Disgraceland Read online

  Elvis’s heart might have been with the Lord’s gospel music, but his true religion was rock ’n’ roll. And the Colonel, like most sane thinking adults back in 1955, thought rock ’n’ roll was merely a fad that would burn out quick, so he’d better do what needed doing: Milk this golden cow and fast. He moved swiftly to extract Elvis from his contract with Sun Records and moved him over to RCA, one of the powerhouse record labels of the 1950s music industry.

  And Elvis didn’t disappoint. Under this brighter spotlight, Elvis recorded magnificent music. His first single for RCA, “Heartbreak Hotel,” quickly shot up to No. 1 on the pop chart and would ultimately go platinum twice over. “Blue Suede Shoes,” a single released shortly after, was no less a masterpiece. Both RCA releases somehow upgraded the raw style Elvis displayed on Sun Records but lost none of the energy.

  The Colonel then arranged for Elvis to perform live on national television on the Dorsey Brothers’ Stage Show, The Milton Berle Show, and The Steve Allen Show. He then negotiated three coveted and high-paying appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show, and when they aired? America freaked…the fuck…out.

  The puppy dog eyes. The pouty lips and the polite Southern drawl, the long sideburns. All that energy, all that charm, and those swiveling hips. Americans couldn’t help but wonder: With all that going for him on the outside, what had God bestowed upon him under those trousers?

  Having quickly conquered radio and television, the Colonel set his sights on Hollywood and began to negotiate a series of film deals for Elvis that would feature him in starring roles and also serve as vehicles to promote music recorded for the films’ soundtracks.

  This was a distillation of the Colonel’s carny philosophy for the modern era. The Colonel made the calculated decision to hold Elvis back from his fans: to give them glimpses of his star attraction only through carefully planned film releases to maximize ticket sales.

  When Uncle Sam came calling and drafted the biggest star in the land at the height of his popularity? The Colonel saw it as a blessing. Send Elvis off to Germany and keep the fans starving for more. After all, he had enough material lying around from the RCA sessions to release Elvis singles in dribs and drabs to keep ’em hooked until Elvis’s triumphant return.

  And that was what happened. By the time his Army stint ended, Elvis came back bigger than ever. He appeared on television with Frank Sinatra on The Frank Sinatra Timex Special and camped it up. America loved it. Their two biggest pop stars; one representing the comfort of the past and one the promise of the future.

  But Elvis would find that his future would quickly go from white-hot heat to what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-my-career in a matter of a few short years.

  With his star attraction back Stateside, the Colonel moved quickly to tighten the reins. Elvis was eager to record new material, and he did. Elvis Is Back!—with excellent material by Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller, Lowell Fulson, and Otis Blackwell—was a critical and commercial success and one that Elvis himself was pleased with. However, his first film, G.I. Blues, was another story. Elvis didn’t want to do the movie. He knew the plot was bunk. However, the bigger sin was the soundtrack. The material simply did not compare to the music Elvis had been recording to that point, and that had everything to do with the songwriters. The Colonel was consolidating control, and top songwriters like Leiber and Stoller sought and received a share of the songwriting profits for their talents. Because of this, they were jettisoned for backbenchers who didn’t have any business writing material for one of the biggest performers in the world. The Colonel would have it no other way because Elvis would retain as much of the profit as possible. Leiber and Stoller weren’t going to be swindled out of their rightful share of the publishing profits, so the Colonel—with zero regard for the quality of the material his artist would be staking his soul on—told Leiber and Stoller to fuck off.

  And Elvis went along with it.

  From a commercial standpoint it didn’t matter. The soundtrack sold more copies than Elvis Is Back! It skyrocketed to the top of the charts on the success of the G.I. Blues film, which, despite its cheese factor, was a smash. It turns out 50 million Elvis fans can be wrong, because the movie is indeed bunk. Elvis knew it, but he went along with it.

  The Colonel promised him that by giving the studio what they wanted—the campy G.I. Blues flick—Elvis would be able to get back to what he cared about: becoming the next James Dean or Marlon Brando. A serious actor. A path he’d begun with Loving You and King Creole, among the first films he’d made before entering the Army.

