i went to europe's biggest elvis festival – which, for some reason, takes place in porthcawl, south wales
and it turned out to be so much more than fake sideburns, mad outfits and bad impersonators
Why on earth would Porthcawl, a relatively unknown, small seaside town in South Wales, host the biggest Elvis festival in the world? As I waded through crowds of sideburns, quiffs and jumpsuits on Saturday, I just could not get this question out of my head.
For those of you who, unlike me, did not grow up in South Wales, Porthcawl is a small seaside town in the county of Bridgend and is home to around 16,000 people. It’s pretty small, but is known for its sandy beaches, surf spots, swanky golf course and Trecco Bay, one of the biggest caravan parks in Europe. There’s a Grand Pavilion on the seafront, and a frightening fun fair around the bay called Coney Beach too, which is meant to be modelled on Coney Island, New York. When I’m home in Wales, it’s the place I go for my sea fix, dog walks and chips.
Elvis festival aside, the town is relatively quiet. But back in the 1940s, 50s and 60s, Porthcawl, along with Barry Island, was the place to be in the last week of July and the first week of August. This two week period was known as Miners’ Fortnight, and was the time when the mines and other industries closed down and families would flock to the seaside to enjoy a relatively affordable summer holiday together. According to my Pappy, and various local valley history Facebook pages, the beaches and holiday parks would be absolutely rammed with people – all making the most of the hard-earned time off from colliery life.
Fast forward to today, and colliery life is no more. And while Porthcawl is very much still a holiday destination in the summer, it no longer tends to draw in unbelievable crowds that it used to. That is, until the last weekend of September, when, for the last 19 years, as many as 40,000 people make the pilgrimage to celebrate The King each year.
Back in 2004, this festival was just a one-off idea from local man, Peter Phillips, to try to save the Grand Pavilion from being closed down by the council. He pitched it as an awards show for Elvis tribute artists, because he’d always liked Elvis tribute artists and reckoned there were some pretty good ones out there. They liked the idea, ran with it and it’s since become an annual three-day festival from Friday until Sunday, with several Elvis-related events that take place all over the town including talent shows for Best Gospel Elvis, Best Vegas Elvis and Best 68 Special Elvis. The Welsh government has apparently calculated that it now brings in £6m to the local economy.
But every year since this festival started, I’ve somehow missed it. I’ve either been away or unaware that it was on. But by happy coincidence this year, I was already back in South Wales for my grandparents’ diamond wedding anniversary celebrations when my childhood hairdresser (yes, I’ve driven back to South Wales from London to get my highlights done for the last eight years) told me it was on, and that since I’d actually just gotten married by Elvis myself, I absolutely had to go.
So I called Jonny, called my grandparents and we went – not really knowing what to expect other than a very busy Porthcawl.
In an interview with BBC Wales this year, Peter Phillips described the festival as having become ‘an institution in the valleys’. He said, ‘It's actually a Welsh party, I think it only works to the extent it does because it's in Wales.’ And that is exactly what we found.
But given that Elvis never even performed in the UK, it’s pretty weird that South Wales should be so fanatical about him. But it really is, and so many of us really are. I was brought up on Elvis by my grandparents (specifically by my Pappy who before heading to Porthcawl this weekend, I would’ve previously described as Elvis’ biggest ever fan) and his music was the soundtrack to my childhood, and still is to nearly all big family nights we have together. Return To Sender is my Pappy’s go-to karaoke song, as you’ll see below. Our family’s love for Elvis has had such a profound impact on me, that getting married by him in Vegas felt like a massive deal for all of us.
And it’s not just my family, either. Last year,
wrote this incredible essay that dives into her grandfather’s obsession with Elvis, and also into the intense love for him that lives in the South Wales valleys. She says,“Though Tom is the pride of the Valleys, people cling to Elvis in a different way. Everyone knows who Tom Jones is – if not literally through so-and-so’s mother’s cousin, then fundamentally by virtue of him being a classic boy-next-door with a coal miner for a father and a full-throated baritone in the tradition of Welsh male voice choirs. Elvis, on the other hand, remains an enigma.”
- Emma Garland from her essay, ‘Memphis, South Wales’.
And that obsession was apparent on the weekend. The threatening-to-rain-as-per air was filled with a chorus of Elvis songs playing, Elvis impersonators singing and strong Welsh valley accents having the time of their lives. There were Hawaiian Elvises. There were rhinestone Elvises. There were fatsuit Elvises. I saw an Elvis riding a bike on the pavement, an Elvis riding a motorbike on the road and an Elvis riding a horse on the beach. There were Elvises in black leather having coffee. There were Elvises in white jumpsuits eating ice cream. There were Elvises in sunglasses and sideburns downing pints at 11am. And for every person dressed as Elvis, there were 10 dressed in 1950s outfits or Hawaiian shirts.
Everywhere you went, people were laughing, singing and marvelling. It was all just so silly and mad, you couldn’t help but get caught up in the ridiculousness of it all. Just like Peter Phillips had said, it actually was a Welsh party. And if there’s one thing the Welsh do best, it’s embrace the joy of something (or in this case, someone) so much larger than life, in the most down-to-earth way possible.
We’d left by 3pm and as I’ve heard from people who stayed later, the festival inevitably got madder, everyone got drunker and Porthcawl became one massive Elvis-themed night out. Had we not had a diamond anniversary dinner party to go to (and throw), we might’ve braved it – though I’m not sure my English husband would’ve come back in one piece. Maybe next year we’ll brave the whole thing – white jumpsuits and all.
PS. If you ever needed to see the most accurate depiction of the South Wales valleys, I will always maintain that this video is it.