Just because I managed to do a little something, I don't want anyone back home to think I got the big head

Here's a picture of American Sound Studios, which was located at 827 Thomas Street in Memphis, Tennessee. The building has been demolished, and there's a car lot there now (or so it's been said). This is where all that great music was recorded from the mid-sixties to the earlier seventies.

The building was actually at the intersection of Chelsea and Thomas streets. Thomas Boulevard was a truck bypass route and so truckers stopped at the light and then took off in low gear. As a result, obtaining a noise-free recording was sometimes a challenge!

Studio time The challenge now was to fulfill all that promise. Presley’s manager, Col. Tom Parker, was already laying the groundwork for Presley’s return to live performance in the summer of 1969 at the International Hotel in Las Vegas. And a studio session had been scheduled for January, Presley’s first non-soundtrack session in three years.  In keeping with the spirit of change now around him, Presley also made the decision to record in his hometown of Memphis for the first time since his days with Sun Records. The resulting sessions at American Studios would take Presley back to the top of the charts and produce some of his most acclaimed work. The January session had originally been scheduled to take place at RCA’s studios in Nashville, Tenn., where Presley had been regularly recording over the past decade. But a number of people in Presley’s entourage now had ties to American. Marty Lacker (who served as co-best man at Presley’s wedding) had just started working at the studio, and Red West (a Presley bodyguard who also worked as an actor) was hanging out there regularly, working as a songwriter. The studio’s co-owner, Lincoln “Chips” Moman, had produced tracks for Memphis DJ George Klein, another longtime Presley friend. Moman himself had been pushing for Presley to check out American, telling Klein in his typically blunt fashion, “When’s Elvis gonna get some good songs, man? When’s he gonna quit cuttin’ that crap?” Each man pointed out that Moman had assembled a formidable group of in-house musicians at American: Reggie Young (guitar), Tommy Cogbill and Mike Leech (bass), Bobby Wood (piano), Bobby Emmons (organ) and Gene Chrisman (drums). Over the previous 18 months, an impressive 64 records that had been recorded at American, by artists like The Box Tops, Wilson Pickett and Dusty Springfield, had all hit the charts.

Presley was intrigued both by the idea of capturing some of Moman’s hit sound and the fact that the studio was only a short drive away from his home at Graceland. Sessions were duly set up to begin on Jan. 13, five days after Presley’s 34th birthday, with Moman readily postponing a Neil Diamond session that had been previously scheduled. Along with Moman, Presley’s regular producer since 1966, Felton Jarvis, would also be on hand, providing a familiar face in the control booth.

Presley had a cold when he first arrived at American that night and was a bit taken aback by the studio’s condition, which was run-down enough for a host of rats to feel comfortable taking up residence; “What a funky studio!” he announced, responding to hearing rodents scuffling around.

For their part, the musicians weren’t overly impressed about working with someone of Presley’s stature, having already worked with many big names by then. But, they were surprised by the charisma he exuded before work even began.

“You’d know he was in the room when he walked in,” said Reggie Young. “You hear stories about people that have that effect on people, and I never thought anything about it. But Elvis really did. He just kind of commanded his space. You definitely knew he was there.”

With the sessions not tethered to any film soundtrack, the vastly improved quality of the songs recorded was immediately apparent from the very first number laid down, “Long Black Limousine,” the somber story of a woman who leaves her small town, vowing to return in a luxury car one day, only to have it turn out to be her own hearse. It set a melancholy tone that carried through the subsequent work, with most of the songs addressing pain and loss.

“This Is The Story,” “Wearin’ That Loved On Look,” “You’ll Think Of Me,” “A Little Bit Of Green” and “I’m Movin’ On,” all recorded on the 13th and 14th, each dealt with failed (or failing) relationships; only “Gentle On My Mind” was an unabashed love song. The songs also clearly evinced an adult sensibility; not only was it apparent that the days of songs like “A Dog’s Life,” “Do the Clam” and “Yoga Is As Yoga Does” were well over, gone also were songs with moon ’n’ June sentiments about love lasting “’til the end of time.” Many of the songs recorded at the American sessions had a bittersweet quality to them, reflecting a life of experience, with its attendant sorrows as well as its pleasures.

