Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

  Once he was out of intensive care, Vernon was checked into the room next to Elvis. And I think Vernon’s situation may have helped Elvis—it gave Elvis a chance to be a strong, steady caregiver, rather than just a patient. And it made clear to him, and to all of us, just how quickly the things we counted on in life might be taken away.

  Out of the hospital, Elvis’s spirit and energy improved a great deal. In Los Angeles, he got ready for some recording sessions and prepared for his rescheduled Vegas gig. There was one particular night that proved to me his crazy sense of humor was still intact. Through Tom Hulett, I’d become friendly with Richard Cole, who’d begun his career working with the Who and the Yardbirds and had gone on to become the tour manager for Led Zeppelin. Richard was a brash character who also happened to be brilliant at what he did. Elvis had met some of the members of Zeppelin—Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, and John Bonham—before a show at the Los Angeles Forum in 1974. But the group’s bassist, John Paul Jones, had never met Elvis personally and wanted to try to set up a meeting while the group was coming through Southern California on tour.

  Richard got in touch with me and made the request. Richard had been treating me very well—I’d attended a number of Zeppelin shows with him, riding in his limo and sticking around for the champagne and partying afterward. I felt I owed him something, so I said I’d check with Elvis. Elvis said it would be all right for them to come by the Monovale house.

  I was there on the night of the planned meeting, and was a little surprised to see that Elvis was in pajamas and robe—he and Sheila Ryan were getting ready to go upstairs. I reminded him that Richard and John were coming by, and that all he had to do was stick around to say say hello. “If they’re waiting on me they’re backing up,” he grumbled. He didn’t look happy about the prospect of visitors, but he stayed downstairs.

  Richard and John showed up a little later, and things did not get off to a good start. The band had played a show in San Diego that night, and Richard, who was actually more eccentric than any of the band members, was pumped up with post-show energy. From the moment he stepped into the house, he was loud and profane—packing an amazing number of f-words into everything he said.

  “You know,” Elvis said to him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d watch your language in front of my lady.”

  Things got very quiet. Everybody sat down. And it stayed quiet. Then Elvis decided to break the ice, and asked if he could see the fancy watch that Richard was wearing. Richard handed the watch over, and when Elvis put it on, Richard quickly said that if Elvis wanted the watch, he could keep it.

  “Does it have any special meaning to you?” Elvis asked.

  “Well, a bit. Atlantic Records gave them to the group,” said Richard.

  “OK, thanks,” said Elvis.

  I don’t know if Richard expected to lose his watch that easily, but about twenty minutes later Elvis went upstairs and came back down with another watch, a real piece of jewelry, covered in diamonds—a wristwatch you could trade in for a car. Maybe a couple of cars. “Here,” he said to Richard. “Take this one.” A very stunned Richard accepted.

  From then on the night was nothing but fun, with a lot of laughs and a lot of quoting Monty Python routines (Elvis was the first Monty Python fanatic I ever knew). Elvis and Richard obviously shared a sense of humor. And I could tell Elvis also liked the much quieter John. At one point, Elvis excused himself, went back upstairs, and returned with an equally impressive watch for the bassist.

  Before the evening was over, Elvis said he wanted to make another exchange. He was out of watches, but had another bit of fashion in mind. So he stood, eyed John, and said, “Let’s swap pants,” while simultaneously, in expert Python fashion, letting his pajama bottoms drop beneath his robe. The loud Richard was shocked into silence, while quiet Sheila and John burst out laughing. Nobody accepted Elvis’s offer, but it was a great note to end the night on.

  At the end of a previous Hilton engagement, a group of us had gone with Elvis to see a Barbra Streisand concert at one of the other hotels. We went backstage after the show, and I was standing with Elvis when Barbra asked him what he thought of what he’d seen. He told her that it was a great show, and a great performance, but that she did too much with her hands—her gestures sometimes covered her face and distracted from her voice. Maybe it was meant as some helpful performer-to-performer advice, but I assumed that was the last time we’d ever see Barbra Streisand.

