Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

  Others took note of Sandy’s exceptional beauty—producer Hal Wallis set up a screen test for her in the middle of work on the film—a very big deal. I was pained at the thought of this pure, graceful creature being subjected to the whims of a studio (that was hard enough on Elvis!) and was relieved when Sandy—though appearing just as beautiful on screen as she did in sunlight and moonlight—showed no interest in a Hollywood career.

  The Paradise shoot went smoothly, and our time on the island included one very moving side trip—to the recently completed memorial built over the sunken USS Arizona. The battleship was a casualty of the attack on Pearl Harbor, and Elvis and the Colonel had been very involved in raising money to get the memorial built, staging a hugely successful benefit concert for the Arizona in March of 1961, just before Elvis began work on Blue Hawaii. It had meant a great deal to Elvis to be able to give something back to his country that way, and for all the Colonel’s usual attention to the bottom line, this had been a situation where he, too, wanted to be as charitable as possible. Elvis, the Colonel, Vernon, and the guys were given a special tour of the memorial by an admiral, using his private boat. I could see how moved both Elvis and the Colonel were by the powerful tribute to fallen servicemen that their efforts had made possible. I remember standing next to Elvis at a rail that looked over the submerged ship, and we were shocked to see that oil from the engines was still bubbling up to the surface of the water. “Those guys are still down there,” he said very softly.

  We had a few afternoons off during the course of the shoot, and on one of those days a group of the guys—Joe, Marty, Billy, Charlie Hodge, and myself—were with Elvis up in his hotel suite. Red West was with us, too—he had a part in the film as “Rusty,” a character who, in typical Red fashion, picks a fight with Elvis. Elvis could sometimes go long stretches without making any music outside of what was required for his soundtrack work, but in Hawaii, the relaxed pace of life, the warm breezes, and the sweet smell of the island’s flowers must have put him in a more musical mood. The Ilikai had obliged my request for a piano by putting a baby grand in the room, and this day, Elvis sat down at the keyboard and without hesitation began rolling out the chords of a favorite song of his that fit the tropical locale, “Beyond the Reef.”

  When Elvis sang a song like this, one that he’d sung hundreds of times, it was almost as if the music just flowed right out of him. But as soon as the music began to fill the room, it wasn’t just about Elvis anymore. The sound of that piano pulled us all together, and it took only a few bars before Red and Charlie joined in strong on harmony. The rest of us joined in, too, although those of us who knew we might contribute a sour note if we pushed too hard kept things a little on the quiet side.

  We started singing through song after song—“Red Sails in the Sunset,” “I’ll Remember You,” “Cool, Cool Water,”—with Elvis sometimes picking the tune and sometimes following the suggestions of one of the guys. Elvis could be just as happy singing as a backup voice, adding Irish tenor harmony when Red or Charlie sang a strong lead on a tune. Just as our football games were a mix of serious sports and good times, the singing was a mix of some great music and a lot of kidding around. There was teasing and joking before and after almost every song, and a moment of sweet group harmony would lead to unrestrained laughter when somebody made a funny or risqué alteration to some lyrics—Elvis himself was fond of changing “Red Sails in the Sunset” to “Pat Sails in the Sunset”—Pat was Red West’s wife.

  Yes it was Elvis’s piano, and his hotel suite, and his movie that had brought us all there. But what you could feel in that room was the easy camaraderie of a great group of guys, enjoying the simple pleasure of singing together before a Hawaiian sunset.

  After the last day of filming, the people of the Polynesian Cultural Center threw a farewell party for us at the Queen’s hut—a sign of great respect. It was a private affair, with students performing special dances just for us. Sandy performed a hula that had my heart in my throat—she was so pure and so radiant. All the wonderful performances started having an emotional impact on me that night. In some ways we were simply in the middle of business as usual—putting together another Elvis film. But his connection to Hawaii and the Hawaiian people was deeply felt, and the openhearted affection, respect, and appreciation they poured back at us was overwhelming.