Presley quickly won the musicians’ respect for how hard he worked. His vocals were recorded as the musicians worked out a song’s arrangement, with the understanding that he’d recut a final vocal later. Nonetheless, he gave his all during the early takes, with sax player/arranger Glen Spreen marveling at how he’d effectively give a full performance in the studio, even standing behind a baffle.

“He was back there just like he would be onstage, doing gyrations and the whole thing — because that was just the way he sang,” Spreen told biographer Peter Guralnick.

And despite his cold, Presley himself felt re-energized by his work in the studio.

“Man, that felt really great,” he told his friends on his way home after the first session. “I can’t tell you how good I feel

.” He later said he never worked harder in the studio than he had during the sessions at American.

Presley’s cold gave his voice an appealing roughness, but after two nights, when he developed full-blown laryngitis, he took time off to recover. But the Memphis Boys kept working, spending the 15th and 16th recording backing tracks for four more songs, in the expectation of Presley cutting his vocals later.

“Don’t Cry Daddy” and “Mama Liked the Roses” undoubtedly hit a chord with Presley, as both dealt with the death of a mother, though “Mama” was more lyrically subtle than “Daddy.” Both could have become unbearably maudlin in the hands of another singer, but Presley’s restrained delivery gave them an affecting poignancy.

“Inherit the Wind” and “My Little Friend” were flip sides of the same kind of love song. In the first, the singer is leaving a relationship; in the second, the singer is one mourning a lost relationship. Backing tracks for “Come Out, Come Out” and Mac Davis’ “Poor Man’s Gold” had also been laid down, but Presley never recorded a vocal for either of them. He offered “Angelica,” another song considered for the sessions, instead to R&B singer Roy Hamilton, one of his idols, who was recording at American during the day. Hamilton took Presley’s advice and duly recorded the number, releasing it as a single.

Chips Moman and Marty Lacker Source: Portrait of a Friend / M. Lacker THE AMERICAN SOUND STUDIOS SESSIONS by Stephen Rudko It was bitter cold the evening of January 13, 1969, in Memphis, Tennessee. Producer Chips Moman and the searing band of musicians he had assembled at American Sound Studios were waiting the arrival of Elvis Presley and his notorious retinue. It would be the first evening of a scheduled ten day recording venture. It would also be the first such session for Presley outside of Nashville or Hollywood since he cut his last side for Sam Phillips at Sun Studio in 1955.

The next few weeks were to be a milestone in Presley's career. On his own initiative, with considerable encouragement and prodding from his friends, he would slip from under his agent's conservative and protective control to work with one of the hottest house bands and one of the hottest producers in the country. He would break many well-worn habits that had put his career in neutral. He would make a sustained effort to recreate himself and re-establish his musical dominance. And he would assemble strong new material for an adventurous live act set to open July 31st, later that year in Las Vegas.

That Presley would rise to and seize the occasion now seems, viewed through the layers of legend shrouding every aspect of his life, a done deal. Elvis had only to show up at American Sound and spin wax into gold. But on that cold evening, at 827 Thomas Street, in a dilapidated, black section of his adopted hometown, the jury was still out.

 Elvis's decision to leave Hollywood and return to the live stage had been slow in coming. For ten long years, he had dedicated his career to filming B-quality musicals at the grueling schedule of three or so a year. The profits were certain. Elvis would never lose money at the box office. But the receipts began to dwindle as the years went by and the quality of the material he accepted through his agent, Colonel Tom Parker, remained consistently mediocre. For Elvis, motivation was never about money. Presley had become bored and restless. And he was embarrassed.

 There had been a few early films that had challenged him, even inspired him: Jailhouse Rock, Loving You, King Creole. But after his discharge from the army in 1960, he became trapped in a revolving door of lightweight vehicles, usually set in exotic locals with one excuse after another to strap him in cars, helicopters or boats. Some were notably better than others, but none tended to stretch or risk the leading man. The plots were as formulaic as the music. Take for example, "Song of the Shrimp" from Girls, Girls, Girls (1962), or "El Torro" and "There's No Room to Rhumba in a Sports Car" from Fun in Acapulco (1963), or "Yoga Is as Yoga Does" from Easy Come, Easy Go (1967).

