Hound Dog

by Richard Blandford

  Chapter 24

  It’s a stupid idea of course. I’m risking being spotted, shopped to the pigs and then a guaranteed spell in the nick, but I just have to see it. If you asked me why, I’d tell you it’s so I can laugh at them making a fool of themselves. But that’s not the real reason. The real reason is I have to see if they’re any good. I need to know just how much they’ve been carrying me over the past few years. ‘Dave,’ I say, ‘I want to go in.’

  ‘Thought you might,’ he says. ‘But I think it would be advisable if you went incognito.’

  ‘True. How would I do that?’

  ‘Well, it just so happens… I’ve brought a disguise.’

  He lowers the divider and asks one of the goons to hand him a sports bag. Inside are sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, a coat that goes all the way down to the ground, and a long, thick scarf. It’s July.

  ‘I’m not sure about this, Dave.’

  ‘Look, we can’t risk your two friends recognising you before we’ve had a chance to talk to them can we? To be honest with you, if you don’t wear those, I’m not going to let you out of the car.’

  I sigh. ‘I hate people who wear fucking hats indoors. What’s the fucking point of wearing a hat if you’re inside? To keep the rain off? If I wear this hat in there, I’ll look a right cunt.’

  ‘Elvis, it’ll be fun. You’ll look like Doctor Who. The good one, I mean, not the crap one who played cricket.’

  ‘What about these glasses? You can’t wear sunglasses indoors! If there’s one thing I hate more than people still wearing hats when they’re inside, it’s people wearing fucking sunglasses when they’re not even—’

  ‘Elvis, no offence or nothing, but shut up.’ I’m blabbering because I’m nervous. What if it turns out they’re much, much better than me? I don’t think I could bear it if they turned out to be even half decent.

  I put on the ridiculous outfit, wrapping the scarf right round my face, while me and Dave get out of the car, leaving the two goons to wait for us. The limo’s taking up half the pub car park. A lot of motorbikes are outside for some reason. As I walk in, I see the pair of them standing at the bar, talking to the punters in their civvies. They’ve only been away from me for a few weeks, and they’re already forgetting my rules. Just seeing them do that makes me seethe with anger all of a sudden. I’ll give them something to remember all right, I think to myself, imagining the beatings that I could have Dave and the goons give them. But just as suddenly as it arrives, the anger passes. Whereas not so long ago it would have lasted for days, now it slips back into the bog of anxiousness from which it sprung. It’s not enough to be angry any more, I realise. I’ve finally got to start paying attention. Still, even though I’m here to learn, I desperately wish that they’ll fail.

  Another person I’ve got to stay clear of is the landlord, last heard on my answering machine, cancelling my services for this evening. I’ve met him before without my gear on, so he knows what I look like. So immediately I hide myself well away in a corner while Dave goes to the bar. I size up the room through my dark glasses while I wait. This place seems to have changed a bit since last time I was here, three or four years ago. As I remember, it was quite a community place, families, old folk and the like. Now, I can’t help but notice, the pub’s rather packed full of bikers, real proper ones with hair and tattoos. OK, they’re not the Hell’s Angels, but they’re not exactly a bunch of accountants out on a day trip either. They’re big men, some of them definitely going for that marauding Viking look. Their birds look like they’d be pretty tasty in a fight as well. I wonder how Gaylord and the Fatman will go down with them. I didn’t do so well with trolls, so maybe they’ll have a mess on their hands with Vikings. Perhaps I’ll get lucky and they’ll toast the pair of them on a spit.

  Dave comes back with two pints of Guinness.

  ‘Dave, I have a bit of a problem,’ I say, or at least try to, inhaling my scarf as I speak.

  ‘What’s that? Couldn’t quite hear you.’

  ‘Dave, I can’t drink my Guinness. My scarf’s in the way.’

  ‘Oh right. Hang on…’ He skips to the bar again, and comes back proudly waving a straw. ‘There. Problem solved!’

  ‘Dave, I’ll look a right tit.’

  ‘You look a tit anyway. Come on, slurp it up.’ I resign myself to my ludicrous lot and thread the straw underneath the scarf.

