Elvis Ignited

by Kealing, Bob;

  In Tampa, Parker booked the Griffith tour into the Hesterly Armory where he had staged his first concert in 1941 and started forging his own transition from carny to Humane Society huckster to music promoter. In another show of good will and shrewd public relations, he arranged for the July 31 concert to benefit the local Sertoma club, a volunteer group dedicated to helping those with hearing, speech, and language disorders. In return, Sertoma Club volunteers agreed to take tickets and guard Presley’s new Cadillac. “His rise to fame has been phenomenal,” noted a Tampa newspaper writer, referring not to Presley but to the young comedian Andy Griffith. “This will be an all hillbilly show.”

  Parker, now laser-focused on raising Presley’s profile and proving to the young singer’s family that he could make their son a national star, wanted some new photographs taken to capture his dynamic stage performance. A journeyman photographer who spent years recording Tampa history in still images, William “Red” Robertson of the well-known Robertson and Fresh photography studio, was tapped by Parker for the job. Robertson was an impressive and talented photojournalist with movie star good looks, known to post himself on top of his car if necessary to get just the right shot of the Gasparilla parade or everyday scenes in Ybor City.

  Homer Hesterly Armory, Tampa. Photo by author.

  The armory was the perfect place to capture Presley in his element, starting to stomp down the gas pedal on his road to fame. The small stage was positioned at one side of the large, open hall, surrounded on all sides by fans. Spectators sat in bleachers above and behind the stage, giving the entire set-up inside the cavernous building such an intimate look that Presley appeared in danger of being swallowed by his enthusiastic spectators, many of whom were still only marginally aware of who the charismatic young singer was.

  Scotty and Bill wore dark shirts with white ties. In contrast, Presley sported a bright coat and dark shirt with opened collar. Drawn by the magnetism of what they saw and heard, the young people in Robertson’s photographs are crowding the stage in front, leaning over the balcony behind. Presley stands on the balls of his feet, strumming an acoustic guitar with abandon, eyes closed, mouth agape like a burning, soul-shouting preacher speaking in tongues to the assembled masses. And in large part, that’s exactly what Presley was doing; leading them into the rock and roll era with the driving, pulsating beat that had been missing from their young lives.

  All of them witnessed the performance that produced Red Robertson’s archetypical photograph of young Presley; known as the “tonsil photo,” this cropped image went on to appear on countless historic concert advertisements (see chapter 8) and his first record album, a chart-topper the following year. It is the defining image of the birth of live rock and roll and an iconic performer, snapped in a central Florida hot box in the dead of summer. That image and concert provided the perfect exclamation point to Presley’s final Florida performance of 1955; the last time he would come to the Sunshine State as an added attraction or a warm-up act.

  William “Red” Robertson, the photographer who took the so-called Elvis “tonsil” photo used as cover image for his first album and in myriad advertisements. Courtesy of William “Red” Robertson, Special & Digital Collections, Tampa Library, University of South Florida.

  It took years for Robertson to be properly credited as the man who took the world-famous photo. Also largely lost to history is the fact that six years later, Robertson shot and killed a business associate during an argument over money in Tampa. Had his savvy young defense attorney not convinced the jury that Robertson fired at his larger adversary in self-defense, the man now known as the photographer who snapped Presley’s world-famous tonsil photo could have faced execution in Florida’s electric chair.

  Within Presley’s small inner circle, his bandmates Moore and Black were already getting in Parker’s way. The savvy Moore, especially, looked upon himself as a big brother figure to Presley and encouraged him to stand up to Tom Parker, who was becoming an increasingly polarizing figure. Moore was blunt. He thought Presley was being brainwashed, and when Parker told Presley to do something he didn’t like, Moore seized on the opportunity to encourage the young star to be his own man.

  “Elvis you have to stand up and speak your mind,” Moore told him. “There’s nothing wrong with you arguing with him about something.” Parker would have none of that kind of talk and, along with locking down total control of Presley, set his sights on marginalizing Moore, who was still intent on keeping the promise he’d made to Gladys Presley to watch out for her son.