 Presley resented that the financial success of his films, as silly and trivial as they were, enabled the studio to realize more ambitious and risky projects. Rumor had it, and so Elvis believed, that Hal Wallis's Beckett, with Peter O'Toole and Richard Burton, was financed largely on the windfall from Blue Hawaii. Elvis was paying for the Oscar triumphs of others.

 But Presley's real problem was not the poor quality of his films (the sets for Harum Scarum, 1965, were cardboard leftovers from Cecil B. De Mille's Anthony and Cleopatra) or the formulaic plots (he called them travelogues) or the grind of the work itself (it had started out as fun with lots of horseplay and, of course, lots of girls, but even that had become routine) or that he would never be taken seriously as an actor (he would be offered a meaty part in Streisand's remake of A Star is Born, but would slink away from the challenge). The real rub was that making movies "24/7" had taken Elvis away from his life's blood: the fans

And that had left him behind the times. When Martin Luther King was shot and killed just miles away from Graceland on April 4, 1968, and riots erupted across the country, Elvis was singing to Dominick, a bull in Stay Away Joe, his 26th film. The evolution in recording technique and the intensely provocative sounds of the turbulent decade never reached one of his soundtracks. Presley, the revolutionary, the leader of his generation had fallen completely out of touch with an audience he could neither recognize nor tru

The first steps toward recovery came in early 1968. He refused to renew movie contracts and opted to appear in a December television special sponsored by Singer. Part of the special would be taped in front of a live audience, the so-called "pit" segment, in which he appeared in black leather with musicians from his early years: D. J. Fontana, Scotty Moore, Charlie Hodge, and Alan Fortas from the Memphis Mafia. For the first time in seven years, Presley performed live. And when all was said and done, after all the worry and uncertainty, Elvis proved definitively, not just to his stalwart fans, who would be there to the bitter end anyway, but to himself that he still had that intangible "it."

Many of the songs were nostalgic, "Blue Suede Shoes," "Hound Dog," "Mystery Train," etc. The fans always wanted to be reminded of the good old days. But there were some refreshing new sounds, "Memories" by Billy Strange and Mac Davis, and "Guitar Man" by Jerry Reed, which Elvis had recorded the previous year.

Most importantly, there was the gospel-bluesy "If I Can Dream," written especially for the close by musical director, W. Earl Brown. Elvis resisted Colonel Parker's standing order that the special close with a standard Christmas carol and avoid any kind of social comment. Steve Binder, the producer, felt a message song about peace, humanity and brotherhood would be a bold and fitting send off. Binder sold the idea to Elvis: Earl sat down at the piano and played it through. Elvis sort of sat there listening. He didn't comment; he just said, "Play it again." So Earl sat there and played it again - and again. Then Elvis started to ask some questions about it, and I would venture to say Earl probably played the song six or seven times in a row. Then Elvis looked at me and said, "We're doing it." It was a significant and unusual moment. Elvis rarely over-ruled Parker, and it demonstrates the confidence he felt as he began to retool his image.  The Singer Special was an enormous success and insured a lucrative contract in Las Vegas for the coming summer. An eager audience waited for him, and as generous and as forgiving as his fans had always been, he would have to meet great expectations. Elvis needed something new to communicate, music to address a mature and intelligent audience. He needed records. He needed hit records.  The day after his 34th birthday on January 9, 1969, Elvis met with RCA producer, Felton Jarvis, in the Jungleroom at Graceland to discuss going to Nashville to record what he hoped would put him back on top of the charts.  Jarvis (1936-81) was the off-beat type of guy that appealed to Elvis - he kept a boa constrictor in a burlap bag in his office. Before coming on board with RCA he had produced Fats Domino and Gladys Knight. He also made the hit Shiela for Tommy Roe.  Jarvis got his job after Elvis summarily dismissed an indifferent Chet Atkins in 1966. The incident reveals Presley's attitude at work. One night at a session in RCA's Studio B [in Nashville], Elvis looked over and Chet Atkins was at the console with his head down, asleep. Elvis watched him through the whole damn take, and he never woke up. Elvis waited 'til the session was over, and then he told either Colonel Parker or Tom Diskin [Parker's assistant, ever present at recording sessions], "I don't want that son of a bitch here anymore." Felton had a respectful, hands-off approach. He basically let Elvis run the show. He even allowed him to record gospels songs at their first session, sharing a sensitivity to Presley's interests that the singer never forgot (these tracks would become the basis for Presley's second Grammy award winning gospel album How Great Thou Art). Felton's primary job was to coordinate recording sessions with Colonel Parker's office. He never picked songs for Elvis or had any say in choosing musicians. Remarkably, the final say on the band came from the Colonel, sometimes through Tom Diskin.

