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One night with the King again

Close your eyes and you can hear Elvis across the grassy field.

Baby close your eyes and listen to the music,

Drifting through a summer breeze.

But don't close your eyes. You'll want to see every shake of the hips, every curl of the lips, every twitch.

It's a groovy night and I can show you how to use it.

Scream, shout, even beg for one of his scarves.

Just don't call him Elvis. He won't answer.

Keith Henderson will be the first to tell you he's not Elvis, and that he's not an Elvis impersonator -- he's a tribute artist. He doesn't want you to just hear or see Elvis. He wants you to experience the King.

Come along with me and put your mind at ease.

Little did he know back in 1978 that a suggestion from his girlfriend (now his wife) would change his life. She talked him into doing his Elvis tribute for their high school talent show in Chapel Hill.

A little less conversation, a little more action, please.

He barely made it out of the gym afterward. Women, young and old, tackled him, just wanting to touch him, just wanting to pay their own tribute to The King.

All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me.

Promoters called, and called, and called.

A little more bite and a little less bar.

He had always loved to sing, even dreaming of singing a duet with Elvis.

A little less fight and a little more spark.

His father offered up the money saved for higher education. His grandmother sewed outfits, and his mother put the shiny metal studs on them, pounds and pounds of studs for every cape and jumpsuit.

Close your mouth and open up your heart and, baby, satisfy me.

Goodbye college. Hello career.

Satisfy me, baby.

Henderson, who was one of the first Elvis tribute artists in the world, is one of those people lucky enough to turn their passion into a paying job. His tribute show has traveled across the country, playing for crowds ranging in size from six to 65,000, from backyards to packed stadiums.

Come on, baby, I'm tired of talking,

Grab your coat, and let's start walking.

Fans follow him far and wide, wearing Keith Henderson jackets, earrings and even dog tags, escaping reality, even for a few hours by stepping into his illusion.

Come on, come on,

Come on, come on,

Come on, come on.

On this summer night, Henderson takes the stage at the edge of a field at Hillsborough's annual Hog Days celebration. Grandmothers and granddaughters cluster around the stage.

Don't procrastinate, don't articulate,

Girl, it's getting late, gettin' upset waitin' around.

As the sun sets, Henderson exits his dressing room trailer. The tight band of horns, guitars and keyboards pushes the beat. Lights glint off of all of those shiny studs that Mom has sewn on his jumpsuit and cape.

A little less conversation, a little more action, please.

All this aggravation ain't satisfactioning me.

Cameras flash. Legs shake and hips twitch. Henderson punches the air with karate punches to the pulsing beat.

A little more bite and a little less bark,

A little less fight and a little more spark.

Women scream as Henderson wraps a scarf around one lucky fan's neck, and then another. A young girl rushes back into the crowd clutching a prized scarf, delivering it to her grandmother in a wheelchair.

Close your mouth and open up your heart and, baby, satisfy me

For these fans, for a few hours, The King lives again, and the grassy field becomes Las Vegas. Keith Henderson's illusion is complete.

Satisfy me, baby.

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