Uncle Vester made sure I took my time at the gravestones of the king of rock 'n' roll and his family. Actually, Elvis' uncle was the closest I got to visiting with rock's royalty.
It was a few months after Elvis died, or however long it took them to move the body from the cemetery to Graceland, where a visit to the grave is the cornerstone of tourism to that Mecca. I was in Memphis to cover a golf tournament -- Clarksville's Mason Rudolph made the cut for the last time in his professional career at that Danny Thomas Classic. I liked Mason a lot, and as newspaper sports editor by that point, I was following him around the old Colonial course.
It was the same weekend where I met Seve Ballesteros, then an unknown tour "rabbit" who was sharing the Holiday Inn room next to mine with three other "rabbits."
Seve was a helluva guy and we had some nice conversations. I was sorry when he died in 2011. Brain cancer, I believe.
Anyway, that's not the story today. I also met Gary Player, who walked with me to the beer stand, and Lee Trevino, who joked around with the press on the practice greens. I think he wanted me to take a shot, but I deferred. I only can putt well when an alligator's mouth or a windmill is involved.
In the morning -- Mason had a late tee time on Saturday -- I went to Elvis Presley Boulevard, to pay my tributes to The King.
Graceland was not a big Walt Disney-esque production then. Just a big house on a grassy hill. The stone walls were covered with graffiti, but there were not tons of people trying to get in.
I parked my old Falcon on Lonely Street and walked right up to the guard gate. Vester Presley, Elvis' uncle, was -- historically -- the main guard.
It was a quiet morning, so after he collected the $2 entry fee (I did "expense" it when I got back to Clarksville) -- he took me up the hill and to the graves. He told me all about his nephew and pointed to the house, which not yet had become open to tourists, to describe what had happened inside.
He was sad as he stood by the graves of Elvis and his folks, but he was glad to be sharing this time with me. He looked down the hill to see a few folks gathered down at the foot of the driveway and said he needed to get back. If I remember correctly (this was a long, long time ago), I walked with him. I had a limited time to get back to Germantown and Mason's time at the first tee.
I thanked Uncle Vester, who really was a nice guy, and took a left on Lonely Street, where my car was parked right near the gate and the stone wall. I've been back a few times since, and, of course, as they capitalized on Elvis' death, it became a fortress and they charged a king's ransom to get in.
Anyway, as you likely know, this is Dead Elvis Week in Memphis, where the folks who have turned a guy who has been dead for 45 years, found clutching a commode after heart failure on the john, into that city's sort of Mickey Mouse.
I include both Vester's image and Elvis' here (I think you can tell the difference.) I chose a later image of Elvis in is early 1970s kung fu getup or whatever it was, because that's the Elvis I saw July 2, 1973 at Municipal Auditorium in Nashville. I think my brother, Eric, and a friend at the time, an asshole named "Wizard" joined me. No, it wasn't Jailhouse Rock Elvis, but it was The King, and I was glad for his performance and all of its judo-chopping., 2001: A Space Odyssey theatrics.
I'm not going to go on a long verbal binge here, but I thought it worth noting that Elvis remains important to, mainly because he got me ready for John, Paul, George and Ringo, who helped shape my life. Elvis' music inspired me to buy my first recordings -- I got most of his early singles when a friend's father changed out the singles in his bar jukebox in Grand Rapids, Michigan -- for a nickel apiece. Oh, I bought other stuff, too, anything the old man was ditching.
But, of course, Elvis was the treasure. My first LP, bought for $2 at the 1959 equivalent of a big box store out by the beltway in Grand Rapids, was "Blue Hawaii." By Elvis movie soundtrack standards, it's a fine album. But those soundtrack standards were pretty low.
I bought all of them until early 1964, when the band from Liverpool, changed my perception of rock 'n' roll and changed my life.
While Elvis introduced me to rock music, The Beatles captured my heart in different way, an almost religious fervor that still burns in me today. (Sorry, Padre).
This afternoon, when I take my hourlong trek on my stationary bicycle, I already have plans to play The Rooftop Concert, because it lifts my heart and makes me smile.