Freddy Bienstock, manager of Hill and Range Music Publishers, brought the songs to the RCA sessions. H & R owned the subsidiary companies Elvis Presley Music and Gladys Music. Under the publishing arrangement, Elvis and the Colonel and H & R received a percentage of the songwriters' royalties when Elvis sold their songs. A kind of double dip that could really add up fast. Bienstock would report the recording arrangements personally to Parker so that Presley could be intimately managed from afar.

There was a problem inherent in the Hill and Range set up that had been and always would be a thorn in the side of success. Initially, when Elvis was the hottest act on the planet, songwriters would willingly cough up profits to have him record (and quite possibly score a hit) with one of their songs. As the industry changed and more artists hit the charts selling millions, and as Elvis's sales continued to decline, writers became increasingly reluctant to share royalties. With Parker and H & R insisting on a slice of the pie, the quality of the material presented for Elvis's consideration began to suffer seriously. For the ‘69 sessions to succeed, there would have to be a way around petty, third party interests.

The traditional RCA recording method had been long proscribed. Elvis, just as he had at Sun, stood in the middle of the room with a live band around him, often with his harmony group. There was very little over-dubbing. Nashville wasn't equipped. Elvis preferred it that way, playing off the musicians spontaneously and performing physically. But the style limited the producer's ability to create and fine tune, and in the end the product could suffer. With the success of the Singer Special, everyone expected to see Elvis on top of his game. But Presley was known to ape the demos he chose. If he found the material uninspiring, he would simply go through the motions. The sessions could also degenerate into mayhem depending on Presley's mood, which could be fickle and which his entourage was always quick to pick up on. It was more or less their job to make sure he was happy and that meant tending to and encouraging his slightest whim. One especially important member of that often maligned crew was Marty Lacker. Lacker first met Elvis at Humes High when they were both in school. In 1960, Elvis invited him out to Hollywood for the Kid Galahad shoot, and Marty stayed on, a made man in the Memphis Mafia. In 1964, Lacker became foreman of the group, Presley's personal secretary and check writer. He lived for a time at Graceland in a garage apartment with wife and daughter and served as co-best man with Joe Esposito at Elvis's Vegas wedding in ‘67. In 1966, Lacker took a promising position to start a new company called Pepper Records and that had him moving and shaking in the Memphis music scene. Before long he was doing production work with Chips over at American Sound Studios, where Red West, Elvis's childhood friend, was doing session work. Lacker was very impressed: "They were all white guys, but to hear them play you'd swear they were black."

Chips Moman founded American Sound Studios in 1965, after finding himself devoid of any real controlling interest in the Stax studio he had helped to create. He was determined to never be cheated again. Around him he gathered a dedicated band of immense quality: Bobby Wood, John Hughey, Tommy Cogbill, Mike Leech, Reggie Young, Gene Chrisman, Ed Kollis, and Bobby Emmons. Collectively, they would place 125 records on the charts over a span of five years.

American Studios was literally located in the ghetto. After King's assassination, Memphis was a tense place to be, especially in the black neighborhoods. So Moman kept dogs around and occasionally put a guard on the roof armed with a shotgun to watch over the parking lot.