  As Presley moved on to other southern tour stops, just weeks later a trio of Floridians converged one afternoon to create a song that would be the solid rocket booster in Presley’s launch to the top of the national charts. Not only was the song written and initially recorded on the same day in Florida, but one of the writers was tenacious enough to get Presley’s increasingly divided attention and have him stop and listen to it.

  7

  A New Place to Dwell

  Mae Axton never forgot that facetious comment she made to Presley about writing his first million-seller. The song that fulfilled her promise was not Axton’s idea, but she was crucial to writing it and, more important, having access to Presley so he could hear it. The writing and recording happened at warp speed in a small house situated in a west Jacksonville suburb.

  Back then Mae Axton’s home at 3239 Dellwood Avenue resembled many others one might pass a thousand times without a longer look: single story, small, and built in 1947 from cinder block to accommodate yet another post–World War Two baby boom family. But what happened within its walls in 1955, weeks after the completion of Presley’s second Florida tour, brought him the breakout hit he’d been waiting for.

  Just where are timeless songs supposed to be written? In this case, one took shape in the living room of working people hit by a bolt of inspiration that came and went in minutes, leaving them a legacy for the ages. Such is the fickle nature of creativity and success; some enjoy it over and over, and for others it comes just once.

  That summer Tommy Durden was a young steel guitar player in a working band: Smiling Jack Herring and his Swingbillies. For years Smiling Jack employed some of north Florida’s best musicians, rolling down the two-lane blacktop back roads night after night, town to town, playing small clubs, dance halls, and radio stations with a catchy mix of blues, swing, and primitive rock. Sometimes an opening act for stars like the Louvin Brothers and Little Jimmie Dickins, journeyman musician Tommy Durden dreamed of hitting it big both as a songwriter and as a touring musician.

  At a stop in Gainesville, home of the University of Florida, Durden started his day as he often did, reading the morning Miami Herald. A small item caught his eye; an unidentified, well-dressed man had committed suicide. He left no identification or explanation, just a single vexing clue to his agony, a one-line note that read: “I walk a lonely street.”

  Durden couldn’t get the poor man’s proclamation out of his head. “That just struck me as lonely,” he remembered, “extremely lonely.” It also struck Durden as a good idea for a blues song, but as hard as he tried, the lyrics and melody just weren’t coming. He put aside the project temporarily, intending to take it to Mae Axton, whom Durden hoped might be able to help develop the idea.

  Later that day the Swingbillies were booked for a radio show appearance in Jacksonville. After the gig Durden showed up with the newspaper at Axton’s house on Dellwood Avenue. She told him she’d been so busy writing a magazine story that she’d not yet seen the day’s paper.

  “There is something in this that distresses me,” Durden showed her. Clearly moved by the anonymous man’s suicide and his notion of walking a lonely street, Durden told Axton, “It worries me to death.”

  “Think of the heartbreak he must have left behind him,” Axton reflected. “So there ought to be a Heartbreak Hotel at the end of that lonely street.”

  From the visceral reaction of two people empathetic to a suicide victim’s plight
sprang the seeds of a rock and roll classic. According to the firsthand recollections of the two people who wrote it, this is how Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel” was created, in the front room of Mae Axton’s home in the Jacksonville suburbs.

  Mae Axton’s house on Dellwood Avenue in Jacksonville, where she and Tommy Durden wrote “Heartbreak Hotel” and Glenn Reeves recorded the song demo. Courtesy of Mike Robinson.

  “She sat down at the piano and I walked around and around,” Durden remembered. “And within a half an hour we had it.” In another version of the story, Durden claimed the song was written in exactly twenty-two minutes. Whatever the timing, the alchemy of Tommy Durden and Mae Axton one Saturday in the summer of 1955 was responsible for “Heartbreak Hotel.” Then they went a step further.