  It wasn’t. On the next-to-last night of the March ’75 Hilton run, during the midnight show, the maître d’ informed us that Barbra was in the audience and wanted to come backstage after the show to see Elvis. She was with her boyfriend, Jon Peters, who had previously been her hairstylist, and the two indicated that they had something serious to discuss with Elvis. People were coming and going from Elvis’s dressing room, so for some privacy, Elvis, Joe, Barbra, Jon, and I all moved into the room’s walk-in closet and sat on the floor there. Barbra began to pitch Elvis.

  Streisand had become a film star with roles in movies such as Funny Girl, Hello Dolly!, and What’s Up, Doc? and she’d become a true Hollywood power after the success of The Way We Were in 1973. Now she was looking to executive-produce her own film, in which she’d also star, and she had a project in mind: She wanted to redo the dramatic Hollywood tale A Star Is Born. The film had been originally made in 1937, starring Janet Gaynor, and again in 1954, starring Judy Garland. The film’s female lead character climbs the slippery ladder of Hollywood success while her husband, a former star, sees his career head in the other direction and proceeds to drink himself into oblivion. In the original, the husband’s character, Norman Maine, had been played by Frederic March, and in the Garland version it was played by James Mason. For Streisand’s version, the story would be set in the world of rock and roll rather than in Hollywood. And when Streisand stepped into the lead role, she wanted Elvis as her Norman Maine.

  When we all first sat and Barbra started talking, Elvis was simply attentive and courteous, willing to hear out whatever she had to say. But as he got ahold of what she was offering him, he got very excited. So many years earlier, when Elvis was making all those films for producer Hal Wallis at Paramount, he screened a movie at the Memphian one night that he fell in love with—Becket starring Richard Burton. That film was also produced by Hal Wallis, in between Wallis’s work on the Elvis films Fun in Acapulco and Roustabout. Elvis realized that the profits of all his “little,” “unimportant” films were what allowed Wallis and the studio to make an artistic picture like the Burton film. So the next time Elvis was on a set, he approached the producer and asked, “Mr. Wallis, when do I get my Becket?” He never got an answer.

  But here was his shot. A top star and proven film talent understood what Elvis was capable of as an actor, and she was offering him the role of a lifetime. He and Streisand talked about the old films, how things would change in the new film, other ideas for casting, ideas for particular scenes. Elvis was thrilled with the character of Norman—for once he would not have to play the attractive nice guy. He’d be playing a textured tragic character. Food was ordered and brought into the closet so that the talk could continue uninterrupted. And I almost choked with surprise on whatever I was eating when I heard Elvis make the comparison he had dismissed just months before: “You know,” he said, “this could be like From Here to Eternity for me.”

  The only catch was Streisand’s choice of producer. She wanted Peters, a completely unproven talent, to handle the role. She assured Elvis that Peters had the vision and skills for the job, and said she now had enough weight with the studios to insist on his participation. Elvis had never been much of a meeting guy, but sitting in that closet, he had one of the most focused, constructive meetings of his life. By the time we were saying good-bye to Streisand and Peters, Elvis’s eyes were just about blazing with the excitement of this new opportunity.

  Once they’d gone, Elvis, Joe, and I hung out in the dressing room, where Sonny and Red were still on s
ecurity duty. Elvis let them know what he’d been offered and how good it sounded to him. I was truly thrilled for him. But I’d just seen another dream—our karate film—fall apart largely because the Colonel had been allowed to undermine the project at a time when Elvis wasn’t well enough to fight for it. In all their years together, the Colonel never directly told Elvis he couldn’t do something, and whenever Elvis really stood up to the Colonel, Elvis won. But the Colonel could win a slow war, making a simple demand look so complicated that eventually Elvis didn’t see any upside in the fight. It had happened with the karate film. It had happened with the overseas touring. I didn’t want it to happen this time. If Elvis thought this Streisand film was worth fighting for, I wanted him to be ready for the fight.

  “You know, Elvis, the problem with this is that this guy Peters hasn’t produced anything before.”