Lacker knew American's sound was right for Elvis. It was more commercial and country than their rival, soul oriented Stax. Chips' technique was also up to date. He would cut a rough vocal track with the rhythm section, setting the structure and tone of the song. Later he would sweeten or orchestrate, adding horns or strings. The artist would then be called back in to lay down the main vocal tracks.

Whenever Lacker mentioned how great working with Chips would be, Elvis would say, "Well, I'll think about it," or "One of these days soon we'll try it." And Chips would needle Lacker about when Elvis was going to come in and record. "When are you going to tell Elvis to let me produce a record?" But what could Lacker tell him?

Lacker was sitting there in the Jungleroom that January evening, seething, as he listened to Elvis and Felton finalize the dates for Nashville. He began to unconsciously shake his head back and forth (his head was big, bald and round and as a result his nickname was Moon). He fought back his frustration. Elvis snapped at him, "What the hell's the matter with you?" and Lacker got the opening he needed to lay it on the line one last time: What about Chips? His band is on fire, turning out hits with big stars - hell, Dusty Springfield came all the way from Britain to work with him just to get that Memphis sound. Why don't you just try Chips and American? And [Elvis] said, "Well, maybe someday I will." Then everybody got up to go in the dining room, but I just sat there [cursing]. I didn't want to go sit at the table and hear them talk about the Nashville session... Well it wasn't two minutes before Felton came out and said "Elvis wants to see you." I said, "Felton, I don't want to go in there. With all due respect to you and Nashville, I really don't want to hear about it." And he said, "No he wants to talk to you about cutting in Memphis." Well, I was out of that chair in a flash. Lacker only had four days to set it up. Elvis was on a tight schedule. He still had to shoot one last picture, Change of Habit with Mary Tyler Moore, for MGM, and he had to get busy preparing a live act. Then there was the problem of studio time. Elvis wanted to begin on Monday, but Neil Diamond had been scheduled in that slot. And Elvis worked at night, through the early hours of the morning. How accommodating would Chips be?

Lacker called Chips at his home to let him know that Elvis was willing to give American a go. He let him know the constraints, emphasizing that it had to be a closed session, no guests, no publicity. And he reminded him of the scheduling conflict that would have to be resolved. Diamond was a pretty big star himself. Chip's exact words were, "Fuck Neil Diamond. Neil Diamond will just have to be postponed. Tell Elvis he's on."

Colonel Parker had lost control of his number one asset during an evening dinner at Graceland. His greatest fear was being realized. Elvis had actually made a major decision without seeking either his advice or permission. The question for Parker became how to keep the situation from spinning totally out of his sphere of influence.

Jarvis was too close to Elvis to be counted on to keep a real eye on things. Besides, he had abdicating his position to Chips. He might be able to play a part in post-production, but Chips' take charge, no bullshit attitude ruled out any serious input in the studio. Parker could only send Diskin and RCA vice-president Harry Jenkins to the sessions to make sure everyone on the gravy train was having his interests considered. Those interests may have been primarily Parker's, but they were also, the Colonel genuinely felt, Elvis's. The two, of course, were inseparable.

Oh, and Parker could also send music, lots and lots of music from the Hill and Range catalog. On that count, he thought he was well set up, believing that he had practically placed an insider in Presley's camp.

Lamar Fike was one of Elvis's oldest and closest personal friends. At the request of Elvis's mother, Gladys, he had accompanied Private Presley to Germany, where he served as chauffeur and valet. Throughout the years he would be an integral part of the organization. He survived the wholesale housecleaning in 1976, which resulted in the backlash, tell-all book, Elvis, What Happened? From early on his corpulence and feisty attitude marked him as Elvis's general whipping post. But Fike was trusted and always played an important role. He introduced Elvis to Jarvis in 1966, in an attempt to lure him away from Hollywood and back to Nashville. After the American sessions, he would run lights for the stage show in Vegas. In the ‘70's, insulated from Elvis's often violent mood swings, he would work advance on the countless tours. He would also serve as one of Presley's pallbearers.