  Durden and Axton were so enthused by their new composition that they summoned local radio disc jockey and rockabilly performer Glenn Reeves to Axton’s house to record a demo. Fresh from performing several shows with Presley on the Griffith tour, Reeves considered the stark, bluesy song silly and declined a songwriting credit.

  “I’ll be back in about thirty minutes,” Reeves told the songwriting team. “But not to help on a crummy idea like that.”

  Undeterred, Durden took a crack at recording the initial version of the song, but he and Axton were disappointed with the result. Having worked so closely with Presley in the months previously, she wanted a more edgy, Presley-like demo to present to him. Feeling that Durden’s version didn’t have the dramatic and halting delivery she was looking for, when Reeves returned Axton pressed him to sing the song into the tape recorder in a style that Presley could relate to. As a favor to Axton, who had helped him land his job at WPDQ, Reeves set aside his disdain for the new tune and took a crack at recording it. While Reeves takes his imitation to the point of mocking Presley, the version Reeves sang that day reflected his own considerable talent and gave Presley a roadmap for how to sing the bluesy number.

  Of Reeves’s version Tommy Durden said, “Elvis was even breathing in the same places that Glenn did on the dub.” Thanks to YouTube we can listen to Reeves’s initial recording of “Heartbreak Hotel” laying the foundation for Presley to make music history. Reeves declined partial writing credit on the song, not wanting his name attached to it. He was not alone in his dislike for the stark and unusual number. Even the man revered for his golden ear, Sam Phillips, called the song “a morbid mess.”

  Many promising songs never see the light of day because they don’t end up in the hands of people who can do something with them. That was where Axton’s access to Presley proved so crucial. She called Bob Neal in Memphis and sent him a copy of the song, insisting that this would be the single to bring Presley his nationwide breakout. When she didn’t get an immediate response, Axton shopped “Heartbreak Hotel” to the well-known country act Doyle and Teddy Wilburn. Given the Wilburn’s style, heavy on steel guitar and high harmonies, they told Axton her song wasn’t for them.

  Later that year Axton saw Neal and Presley in person at a disc jockey convention in Nashville. When Neal told her he hadn’t had time to play “Heartbreak Hotel” for the young singer, the strong-willed Axton invited them to her room, where she played them Reeves’s version. Presley was hooked: “Hot darn Mae,” he said. “Play it again.”

  After Axton obliged, Presley started singing along and that was that. He decided to record the song, likely as a favor to the woman who had been such a big help to him during both his early Florida tours. In return Axton extended to Presley one-third writing credit, alongside herself and Durden. In short order Presley would have the means to record it and the big-time record label needed to get it distributed nationwide.

  The seeds of Presley’s criticism of Sun Records’ limited distribution in his July interview with Axton were no doubt planted by Tom Parker. In Ocala, radio manager Jim Kirk witnessed Parker’s zealous promotion of Presley to the point of obsession. In Daytona Beach and elsewhere, Parker made a point of lavishing gifts on Presley in front of his parents, to assure them he cared about their son as more than a musical commodity.

  Once Elvis himself was sold on Parker’s ability to take his career to the next level, it was only a matter of time before he was able to convince his parents to sign off on Parker taking over as his manager. By then Presley with his V8-powered ambition was convinced Parker knew the path to big-time fame and fortune.

  To seal the deal, Parker’s biographer Alana Nash reported, Parker had called in his business partner and country headliner Hank Snow to assure Gladys Presley that he wasn’t just some con man. With one contract in his right pocket and another in his left, Parker negotiated a deal with twenty-year-old Elvis Presley and his parents. One contract bound the performer to Hank Snow Enterprises–Jamboree Attractions, under whose auspices Presley had toured Florida.

  The other contract, the one the Presleys signed, was strictly between them and Parker as “sole and exclusive Advisor, Personal Representative and Manager in any and all fields of public and private entertainment.” Just like that, Snow’s business partner cut him out of a deal with the kid who had upstaged him all through Florida; a contract that would have brought him millions had Snow been included. Parker even had the nerve to enlist Snow to make it happen.