  “Well that’s not a problem. Barbra and I are gonna do what we’re gonna do anyway.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m afraid of,” I heard myself saying. That line changed the mood of the night.

  Elvis got very angry. He was angry at me, but I think he was also angry because he, too, knew what kind of battle was coming. In that little closet, anything seemed possible. But once Elvis left the dressing room and brought this opportunity out into the light of day, he was going to run into the same old resistance from the Colonel. Elvis knew it better than I did. My comments just made that reality set in a little faster.

  And when I think back to that night, it’s the one time I wish I could take back something I said to Elvis and do it over. I wanted to support him—in my heart I did support him. This was a fight I wanted him to win. But it didn’t happen.

  The Colonel was predictably outraged that deal-making had been done behind his back, in a dressing-room closet of all places. He was not happy about people getting to Elvis without going through him. As a manager, this was an understandable concern that came not only from self-interest, but also from his responsibility to protect his client. But this was a case of a top talent approaching another top talent. They didn’t need to be protected from each other—they wanted to do something powerful and creative together. The Colonel’s old-school sensibility didn’t give much weight to the creative, though. Aside from Elvis, talent was talent, a deal was a deal, and there was a right way for business to be done.

  Over the following weeks, the Colonel played some of the toughest hardball of his career. He insisted that Elvis could not participate in the film unless he was billed over Streisand, and demanded double what was being offered as Elvis’s fee, plus half of all the film’s back-end profits and all kinds of creative approval. Streisand’s people tried to negotiate in good faith, but eventually had no choice but to give up.

  When the film came out the following year, it won an Oscar for Best Original Song and picked up three other Oscar nominations. Kris Kristofferson won a Best Actor Golden Globe for his portrayal of Norman Maine.

  This was the last time Elvis let himself fill with hope about a chance to stretch artistically. When that hope curdled, Elvis knew: He was never going to get his Becket. And after this incident, one of the saddest truths of Elvis’s career was crystal clear to me: The pills he took were only Band-Aids. What was sucking the life out of Elvis Presley was creative disappointment.

  14

  GOOD LUCK EMERALD

  “Who the hell’s limousine is that?”

  “I think it’s probably Eric’s, E.”

  “Who’s Eric?”

  “Eric Clapton. You said he could come by to say hello, remember?”

  “Yeah. That’s OK. Just don’t need the damn limousine parked in front of the theater.”

  Elvis didn’t normally have anything against limousines, but at the moment he was at the wheel of a pickup truck, wearing boots and cowboy hat, and feeling a little more down home than usual. After a spring and summer of heavy touring, Elvis was back in Memphis for a while, and Myrna and I were back there with him. We’d gone for a ride down across the Mississippi state line so that Elvis could show Myrna some of the old Circle G Ranch land, and we headed back up to the General Cinema to screen a movie at midnight ( Jaws, Godfather II, and especially Monty Python and the Holy Grail were Elvis favorites at the time).

  About a week before, I was at Graceland when I received another call from Richard Cole. This time he was on tour with Clapton, who’d become a huge American concert draw with his number-one hit “I Shot the Sheriff.” Eric had a big show scheduled at the Liberty Bowl in Memphis, and was going to come to town a day early if he could meet Elvis. There had been less and less entertaining at the house over the last few years, and I knew Elvis would not want to have somebody visit him there. We’d been going to the movies a lot, though, and I thought maybe Eric could say hello to Elvis at the theater. But the theater was also a place where Elvis wanted some privacy, and he didn’t like the look of that great big limo in front of the place. I worried for a moment that the sight of the car might darken Elvis’s mood and sour the meeting with the guitarist. But when I introduced the two inside, Clapton was the perfect British gentleman, and it was clear from the start how much respect he had for Elvis. Elvis became a relaxed and charming host, and he and Clapton fell right into a friendly conversation. The more they talked, the more Clapton looked like he was having a life’s dream come true. And it struck me again how much Elvis meant, not just to his audience, but to fellow musicians. For some time, it hadn’t been unusual for Elvis’s records and concerts to be treated harshly by the press. His own ambitions and desires for his career were being left unfulfilled. But here was Clapton—a superstar still on the rise—wanting nothing more than a chance to talk with Elvis.