  It looks like they’re getting ready to start. Gaylord disappears behind the bar with his costume bag, leaving the Fatman to get up on stage and set up a wooden stand, on top of which he places a big folder thick with paper. What could they be planning to do? I ask myself. I can see Soundcheck Stu behind the mixing desk. It looks like they’ve bought themselves some pretty good gear, which probably cost them a lot more than my last set did, now abandoned of course in that godforsaken social club in Elk. Just goes to show how much the pair of them were shitting me when they said they couldn’t spare any cash. I feel the anger rise for a second time, but again it’s swallowed up by my growing sense of unease. And also, a thought, inconceivable just a couple of weeks ago, that maybe they were right not to give me the money. But the moment has arrived. The lights go dim, so dim in fact, I can’t see a damn thing from behind my sunglasses, except for a single light from Fatty’s stand. A sound of a beating heart emerges out of the speakers.

  Fat Elvis speaks into the microphone. ‘Elvis, man, legend, enigma,’ he intones. ‘Who was he? Where did he come from? What made him the King of Rock ’n’ Roll, the artist of the century, indeed, the greatest musical performer of all time? All these questions and more will be answered as we present to you… The Elvis Presley Experience.’ Fatty is obviously reading from a script, and his voice has the dead tone of someone unaccustomed to public speaking. And also unaccustomed to reading. The heartbeat gets louder and louder, to the point that I think my eardrums are about to burst, before it cuts suddenly to the sound of a baby crying. A black and white photo of a shack appears on a screen at the back of the stage. Oh my god, they’ve got slides. ‘Elvis Aaron Presley was born on 8 January, 1935,’ continues the Fatlad, ‘in a two-bedroom shotgun shack in East Tupelo, Mississippi, to parents Vernon and Gladys. Sadly, his twin brother Jesse Garon was stillborn. The Presleys were poor, and often struggled to make ends meet. Elvis loved music from an early age, and at the age of ten made his performing debut when he sang the song “Old Shep” at a talent contest at the Mississippi-Alabama Fair and Dairy Show in downtown Tupelo. Shortly after this he got his first guitar…’ And so on, and so on. Each fact is illustrated with a relevant slide, usually of a building. Now, biker gangs aren’t exactly renowned for their attendance of public lectures, and it’s not long before what he’s saying is drowned out by, well, them just laughing at him. ‘Get on with it!’ one of them shouts. ‘Sing some bloody songs!’ shouts another. Somebody starts a chorus of ‘Why are we waiting?’ Then the laughter turns into a strange, menacing hooting. Fatty just carries on regardless. Balls of steel, or brains of shit, I can’t decide. Me, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Surely they’ll never recover from this?

  From the slides, I can see that Elvis has arrived at Sun Studios, and is ready to make a record. At last Gaylord appears from behind the bar, dressed as a young Elvis, wearing a suit straight off the cover of the first album, along with a pair of white shoes, and a little wig to cover his bald spot. He’s not exactly the embodiment of raw sex that the young Elvis was meant to be, but he’s presentable. He begins to wind his way through the punters towards the stage. But the bikers are not letting him through. They’ve decided it would be much funnier to keep him from getting on. I can see him getting more and more agitated as one after another the bikers block his way. Pretty soon he’s squealing at them to ‘stop messing about!’ because they’re ‘spoiling it for everybody!’ By now, the whole room is laughing, and he’s on the opposite side to where he’s meant to be, attempting more and more convoluted ways to get to the stage, all the while being pushed from biker
to biker in a human version of pinball. Eventually, a Viking elder, who’s sitting down and appears to have some authority over the rest of the horde, signals with a gesture that he should be let on stage. As Gayboy clambers up, Soundcheck Stu starts up the backing tape for ‘That‘s All Right‘. There’s a big cheer. ‘About fucking time!’ one of them shouts, and they all laugh again.

  Gayboy is centre stage like a rabbit in the headlights, visibly shaking and not in a sexy Elvis way. For a moment I think he might wet himself. He doesn’t, though. Instead he launches into a performance that is, and there’s no way round it, not that bad at all. He can sing, and he can move, and it’s certainly historically accurate. When he finishes, he gets a round of applause and quite a few cheers from the mead drinkers that sound sincere enough. It’s obvious that the pair of them are not beaten yet.