  And the manager kept his promise. After G.I. Blues, Elvis delivered one of the most creatively rewarding and critically received performances of his career in the Western Flaming Star. But after that concession, the Colonel laid down the lash on his young thoroughbred, pressuring him to bang out film after film after film with little to no regard for quality of script or production. Most of the films Elvis would go on to star in throughout the remainder of the ’60s would all be marred by inadequate production budgets (“The less you spend, the more you make!”) and less than stellar material (“We have Elvis Presley, the biggest star in the world—who needs a script?!”) and result in a long parade of poor artistic output at the box office.

  The exception was Viva Las Vegas, in which he starred opposite Ann-Margret. The chemistry between them was undeniable. Elvis, one of the most charismatic performers of all time, was now sharing the screen with a five-alarm smoke show, and the results were electric. Watching the two together, you couldn’t take your eyes off Ann-Margret. She nearly upstaged the king. The big screen could hardly contain the double dose of sex appeal. Audiences begged for more.

  Now Elvis could get into this. Ann was fun. And suddenly the moviemaking business wasn’t a drag. Not only was Elvis happy, the studio was happy, having benefited from one of the highest-grossing films of 1964. Talks of future box office pairings were in the air. However, the Colonel would have none of it. He wasn’t going to risk Elvis’s star being outshined again by Ann-Margret’s blinding sex appeal.

  And Elvis went along with it.

  So it was right back to whatever lot or location where the next reel of bad film was being shot. This work schedule had the added disadvantage of preventing Elvis from performing live, which he was keen on doing since he’d debuted his studio band live at a benefit in Honolulu while shooting the film Blue Hawaii. The band tore it up, and Elvis was excited to do more shows, but the Colonel wasn’t buying it. Why spend money flying a band around the country to reach fans when the Colonel could, for a bigger profit, throw Elvis up on movie screens across the country and reach more people for less investment?

  And Elvis went along with it.

  He was contractually obligated to make three films a year: A tremendous schedule to keep up with, and one that all but ensured Elvis would not have the time or the creative juice to continue to make studio albums, let alone long-playing artistic statements like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones were making. No, the Colonel assured him, the soundtrack albums from the movies were all the fans needed.

  And Elvis went along with it.

  But that material was shit and Elvis knew it. His ear for music that suited his voice, that he knew he could nail emotionally and deliver straight to the hearts of his audience, was unmatched. The singles “Love Me Tender,” “Don’t Be Cruel,” “Jailhouse Rock,” “Peace in the Valley,” and “All Shook Up” were not just stone-cold hits, they were artistic statements on par with anything released before, during, or since. Elvis knew this was where the juice was. He knew that his future as an artist wasn’t in camp, moneymaking movies but in making serious records—serious artistic statements. But again, the Colonel would have none of it. There was more money to be made in the studio contract that awaited them around the bend, and so:

  Elvis went along with it.

  Whenever the creative ran up against the carny, the carnival mentality won out.

  Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as
working for the Lord, not for human masters.

  —Colossians 3:23

  The toll that making movies took on Elvis was intense. He was worked like a dog. Scratch that—he was worked like a circus animal. To keep up the pace, Elvis turned to pills. Speed to keep up with the daily schedule. Sleeping pills to allow him to crash. And the result of the pill popping, the hard work, and the knowledge that the movies and music he was making was crap? Depression. It was all deeply depressing for Elvis. And with depression came that old fear.

  The fear that he was unworthy. The fear that this dissatisfaction was something he deserved. In those deep, dark moments, late at night on set. His mind caught between the speed and the sleeping pills, his head wired and heavy on his pillow, Elvis couldn’t shake the thought of his brother, Jesse. In Elvis’s mind, his brother who died at birth was a purer version of himself, an aspirational, angelic, and judgmental avatar for all the things he longed to be but never became. Jesse’s death was an ever-present reminder of how he had fallen short in his own life. He had survived the trauma of a deadly childbirth and the dirt-floor poverty of his youth to become the biggest star the world had ever seen—and for what? To line some fat-cat, cigar-chewing, carny barker’s pockets? To not fully realize his God-given talent?