  The two got along well enough that Elvis asked Eric and his girlfriend Patti (George Harrison’s ex-wife) to stay and watch that night’s movie. The couple gladly accepted the invitation. As everybody took their seats, Elvis asked me to come with him to the bathroom.

  “You know, Jerry,” he said to me when we were alone, “that Eric is all right.”

  The next morning, I heard from Richard Cole again. Eric wanted Myrna and me to be his guests at the concert, and would come by in his limo to pick us up before the show. Most times, if you introduced someone to Elvis, they sort of forgot about whoever it was that made the connection for them, which was to be expected. But Eric was gracious and thoughtful enough to want to return the favor I’d done for him.

  He came by early in the afternoon, and we had a chance to get to know him a little better on the ride to the stadium. Once we got to the Liberty Bowl’s backstage area, Myrna and I received all our passes and credentials, and when Eric went off to get ready for the show, Myrna and I decided to go out into the stadium itself just to soak up the atmosphere. Elvis played some big arenas, but they were always indoor shows. I was fascinated by the different feel of a daylight, outdoor concert setup, and took some mental notes about how the whole event was put together. When it seemed like it was about time for the show to start, we started to head backstage again.

  And ran into trouble. A huge Memphis policeman manning the backstage access said we couldn’t come through. I showed him our VIP passes, but that didn’t seem to make a difference. He just told us again he wouldn’t let us through. I told him we’d come to the show in Eric Clapton’s limousine, but he still wouldn’t let us through. Then I realized what the problem was. It was obvious that Myrna and I were a couple. A white man and a black woman. That was the problem.

  For a moment, I was completely at a loss. Myrna and I had been together in cities all over the country and hadn’t had any trouble. We’d been in Memphis many times before and hadn’t had any trouble. But this time, back in my own hometown, I could feel it: This big policeman hated us on sight. I could tell by the way he looked at us. I’d grown up seeing that look, but I’d never been on the receiving end of that look before.

  “Hey, Jerry, how’s it going?” Behind us was a Memphis police captain I’d gotten friendly with wh
en he helped set up security details for Elvis. The captain understood exactly what was going on. Our laminates may not have meant anything to the big policeman in front of us, but he wasn’t going to hassle us if his superior officer knew me well enough to say hello. He stepped aside, and we walked through.

  The show was great, and we heard some of the finest guitar playing we’d ever witnessed. We didn’t let the isolated ugly encounter at the gate ruin our day. But it did strike me as a little ironic that because I had an in with the police captain, I got to listen to Eric Clapton sing “I Shot the Sheriff.”

  I never got the opportunity to co-executive-produce the karate film to completion, but by the middle of 1975 another career opportunity had presented itself to me. The Sweet Inspirations were spending most of their time working with Elvis, but they also had a career of their own. Before joining Elvis, they were one of the most in-demand studio vocal groups in the business, working with everyone from Wilson Pickett to Van Morrison, and in 1968 they’d had a Top 20 single of their own titled “Sweet Inspiration.” Now, they performed under their own billing as an opening act at Elvis shows, and sometimes made their own appearances. They also recorded and performed with Aretha Franklin, and were just finishing their own David Porter–produced album for the Stax label. They had tremendous past credits, and a very promising future. What they didn’t have was a manager.

  I’d never managed, but being so close to Elvis and the Colonel for so many years was really a kind of master class in the do’s and don’ts of the manager/artist relationship. I’d been spending nights listening to Elvis pour his heart out about his creative frustrations, and during the day I was watching the Colonel take care of the business end of things. From those two experiences I’d already developed a management philosophy: Business concerns could not trump creativity, and creativity couldn’t completely disregard business concerns. The two had to overlap at least a little bit to move an artist’s career forward, but if the management side and the creative side couldn’t communicate, a career could be destroyed.