  Scotty and Bill would fare no better. Presley ended the original verbal financial arrangement he had with his bandmates, dating back to their days as the Blue Moon Boys, when the band split with Presley 50 percent on touring fees and recording revenues. Black supplemented his income by selling Presley photos for a quarter. “I’ll have about four or five million of ’em, but if anybody’d like to have just one, why I’ll have plenty of ’em,” Black promised in a 1955 radio interview. “Before the show, durin’ the intermission, after the show, and fact is I might sell ’em out there all night long.” Parker put a stop to that, taking control of concessions, often hocking Presley photos himself.

  “At the time I couldn’t put my finger on it,” Scotty Moore wrote. “But the more Parker talked, the less I trusted him.” Under the new deal they accepted, Scotty and Bill would receive $200 a week if the band was working and $100 if not. They were now salaried side men, no more, no less, but once and for all no longer bandmates with Presley. They watched from the sidelines as Parker’s wheeling and dealing made everyone more money but them.

  For Parker it was all about cash flow and control; the less standing Scotty and Bill had with Presley, the less influence they could exert on the star who was now, for all intents and purposes, their boss. Putting Scotty and Bill on salary left plenty of room for Parker’s contractual part of the cut, 25 percent. Scotty and Bill’s enthusiasm for a hot new drummer they hired, D. J. Fontana, was tempered with the knowledge that his pay would come from their earnings.

  Presley’s formalized alliance with Parker spelled the beginning of the end for the two men who had his backbeat during every landmark Sun recording; the men who had shown him the way during his very first club gig in Memphis when Presley was still a truck driver. It was the perfect good-cop bad-cop arrangement: Presley was the star and focal point, who left all the business and dirty work to Parker, who was hell bent on making sure he was the one and only person who had Elvis’s ear and loyalty.

  “As bad as things were going we didn’t dwell on our troubles,” recalled Scotty Moore. “We had shows to do and regardless of what was happening with Elvis and his management we were too busy to be distracted for long by Parker’s not-so-subtle machinations.”

  Fontana, a good ol’ boy from the Louisiana bayou, did not share the Memphis vibe of Elvis, Scotty, and Bill, but he had an endearing way about him that helped him fit right in. Now the boys had a big drumbeat to embolden their live sound and another man to take the wheel between one-nighters. The road was leading toward a tumultuous year ahead, and despite being marginalized, Scotty and Bill were still on board.

  Parker kept the wheels turning on his master plan by starting a rumor that Presley’s Sun Records contrac
t was up for sale. Sun’s impresario Sam Phillips, the man who was in the process of assembling the Million Dollar Quartet of Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis, was not of a mind to part ways with Presley.

  He threw out what he thought was an outrageous sum for which Presley’s recording services could be had: $35,000. “I thought hey, I’ll make ’em an offer that I know they will refuse, and then I’ll tell ’em they’d better not spread this poison any more,” Phillips said. “I absolutely did not think Tom Parker could raise the $35,000 and that would have been fine. But he raised the money, and damn, I couldn’t back out then.” Parker’s persistence had edged out Hank Snow and Presley’s Memphis manager Bob Neal; he had driven a wedge between Presley and his bandmates and had courted the star’s parents; now his guile and business savvy spelled the end for Sam Phillips.

  After much consternation and back and forth among RCA executives, the company put up the asking price, at that time the largest amount ever paid for a performer, which included a $5,000 bonus for Presley. With that Parker had done what he’d promised and brought what Presley coveted: a major record deal, which set the stage for his explosion onto the national charts and into popular culture.

  On November 21, 1955, eleven days after Mae Axton presented “Heartbreak Hotel” to Presley in Nashville, a summit of RCA executives, Sam Phillips, Presley, and his parents gathered at Sun Studios in Memphis to finalize the new recording deal. “I feel Elvis is one of the most talented youngsters today,” Phillips told a Memphis newspaper. “And by releasing his contract to RCA-Victor, we will give him the opportunity of entering the largest organization of its kind in the world, so his talents can be given the fullest opportunity.”