentially initiate foreplay an hour ago, and sits alone by the window. We still haven’t exchanged any actual words.
I go for one final walk through the train to get the vibe before arrival and people are ecstatic. One group in particular, the PR person tells me, has been labelled “the naughty carriage” so I head straight over. When the doors slide open, a man jumps up and asks my name. He yells it so the whole group can hear and suddenly dozens of people are cheering “MEG MEG MEG MEG MEG”. A woman in a terrifying Mexican folk mask screams in my face and people grab my hands to high-five. Someone dances me down the aisle.
To test how far we can distance ourselves from reality, Bonnie tells them all it’s my birthday. I get two rounds of song, some hugs and a photo. Everyone remembers my name for the duration of the weekend and, a few days later, a couple of the main instigators sing another drunken late-night ‘Happy Birthday’ on the street after bumping into me. I don’t have the heart to tell them it’s a lie.
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4pm
As the train finally pulls into Parkes, we’re met with a sea of faces lined up along the platform. The train rolls and rolls along the platform and more of them just keep on appearing, all smiling and waving. There are literally thousands. It’s like we’ve returned home from war.
As I soon find out, this is an annual tradition of the festival. The arrival of the Elvis Express is marked as an official event in the program and the whole town turns out for it. People call up the station — located, adorably, on Welcome Street — and check the train’s exact arrival time, then spread the word at the local pubs. Despite the sweltering heat, every person in a 10-kilometre radius spills down, up and over the platform all eager to have a chat, photo or dance with a fellow Elvis fan.
Seven hours in, and I felt pretty happy to see them too.
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Photography by Bonnie Leigh-Dodds.