  Then, to my delight, the Fatty starts up with the slides again. A groan goes round the room as a photo of Elvis signing his first record contract appears. That is, until one burly gentleman decides to take matters into his own hands, rips the slide carousel off the projector, and throws it at the stage, the slides scattering like bombs from a B-52. Gay and Fat Elvis gawp as their whole plan for the evening falls apart. They huddle together, and I suppose they must decide they have no choice but to carry on without the slides and lecture, because that’s what they do, with Gaylord doing a fine set of Sun-era material: ‘Mystery Train’, ‘Baby, Let’s Play House‘, ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’. It’s good. Much too good for comfort.

  Next he sings the real hits Elvis had in the fifties once he signed to RCA: ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, fucking ‘Hound Dog‘, ‘Blue Suede Shoes‘, ‘All Shook Up’, ‘Jailhouse Rock’ and all the others, and the bikers go crazy for it. I mean, they really do. They’re whooping and a-hollering and some are even up dancing with their old ladies. And they’re right to, I guess. It’s actually very good. Not as brilliant as Buddy, mind, and I wouldn’t say it’s anywhere near as good as me at my best, back in the old days in the prison rec yard. But the fact is, those bikers are loving it more than anybody’s loved anything I’ve done for many years. I suppose I have to face it, I’m not that good any more. Gayboy and Fatty have been carrying me for a long time. I feel sick as I stare at the truth head-on.

  Gaylord keeps up the momentum and works his chronological way through the late fifties and up to the mid-sixties with songs like ‘Return to Sender’ and ‘Big Hunk o’ Love’, as well as some more obscure ones I’d never think of doing. He’s on for over an hour, until after he sings ‘Crying in the Chapel’, when he meekly asks the bikers, ‘Can we have the interval now, please?’

  The bikers are merciful, and let them have it.

  Dave brings me another pint of Guinness and another straw. ‘What do you think?’ I ask him.

  ‘He’s very good.’ says Dave. ‘I expect he learned it all from you.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ I say, but half those songs I’ve never done. It’s never occurred to me to do stuff like ‘Little Sister’, or ‘(Marie’s the Name) His Latest Flame’, and now that I’m brain damaged, I can admit they’re pretty good songs. I always did the greatest hits and the greatest shit, and never kept an eye out for the good stuff. If I’m ever going to do anything decent in the future then I’ll need to steal some of their ideas. But who am I kidding? I don’t have a future. One more gig, then a life of imprisonment as Eddie’s sex slave. Meanwhile, in the here and now, I need a piss. I’m getting pretty funny looks from some of the bikers, maybe because I’m wrapped up like it’s December, or maybe because I’m drinking Guinness through a straw, so Dave insists on watching my back at the urinal. I’m still not sure about him though, I make sure he doesn’t see it. Still, I’m glad he’s there.

  The second half of the show is about to begin. It’s Gayboy who’s now sat at the side in his civvies. ‘Guitar Man’, the main theme from the ’68 Comeback Special starts up, and Fat Elvis jumps up from underneath the mixing desk where he’s obviously been cowering, away from any potential fun and games with the bikers, and bounds on stage dressed in a Vegas jumpsuit. I can see now that they’ve divided up Elvis‘s life between them according to waistline, with his later, fatter years recreated through the use of an authentic fatty. The Fatman takes up the story from where Gaylord left off, with the comeback special and on into the Vegas years. He does a good job too, not as well as the Gayster, but then the material isn’t as good. Once you get past ‘Suspicious Minds’, it’s pretty much just turgid crap like ‘My Way’ and ‘The Wonder of You’, save for the odd OK song. Still, people love that shit, bikers included, and Fats gives it all he can, sweating in his jumpsuit almost as much as I am under this fucking raincoat and scarf.

  Finally, Fats sings ‘Way Down’, Elvis’s last hit before he died. The bikers are very happy, whooping in their Viking way and demanding more. No one’s taking the piss now. Fatty and Gaylord have won them over all right. Bastards. While the Fatman punches the air in triumph, the Gayster disappears under the mixing desk, then reappears in his Elvis outfit and joins him on stage. Soundcheck Stu starts off the backing track of ‘A Little Less Conversation’. Gay and Fat Elvis sing the song together head to head, sharing a microphone and looking into each other’s eyes. It all looks very gay.