  I wasn’t the only one who responded to the emotions of the night. I rode back to the hotel sitting next to Elvis, and in the quiet hum of the drive, I turned to look at him. There were tears running down his face. It’s one of the few times I ever saw him moved enough to cry.

  My emotions got worked up all over again as we headed for the flight that would take us back to Los Angeles. Just as I was starting to reconcile myself to the fact that I’d never see Sandy again, she appeared with a special, intricate flower lei for me that she’d made herself—her way of letting me know that our brief time together meant something to her as well. I’ve never been much of a letter writer, but I spent just about the entire flight back to the mainland composing a love letter to Sandy, and I sent it off to her as soon as I got hold of an envelope and a stamp.

  Just a week after we got back from Hawaii, a historic event took place at the Perugia house: Elvis met the Beatles. The group’s second film, Help!, had just come out, and they were in L.A. for concerts at the Hollywood Bowl. Despite the way Elvis felt about his career, the Beatles still considered him an idol, and pushed their manager, Brian Epstein, to work with Colonel Parker to set up a meeting. Elvis consented, and invited them to come by the Perugia house.

  After all sorts of elaborate security measures were put in place, the Beatles dropped by the house around ten o’clock one August night. Careerwise, the Beatles were at the top of their game—putting out number-one records, garnering enthusiastic critical praise for their films, and creating pandemonium at all their sold-out concert appearances. But they seemed truly delighted to be meeting Elvis and were willing to defer to him to set the tone for the evening. Elvis wanted the evening to feel natural.

  Maybe it would be better history if this meeting of great talents had turned into some phenomenal jam session or an outrageous, headline-making party, but in fact it had the quiet, easygoing feel of most get-togethers at the house. Well—as quiet and easygoing as is possible when you’ve got Elvis, the Beatles, Colonel Parker, Brian Epstein, and some Colonel-provided roulette wheels together in the same room.

  It’s been reported that Elvis cold-shouldered the Beatles that night, or that he wasn’t happy to have them in his house. But what I saw was Elvis welcoming them into his home the way he would anyone else—as Elvis. The guy was never a phony, and I never saw him change the way he acted to try to make any particular impression on the people he met. He wasn’t going to suddenly become the sparkling host or the bubbly jokester for the sake of making a better impression. If he wanted to cold-shoulder you, you never got the invitation to come over. But if you were invited, you got Elvis.

  Things were a little awkward at first as introductions were made, and there was a lull when everyone first sat down together. But Elvis broke the ice by saying to the Beatles, “If you’re just going to sit around and stare at me, I’m going to bed.” Elvis and the guys began to laugh, and once the Beatles realized they were dealing with someone who shared their skewed sense of humor, everybody got along great. At some point, Elvis pulled out his Fender bass and began to play along with records, impressing Paul McCartney (one of Elvis’s favorite tunes at the time was Charlie Rich’s “Mohair Sam,” and he could really nail the bass line). Elvis also clearly got a kick out of some of the freewheeling banter of John Lennon, and they talked about their shared love of the films of Peter Sellers. I think for a good deal of the evening George was out back smoking something or other and kicking philosophical ideas around with Larry Geller. I hooked up with Ringo at the pool table, and we took on a team of Billy Smith and Mal Evans, the Beatles’ tour manager (we won).

  Throughout the nigh
t I kept finding myself bumping into John Lennon, and in our bits of joking conversation we seemed to connect pretty quickly. From what I’d read and heard of him, I suppose I expected him to have more of an edge. But he was actually a bit on the shy side, extremely polite and good-natured, and of course funny as hell. He came up to me as the Beatles were finally getting ready to head back to the house they were staying at up in Benedict Canyon (a house that Elvis had considered renting for himself).

  “Jerry, I know Elvis can’t get out, but if you want to come over to our place over the next three days, feel free.”

  I thanked John, but I knew I wouldn’t take him up on the offer. I was a Beatles fan, and thought John was a tremendous guy, but I wasn’t quite so independent a spirit as to start hanging out with the Beatles on my own.