  Elvis felt like a traitor. He believed he was betraying the Lord by not fully harnessing the gift the Creator had bestowed upon him and no one else. He had squandered the promise of his one and only trip through this mortal coil, a trip that was denied his brother. Maybe it should have been him who died at birth. Maybe Jesse would have handled it differently.

  Do not neglect your gift, which was given you through prophesy.

  —1 Timothy 4:14

  The guilt, the grief, the shame, it was gnawing. The hole in him grew. So Elvis fed it. He stuffed it full of pills. He ate with the appetite of a small gospel congregation, filling his belly daily with the rich, cholesterol-filled, unhealthy Southern fried cuisine he’d grown up on. And he tried plugging the hole with a long string of women, who, no matter how beautiful or understanding, always came up short of satisfying him in the end.

  And tonight in the Jungle Room, it was nothing new. After the meatloaf sandwich he’d had for dinner, Elvis gorged on BBQ pizza. He’d shot out Robert Goulet on the television. The Demerol he’d taken afterward to cool out before bed had his head spinning. His brain hurt. He was second-guessing his decision to throw a party. It was late. Real late. And he could hear sirens outside the gates of Graceland. Must’ve had something to do with the crash he’d heard earlier. He tried blocking it all out. Grabbed another handful of pills and threw them to the back of his throat. The drugs did little.

  And tonight, along with being haunted by his dead brother, Elvis couldn’t shake the thought of the Colonel. Elvis was bent on ending things. Firing the Colonel once and for all and getting on with his career. But deep down, Elvis knew he’d wake up in the morning and do nothing.

  Despite the fact that most, if not all of the soul-crushing, profit-maximizing career missteps he’d made were at the Colonel’s insistence. Despite the fact that the Colonel took 50 percent—50 percent!!!!—of his earnings, as opposed to the customary 15 percent management fee. Despite the fact that the Colonel was universally loathed by most everyone who came in contact with him. Despite all of this, Elvis couldn’t shake him.

  Because Elvis feared the Colonel knew the truth. The truth about his brother.

  Chapter 2

  Jerry Lee Lewis

  “Killer.” The voice was stern but deferential. “The hell you doing out here so late? You fucked your Lincoln up gooood this time. The hell you doing?”

  The hood of the Lincoln was a semi-accordion-shaped mess, wedged hard into Graceland’s front gate. Steam rising off the engine. Headlights shining aimlessly over Elvis Presley’s front lawn. The Lincoln’s engine was dead, but Webb Pierce’s voice sounded very much alive warbling out of the speakers and into the misty Memphis morning air: “Thaaiir…staaands tha glass…”

  “Killer! Jerry Lee!!! Come on, now. Wake up. The hell you doing here anyway?”

  Slowly, the Killer picked his head up off the steering wheel and twisted it in the direction of the Memphis cop silhouetted through the driver’s side window. His eyes were barely slits. His hair was a tousled blond halo of snakes. His breath was worthy of a walk-on role in a horror movie, and his voice was drowning in Talwin and cheap champagne, making his words all the more menacing as he whispered, “I’m here to assassinate the King.”

  The King. Fuck that. Elvis was a punk. Jerry Lee Lewis was the real king of rock ’n’ roll. It said so right there on his new hunting knife. The one he planned on using to stick fat Elvis with, that past-his-prime, pill-popping poser. Fuck the King. Long live the Killer.

  People started calling Jerry Lee Lewis “the Killer” back when he was in middle school. Long before he shot his bass player in the chest with a .357 Magnum. Long before he tried to blast Chuck Berry away with a shotgun. Long before he shot so much speed into his stomach that he almost killed himself. And of course, long before his newlywed beauty queen wife wound up dead in the guest bedroom of their house.

  But back before all that, back in the ’50s, the Killer was giving the King a serious run for the Colonel’s money. It’s hard to believe now but back in the day, the question of who was going to wear rock ’n’ roll’s crown was wide open. Elvis Presley was heading off to boot camp and Jerry Lee Lewis was heading up the charts.