But, of course, the backbeat of my life did at least get initiated by Elvis' original drummer, D.J. Fontana, who I regarded highly in his later life. The backbeat, of course, was extended and amplified by Ringo Starr, primarily, but also by Charlie Watts. Ginger Baker. Keith Moon. Bonham.....I'm getting off-topic here.
John, Paul, George and Ringo were my guides, remain so, through life.
But Elvis always has been there. Whether it was when I was talking with my late, great friend, Scotty Moore, who had been Elvis' guitarist and first manager, or with D.J.
It's come up a lot lately when people talk about the movie that I haven't seen. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.
Maybe I'll leave my Elvis knowledge to the books by Peter Guralnick and the long, drawling and smiling recollections by Scotty Moore.
I remember when Elvis died, and I ripped the bulletin off the Associated Press teletype machine in The Leaf-Chronicle newsroom in Clarksville ........ Bells rang when some sort of news bulletin happened. I can't remember, but it seems a certain number of bells signaled how important the story was.
I was drawn to the teletype machine by a chorus of nonstop bells. I still have that yellowed piece of paper with the bulletin that Elvis was found dead in his bathroom.
Of course, we put out a special run of the newspaper (back when there were such things) and worked on follow-up stories.
I was a sportswriter, so I didn't do much of that. I cleared my pages out of the way so the news pages could have as much time as possible as they pushed past deadline.
I guess city editor Richard Worden, who is dead these days, and probably reporter Richard McFalls, who is not, and copy desk chief Jim Monday (who I speak with frequently), likely were the ones who put together the special pages.
"Have you heard the news?" I kept asking them. "Elvis is dead. On his toilet."
We all laughed. That's what newsmen do when grim reality strikes them in the gut.
Actually, whether on the toilet or near it, accounts vary, it was as good as anyplace to die, as the cleanup would have been relatively simple.
The guy was only 42. After doing what I could to help the news guys, I had to go cover a football practice. Then I went to a box store and went to their record department. I bought a new copy of Elvis' Golden Records, I believe. Or maybe it was a new copy of Blue Hawaii.
Didn't matter. I just wanted to reconnect with the guy who got me into the rock 'n' roll mindset in the first place.
As I walked out of the store, I met George Smith, the newspaper advertising director. "It's a shame that Elvis died," said George, a nice-enough fellow that to me was an old codger back then. Of course, I'm now probably 15 years older than he was in 1977,
"He was a good boy," said George. "Not like those other ones who died because of drugs."
I didn't say anything, though I was thinking that 42 years old is probably not the age when one dies of natural causes while taking a shit. And I'd been brokenhearted by the drug deaths of Janis, Jim and Jimi.
I mean, I liked Elvis a lot. And that night I spoke with a former colleague over in Memphis, Steve Jones, a copy editor at the Commercial Appeal newspaper, I believe, and we listened to Elvis records each played over the long-distance phone lines.
When I got to the 18th hole at Colonial and made my way to the clubhouse, there was a message awaiting me. Richard Worden was sick back in Clarksville and I needed to leave Memphis and get back to Clarksville to take over the Sunday paper.
As Sports editor I was second in line.
So, I hugged Mason and told him I'd call him that night for more quotes when I got back to Clarksville. And I said something to tour sponsor Danny Thomas. For all of his great work with St. Jude, the beneficiary of his tournament, I found him to be a cold asshole.
Of course, he was drunk and I wasn't. That difference sometimes flavors perception.
So, I drove back to Clarksville on the same day that I'd spent the morning at Elvis' grave.
I didn't have much time to worry about it or to be sad. As soon as I walked in the door of the newspaper, everything was in disarray. I needed to get things in order so we could get the Sunday paper out.
After awhile, I called Mason back at his hotel room.
I told him it had been a good day. I'd met Uncle Vester and got to walk 18 holes with Mason Rudolph. Oh, and then there was the beer I shared with Gary Player.
Happy Dead Elvis Day.
(FYI: I have a new book coming in March. Pilgrims, Pickers and Honky-Tonk Heroes: My Personal Time with Music City Friends and Legends in Rock 'n' Roll, R&B, And a Whole Lot of Country now is available for pre-order on Amazon or wherever fine books are sold. It is published by Backbeat Books)