  The next day I was up before anyone else at the house and decided to go for a motorcycle ride (after my accident, my Triumph had been beautifully rebuilt, customized, and repainted shades of metallic blue at no charge by the Robertson garage). There had been a multitude of fans trying to make their way past the police to Elvis’s house all night, and as I prepared to speed off, I noticed one straggler who had made it up to Perugia—a beautiful blonde girl. I could appreciate how good-looking this girl was, but the sight of her just reminded me of how much I missed Sandy Kawelo. I was ready to drive on by when the blonde held up a hand to stop me.

  “Can I get a ride down to Sunset?” she asked.

  It seemed a little extreme to say “No, I love a girl in Hawaii,” so I indicated that she could hop on. I didn’t say a word to her as we drove down to Sunset and began heading east.

  Finally, she broke the silence. “You know, the Beatles are in town,” she shouted over the noise of the revving engine.

  I’m not sure what came over me. After all those years of being so secretive about my Elvis connection, all the situations where I could have dropped names or used my Elvis status to impress but didn’t—I found myself wanting to show off a bit.

  “You want to meet them?” I shouted back.

  She laughed in my ear—as though she assumed I was kidding but wasn’t quite sure.

  With perfect movie timing, I turned just before the Beverly Hills Hotel, gunned the bike up Benedict Canyon, and headed to the Beatles’ pad. There was the predictable throng of fans outside the entrance to the hillside home the group was staying in, along with a large detail of policemen and sheriffs. I got my bike up to the gate of the driveway, but it seemed like it was going to be impossible to explain who I was and get past the security guards. I was about to motor away when I realized that someone was calling out my name. It was Mal Evans, my pool-table opponent.

  “Jerry—come on in.”

  I was in.

  As I found a place to park the Triumph, Mal must have let John know that I’d come by, because when the girl and I got up to the door of the house, John was there to welcome us in. And again, I was struck by what a warm and friendly guy he was—not at all the edgy cutup he played in films and press conferences. He wasn’t quite groomed into Fab form yet—he had a towel wrapped turban-style around his just-washed hair. I don’t remember how exactly I introduced my passenger, but I know that she quickly joined in with the informal party of Beatles people that drifted through a few of the bigger rooms, and I didn’t see her again. I, on the other hand, was escorted out to a patio overlooking the spectacular canyon, to hang out with the Beatles themselves. George and Paul were sitting around a table on the patio, with their heads wrapped in towels, too. John sat down and indicated that I should take the fourth chair. John, Paul, George, and Jerry.

  I was sitting facing the canyon, and as the four of us talked, I saw a rather remarkable sight. A couple of girls had scaled their way up the almost perpendicular canyon wall to reach the fence around the edge of the patio. Just as they got there, ready to squeal, a couple of obviously well-practiced security guys scooped them up and carted them away. John, Paul, and George didn’t even notice. I guess crazy fans being whisked away had become quite routine for them. I’d seen a lot of crazy things happen around Elvis, but no one had been scaling canyon walls to get to him lately.

  We talked some more, and then John leaned in toward me.

  “Jerry, would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, John.”

  “I couldn’t say this to Elvis last night, but you see these sideburns? I almost got kicked out of high school trying to be like Elvis. Tell Elvis that if it hadn’t been for him, I would have been nothing.”

  “I’ll tell him, John.”

  Before I left that day John made a point of getting a group picture signed for me. He and Paul and George signed it at the table, then John handed it to me. “Ringo’s on the phone with his wife—go get him to sign it.”

  “I couldn’t do that, John—I don’t want to interrupt him.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Lennon with mock exasperation, “Come on, then.”

  He led me through to the bedroom where Ringo was on the phone. Maybe our pool table triumph made the difference, but Ringo gave me a big smile and didn’t seem to mind being interrupted to sign a picture. John took the picture back and added, “To Jerry Schilling, from the Beatles.” It’s still one of my most prized possessions.