  The bikers let them leave the stage with a big cheer. While they’re shaking the hands of men who could crush their skulls, Dave leads me outside.

  ‘You stay here,’ he says, as he opens the limo door for me. ‘I’ll go and round them up.’ He takes one of the goons with him. I feel relieved to be taking my coat and scarf off. I’m dripping with sweat.

  ‘Things been OK out here?’ I ask the remaining goon as I settle myself down in the front seat.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘except for the fucking kids touching the car. Had to wind the window down and point a gun at their knees just to get them to fuck off.’

  ‘That’ll learn ’em.’

  Already, I can see Dave and the goon escorting Fatlad and Gayboy to the car. They seem to be getting on famously. Dave must have won them over with his enthusiastic curiosity about all things Elvis. Or else he told them he had teenage hookers in Priscilla wigs waiting in the limo. As they get closer, I press the button that winds down the window. Gaylord is talking.

  ‘So Elvis never performed outside the US because of Colonel Parker’s status as an illegal immigrant, which he never wanted discovered. This is a shame because Elvis had literally millions of fans the world over, and would have loved to have gone on a world tour… Oh Christ.’

  ‘All right, lads,’ I say. ‘Don‘t worry, I won’t have to put you in a coma if you just do as we say. Get in the back.’ The back door opens and they’re escorted inside. I know what I’m meant to be doing now. I’m meant to be the bad guy. I’m meant to get angry. The thing is, I’m not angry with them. They’ve taught me a valuable lesson about passion and integrity. I want to thank them. Unfortunately Eddie’s script requires that I make them shit themselves. So that’s what I’ll have to do, I guess.

  Chapter 25

  Everything’s quiet in the limo as we drive back to Eddie’s. I let them have it all right. Scared them good. Got them pleading for mercy, begging for forgiveness for all the wrongs they’d done me. I couldn’t believe how vicious Dave got with them. Normally he’s as sweet as anything, but I could swear he was going to rip their legs off some of the time. Anyway, with Dave’s help I managed to convince them that they did me a great wrong by dumping me on the motorway hard shoulder that time, and the only way they could conceivably make it up to me is to return to the fold and play the birthday party of my great friend, Johnny Brooks. I showed them all right. But it doesn’t really mean anything. I should feel satisfied that I got my revenge. But, no, I don’t feel anything like that at all.

  Still, there were some fun and games to be had. I suppose it was quite funny listening to Fatty and Gayboy phoning up their wives and telling them that they’d met a most interesting man at their gig who’d persuaded them t
o go fishing with him for a few days. But even that couldn’t get rid of the feeling that what I was doing was stupid and childish, and worse, just shouldn’t be done for reasons I know would hurt too much to understand. I can’t open that door. Too much lies behind it. But still it calls to me.

  There’s a knock on the divider. Dave lowers it, and one of the goons pokes his head round. ‘They’re asking if they can play a tape,’ he says.

  ‘Would it be a tape of Elvis, by any chance?’ I ask him.

  ‘Um, yeah it is.’

  I sigh. ‘Yeah, go on then.’

  Thursday afternoon and I’ve got the pair of them rehearsing on the lawn. We’ve got backing tracks being pumped out to us from the main house through a pair of enormous speakers that Eddie keeps in reserve for parties. I suppose it’s a good job his nearest neighbour lives about three miles away. Anyway, it’s been going OK, although it took them a while to slip back into their old supporting role of joke Elvises, or Elvi, or whatever the plural is. It’s not all back to my way of doing things, however. In fact we’ve reached some sort of compromise. We do things mostly the way we used to, but drop some of the novelty numbers and replace them with some of the more decent songs. So out goes ‘There’s No Room to Rumba in a Sports Car’, and in comes ‘Mystery Train’. Do away with ‘Do the Clambake’, and instead sing ‘Baby, Let’s Play House’. And so on. Call it my first tentative steps towards some sort of integrity. And besides, there’s no fucking way I’m standing up in front of a room full of gangsters and asking them if anybody wants to dance in a grass skirt to ‘Blue Hawaii’.