Elvis is in the Building

by Larrywomack.com

In 1961, I had just returned from a year on the road with my jazz trio, and I had an experience that I’ve never shared with anyone until now.  The agreement was not to tell this story for twenty years after the death of Elvis Presley or suffer the consequences of his Memphis Mafia.  I’ve chosen now for the telling because most of Elvis’ close friends, including those in the Mafia, have already told their secrets; many of those who swore me to secrecy are dead; and I needed a boost to my career as a writer.

Nashville had already become known as Music City USA when I returned home from the road that spring.  The “Nashville Sound” was in much demand by pop singers, rock ’n’ roll singers, and blues singers.  Big names came to Nashville to get that special studio sound not available anyplace else in the world.

Though I played a few sessions here and there, I wasn’t really into the type of music that was being recorded in Nashville and wasn’t closely connected to the tight little group responsible for the “Nashville Sound.”

I was a jazz drummer, vibraphonist, and singer; not a country guitar picker or piano player.  Even in the New York area, where we’d been working for the past year, few people were buying jazz records or coming to clubs.  Most of our audiences were other jazz players.  Mainstream America had forgotten the big bands and jazz geniuses like Duke Ellington, Gene Krupa, Count Basie, and Benny Goodman, and were listening to rock ’n’ roll entertainers like Elvis, Pat Boone, Little Richard, and Little Anthony and the Imperials, and pop singers like Steve and Edie and the others who appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show.  You’d see an occasional jazz player on Ed Sullivan, but TV in general was as void of jazz as the record stores.

The only nightlife in Nashville where jazz could be heard was in Printers’ Alley.  The Alley is located between 4th and 5th Avenues and Church and Commerce Streets.  It was then, as it is now, a strip of exotic dancer clubs and music bars.  In those days, though, there was no liquor-by-the-drink anywhere in Tennessee; but you could buy a mixed drink in the Alley.  The clubs were controlled by the local underworld, ignored by the police, and were the only places for musicians like me to find work.

I worked for Boots Randolph at the Carousel Room.  Boots was just coming into his fame as the “yakaty-saxophone player.”  Chuck Sanders played bass and Boyce Hawkins, a local TV weatherman, played piano.  “Thumbs” Carlisle played guitar and I played drums and sang.

My day job was doing character voices and imitations of famous people on radio and TV commercials.  From time to time at the club, just for fun, I’d imitate a well-known singer like Nat King Cole or Billy Eckstein.  Our early audiences especially liked the imitations.  Those audiences were mostly philanderers, adulterers, call girls, and early-evening alcoholics—appreciative of the music, but there with other agendas.

As the nights progressed, we shifted to the music we wanted to play instead of what the early crowds wanted to hear.  Because we played jazz, the club was a hangout for the some of the studio musicians and backup singers—performers who made a living with the “Nashville Sound,” but were also drawn to jazz.

Pop singers came to Nashville by the droves to boost their careers with the “Nashville Sound” by recording crossover music—recordings that would be played on pop, rock ’n’ roll, and country radio stations.

Guitarist Les Paul was a frequent visitor without his co-star Mary Ford.  They’d divorced several years before.  Ray Charles and his band members came by on occasion, though the club owners tried to discourage admitting too many Negroes at one time; never allowing them to have a drink.  Peggy Lee sang with us one time, as did Jo Stafford.

The late evening visitors to the club often included one or more of the gospel music group known as the Jordanaires.  The Jordanaires had become Elvis’ best-known back-up group.  One of the Jordanaires was Hoyt Hawkins, brother of our piano player.  Hoyt would often drop by with friends to listen to the music and occasionally sing with us.

One night the entire group dropped by after an early session and Boots invited them to sing.  But the Jordanaires were a gospel group, and the last thing that most of the patrons wanted to be reminded of was their religion; so the group was having difficulty deciding what to sing.

Someone shouted, “Hound Dog!”

Jordanaire Gordon Stoker said, “We can’t do that without Elvis.”

“Get Larry to do Elvis,” hollered Judy, the bartender.  “He can sing like anybody.”

Though not an Elvis fan, I’d been exposed to his singing on a daily basis.  If you listened to the radio at all in those days, you heard Elvis.  He was the most successful crossover singer of all times.  I’d never done Elvis and never intended to.

Boots moved the microphone over to the drums and said, “What key?”

I jokingly said, “Elvis’ key.

Hoyt said, “B^b.”

Boyce hit a B^b and without missing a beat I was doing Elvis!

Bobbity, bobbity, bobbity, bobbity, boom!  ”You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog cryin’ all the time.  You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, just cryin’ all the time.  You ain’t never caught a rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine.”    Bobbitty, bobbity, bobbity, bobbity, boom!

The Jordanaires sang “doobop debop” and the crowd loved it.  They applauded and shouted for an encore.  We decided to leave them wanting more, and the Jordanaires retired to the bar.  The guys in the band bugged me.  They said my imitation was too good for someone who said he didn’t like that kind of music.  They accused me of being a closet Elvis fan.  After that, when the Jordanaires came by we’d usually do a number together.  I even learned a few of Elvis’ more current hits just to please the audience.

On Saturday night, March 11, 1961, we began our first set at 8:30 pm.  Just as Boots kicked off the first number, Hoyt Hawkins entered the club with two rough looking characters.  His associates went directly to the bar and Hoyt came to the bandstand.  He whispered something to Boots while they both stared at me.  Boots laughed and Hoyt went to the bar.  When we finished the first tune, Boots announced that we’d had a request for Boyce Hawkins to play his special piano solo arrangement of “Danny Boy.”  Boots motioned to me to join Hoyt and his friends at the bar.