  Back at Perugia, when the time was right and I was alone with Elvis, I passed along John’s message. He smiled warmly and nodded. I could see he didn’t want to talk much about it, but I could see the glimmer of pride in his eyes. He would have preferred to be competition rather than inspiration as far as the Beatles were concerned, but I know that the esteem they held him in meant a great deal to him.

  I went back to the Beatles’ place the next day, this time with Billy Smith and Marty Lacker instead of a blonde. This was the afternoon of the first night of a two-night stand at the Hollywood Bowl, and there was a bit more of a charged buzz inside. Paul was on a couch, strumming some chords on a guitar, and I went over to listen. John stood next to me. What Paul was playing reminded me of something I’d heard back in my time sipping coffee at the Bitter Lemon, and I decided to go out on a limb and talk music with Mr. McCartney.

  “You know, that sounds a lot like a Joan Baez song.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” said Paul.

  “You want to meet her?” asked John.

  Before I could answer, he sprinted away, and moments later came back towing Joan Baez by the arm. And a couple of hours later I was with her and John in one of five separate limos bringing the group to the Bowl (a car each for John, Paul, George, Ringo, and Brian Epstein). At some point, John had asked Billy and Marty and me if we wanted to come to the show. Billy and Marty declined and headed back to the Perugia house, but I was swept up in the moment and had stuck alongside John.

  It was like a presidential motorcade pulling through town, with a police escort moving traffic out of the Beatles path. I was impressed, but the ride gave me some time to rethink my decision to attend the concert. Elvis was happy to know the Beatles thought highly of him, but he might not be so happy to know that one of his guys had wandered off to a Beatles concert rather than stick by him. And while Marty hadn’t managed to stir up any ill will around my Catalina excursion, this was the kind of odd test of loyalty that really might get Elvis upset. By the time we pulled through the artist’s entrance under the Bowl, I felt like I’d made a real mistake, and couldn’t get out of there fast enough. As the Beatles were ushered off to their dressing rooms, I commandeered somebody’s car and driver and got myself back to Perugia Way.

  Elvis never said anything about it—and I have the strange distinction of being possibly the only Beatles fan ever to run away from a Beatles concert.

  As excited as I was to have the Beatles come to town, I was even more excited when I got word that I’d get the chance to see my favorite part of Hawaii again: Sandy was coming to Los Angeles for a visit. Through an intensive series of letters and then phone calls, I’d discovered that she wanted to see some more of me, too, and I’d p
ut in motion plans to get her to L.A. Of course, her parents weren’t about to send their young daughter to the mainland simply to be wooed by a friend of Elvis. The deal was that she would stay with the family of Jack Rigas, the choreographer who had worked closely with the dancers of the Polynesian Cultural Center both in designing the long-running show at PCC and in putting together the production numbers for Paradise, Hawaiian Style. Jack had lived in Hawaii and had become close with Sandy’s family, and it was acceptable that she would come over to visit Hollywood under his watch.

  I was with Elvis, finishing up the film on the Paramount lot, but Sandy and I spent as much time as we could together, and went on a few chaste dates. One of those dates took us to the home of the Osmond family—Jack had also begun working with the Osmonds, who happened to live just down the street from him. There we spent the night learning some of the sign language the family used to communicate with a couple of older, nonperforming siblings who were deaf.

  After a couple of weeks, it was time for Sandy to head back to her family. But as we went through another round of very emotional goodbyes, the nature of our relationship was inescapably clear: We were in love.

  By mid-October, after another cross-country drive with Elvis at the wheel, I was back at Graceland. Elvis had done three movies in seven months and had certainly earned himself a break. There were football games, nights at the Memphian, and hours spent with one of Elvis’s latest favorite toys—low-slung, high-powered go-karts. I still considered myself lucky to be one of the few people in the world who went “home” to Graceland. But I also found myself growing increasingly preoccupied and unable to concentrate on much of anything.

  One day, I was sitting by myself out behind the house, just staring out at the grounds. Suddenly there was a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Elvis. He waited a moment, and then spoke.