  In the span of nine months—from April 1957 to January 1958—Jerry Lee Lewis released three mega singles, each one more suggestive than the next. Jerry Lee’s delivery pushed the young genre of rock ’n’ roll closer to the edge than Elvis had with his swinging hips: “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On,” “Great Balls of Fire,” and “Breathless” are all classics of the rock ’n’ roll canon.

  Both rockers captivated bobby-soxers and grease monkeys everywhere with their methods for stirring heretofore unmentionable teenage desires; Elvis was sex incarnate. Jerry Lee was violence incarnate. Elvis, dark and brooding. Jerry Lee, white lightning in flesh and in blood.

  Jerry Lee’s live shows were legend. The way he performed—primal energy coursing through his core and radiating to every fiber of his body, from his shaking legs to the wild hurricane of hair on top of his head—hadn’t been seen before in popular music, or anywhere else. He rattled with violence and excitement as he bent his six-hundred-pound piano to his will while his googly eyes scanned the room for nonbelievers, of which there were none.

  Jerry Lee’s madman reputation preceded him. Rumors circulated that he was possessed. That he had been touched by the devil. Jerry Lee himself believed these rumors. How else could you account for his outsized talent? Jerry Lee liked to play, but it wasn’t like he practiced more than other musicians as a child. He didn’t take lessons. Couldn’t read music. Wasn’t particularly disciplined in any way, shape, or form. He was just a natural. When he sat down at the piano, pounded the keys with his long, spidery fingers, and banged his head and hair down toward the keyboard in time with the rhythm he kept with his left hand, the music just sort of happened. It wasn’t this big thought-out thing. It just was. To Jerry Lee, his talent was a divine mystery. That was something he came to believe as a young boy, sitting in his pew in the Pentecostal church in his hometown of Ferriday, Louisiana.

  Jerry Lee’s talent certainly wasn’t the Lord’s work. No, the Lord’s work was the domain of his first cousin, televangelist Jimmy Swaggart. In the South where Jerry Lee and Jimmy were from, cousin Jimmy was a star in his own right and had thus far stayed on the right side of Satan, while Jerry Lee did the devil’s dirty work, singing secular songs about teenage lust. And if his musical ability couldn’t be attributed to the good Lord above, then there was only one other option. And it scared the hell out of him. Was he, as they whispered, “touched”? “Possessed”? The thought kept him up at night and it woke him up in the morning, so he drowned his fear in alcohol and chased
it away with speed.

  At the end of the day, what did it really matter? Whatever Jerry Lee Lewis was doing, it was working. His televangelist cousin, in the South at least, may have been more famous than him, but Jerry Lee Lewis was a hellhound on Elvis Presley’s tail.

  Jerry Lee despised most of his fellow first-generation rock ’n’ rollers. Particularly Elvis. Truly hated him. He thought—no, he knew in his bones that Elvis was a hack and that he couldn’t hold a candle to real musical originators like himself, or Hank Williams or Al Jolson. As far as Jerry Lee was concerned, Colonel Tom Parker bet on the wrong horse. Just as well. Jerry Lee didn’t need the Colonel. Especially not if he was taking a 50 percent management fee. “Shit,” Jerry Lee wondered, “how stupid is Elvis?”

  Later in his career, when the press asked Jerry Lee about Elvis Presley’s influence on American culture, Jerry Lee flatly said, “Elvis this, Elvis that. What the shit did Elvis ever do except take dope that I couldn’t get ahold of?” But when all was said and done, Elvis was the King: He wore the crown that Jerry Lee thought was rightfully his. At least it was his before that mess over in England back in the 1950s.

  If you know two things about Jerry Lee Lewis, they are likely the piano lick to “Great Balls of Fire” and that he married his thirteen-year-old cousin, Myra Gayle Brown. Technically, Myra was Jerry Lee’s first cousin once removed—she was the daughter of another first cousin (and Jerry Lee’s bass player) J. W. Brown—but no matter how you try to justify it, she was just thirteen. And Jerry Lee was also still married to his second wife. He was twenty-two and already on wife number three, who was barely a teenager. It was reported that when Myra moved in with the Killer, she didn’t have much in the way of proper luggage, so she resorted to the biggest vessel she could find: a dollhouse.