I climbed from behind the drums and headed to the bar wondering, what the hell is going on?

“Larry,” said Hoyt, “I want you to meet my friends Bull Fike and Hog Ears Fortas.  They work for Elvis.”

I first shook hands with Fike.  He was a tough looking customer who looked like a fireplug waiting to kill the next dog that walked by.  Hog Ears just about broke my hand with his grip.  He was twice as big as Bull and looked mean enough to eat any dog that Bull might kill.

“I hear you sing like Elvis,”  Hog Ears mumbled through a toothless grin.

“It’s just a joke,” I mused.  “I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Naw, we ain’t mad about it,” chimed Bull Fike, not getting my joke.  “We’uns is glad!”

Hoyt intervened, “Last Wednesday, Governor Ellington made Elvis a Tennessee Colonel in front of the Tennessee Legislature.  The Governor told Elvis if he ever needed a favor, to give him a call.”

“Do you think you can talk like Elvis?” interjected Hog Ears.

“Well, I uh.  Well, I uh,” was the most intelligent answer I could come up with at the time.

“Here’s what they want you to do,” said Hoyt.  “Call the governor right now and ask him to call the chancellor over at Vanderbilt University to get permission for Elvis to play football at midnight tonight on the football field.  Elvis will give the school a thousand dollars.”

“They what?” I exclaimed in disbelief, not meaning he should repeat it.

“What we want is . . .,” started Bull.

“Naw, he got it,”  interrupted Hoyt.  “He just doesn’t believe it.  If you pull this off you’ll get to meet Elvis, play football with us tonight, play tambourine on the sessions schedule for tomorrow and Monday, and get paid union scale for the sessions, plus $100.  What do you say?”

“Thankya, thankya, thankya-verymuch.”

“Damn! He’s got it down pat!” exclaimed Hog Ears.

“Why doesn’t Elvis do it?” I asked.

“There’s lots of reasons,” said Bull.  “Right now he’s up in the room with Miss Prowse and don’t want to be disturbed.  Elvis don’t like to ask favors, and he’s probably drunk.  He just told us to get the lights turned on at the stadium at midnight, cause he wants to play football.  Whatever Elvis asks us to do we do, one way or another.”

Boyce was just completing his rendition of “Danny Boy” and I saw Boots moving towards the drums.  He was evidently endorsing my continued conversation with Elvis’ “friends.”

“Here’s a dime and the governor’s private number,” said Hoyt.  “We’re counting on you.”

“What if I fail?”

“Aw, you ain’t gonna fail,” smiled Hog Ears, slapping me on the back.

I headed for the pay phone with the anxious trio close behind.  While dialing the number, I was mumbling Elvis-isms in preparation.

“Evenin’ ma’m.  This is Elvis, Elvis Presley.  The gov’na gave me this numba’ in case I needed sumpthin’ while I was in town.  No ma’m, this ain’t no joke.  Elvis don’t do jokes, ma’m.  Thank you, that would be kind.”

“She’s gone to get him,” I informed the group.

“Evenin’ Governor.  Sorry to bother you so late. (pause) . . .  I know, and I thank you for it .  (pause) . . ..  I was mighty proud you made me a colonel last week.  Puts me on a par with my manager, Tom Parker. . (pause). . ..  No. Thank you, sir. (pause) . . ..  Well, you see, me and my boys are here for a couple of recording sessions and we’d like to play football tonight over at the Vanderbilt Stadium.  I was wonderin’ if you might call over there and get them to turn the lights on for us. (long pause) . . ..  Well, I understand sir, but I wouldn’t have called you if what I wanted was an easy thing to do.  If they’ll let us play, sir, I’ll donate a thousand dollars to the university. (pause) . . . I understand.  234-5432.  I’ll wait right here.  And, thank you again, gov na’.   My regards to the missus.

“What’d he say?” asked Bull.

“He said he’ll try and that he’ll call back as soon as he knows something.”

Hoyt told me to go back to the band and they stay would with the phone.

Twenty minutes later, Hoyt hollered, “Hey Elvis!  It is the governor for you.”

The patrons laughed and I leaned over to the mike and said, “Thankya, thankya, thankya-verymuch.”

They laughed again, as I headed for the phone.

“Governor, this is Elvis, Elvis Presley. (pause) . . ..   “You did?  That’s great! (pause) . . ..  I sure will.  And gov’na’, thankya, thankya, thankya-verymuch.”

I was very lucky that Buddy Harmon came by that evening.  Buddy was a drummer and one of the masterminds behind the “Nashville Sound.”  Buddy too had been invited to play football.  He had declined because he wanted to be well rested for the two upcoming Elvis sessions.  Buddy agreed to fill in for me for the rest of the evening.  I left the club about 11:00 pm to go change into my football playing jeans and sweatshirt.

As I drove up West End Avenue towards the stadium, I could see the vapor lights come on and slowly increase their intensity.  Several police cars were scattered about and Hoyt, Bull, and Hog Ears stood at the entry point with two burly cops.

“He’s ok,” said Hog Ears, “he’s one of us.”

“Thankya, thankya, thankya-verymuch.”

“Don’t do that crap in front of Elvis,” Bull barked at me.  “He don’t like it.  And what Elvis don’t like I don’t like.  Don’t call him Elvis.  Don’t call him anything.  Just act like he’s one of the fellows.  The one who is always right.  Got it?”

“Got it!” I said in my own best voice.