 Fike started working at H & R in 1962, at times in close association with Parker and the home office. And though Fike was a champion of H & R, and worked on their behalf and had practically been placed in the job by the Colonel, he was a team player. After all, what was good for H & R was making money for Elvis too.

I just felt his presence. I felt him. It was almost like Christ was out there or something. There was no doubt about it. I tell you what, I got chill bumps when he came in. I couldn't help it. It just happened. You knew he was there.

"What a funky, funky place," Elvis muttered when he entered, possibly to calm his nerves. He was trailed by his regular bunch of guys: Fike, Lacker, Joe Eposito, Sonny and Red West, WHBQ deejay George Klein, and of course Jarvis. Tom Diskin from Parker's office was there to keep watch, so was Freddy Bienstock, representing H & R, and RCA's Harry Jenkins. Three or four of the boys on a well established cue pulled cigarette lighters out when Elvis stuck a thin cigar in his mouth. The band cringed.

Chips thought it an aggravation to have all those people around. It was an aggravation for everybody. Elvis was always playing to the guys, always trying to say something cute, keep them laughing. It could get pretty hectic. But for whatever reason, Elvis needed his friends around. They made him feel comfortable. It may have seemed phony to everyone else, but this was the real world to Elvis Presley.

That first night, after a hesitant beginning (everyone needed to get comfortable with one another and Elvis seemed to have opening night jitters), it became clear, and was a particular relief to the musicians, that Elvis meant business. He responded positively to Chips' direction, and listened attentively even when Chips interrupted him in mid song, admonishing Elvis to "try it again." It was the same attentiveness and focus Presley had paid to Binder and the Singer Special.

Chips only recorded three songs that evening, "Long Black Limousine" by Bobby George and Vern Stovall, that Chips introduced, "This Is the Story" by Arnold, Morrow and Martin, from Freddy Beinstock and H & R and "Wearin' that Loved On Look" by Dallas Frazier and Al Owens, which Lamar had brought in. Even so, the session didn't break up till four the next morning and everyone seemed satisfied. On the ride back to Graceland, Elvis turned to the guys in the back and told them what seemed obvious. "Man, that felt really great. I can't tell you how good I feel... I really just want to see if I can have a number one record one more time."  For the first three days, the sessions went according to plan. Elvis wanted to record some songs that Chips really had no interest in ("Yesterday," for example), and he would back away until Elvis got them out of his system. Then the cold which had been bothering Presley for weeks came back with a vengence. Elvis stayed at Graceland for a few days to recuperate while Chips cut background and laid down some rhythm tracks for a few new songs.

Chips had a song by Mac Davis that he knew would be a hit, "In the Ghetto" (Lacker disputes this, saying that Elvis "brought that to the session on a tape of Mac Davis' songs that he got from Billy Strange who at the time was with Nancy Sinatra's publishing company who had Mac under a writer's contract"). Elvis liked Davis and his songs, like "A Little Less Conversation," but he wasn't sure about this one. It was a message ballad about the cycle of poverty in the ghetto. It was not typical of what Elvis recorded and it went against the Colonel's no politics rule. In a press conference in 1972, Elvis made this philosophy clear when asked what he thought of war protesters and whether he would refuse to be drafted: "Honey, I'd just soon to keep my own personal views to myself. ‘Cause I'm just an entertainer and I'd rather not say."

 George Klein really didn't think it was a good song for Elvis and told him so, but Chips was insistent. Elvis said he'd think about it.

 Back at Graceland, Elvis and the guys were going through the demos the Colonel had sent from H & R. Elvis was distraught. They were running out of good songs and this batch was just awful. Why wouldn't they send him some good material for a change? Marty spoke up: the H & R situation was costing Elvis hit songs. Elvis needed to consider music which the Colonel didn't have a bonus interest in. Presley sat for a while, grinding his teeth and nervously bouncing his leg, language that was an indication that the keg was about to blow.

And finally it did. Business was business, but from now on everybody was going to bring in songs. And if they had the publishing rights, well, OK, but if not, and they were good songs, then the hell with it. He was going to cut them anyway.

Klein, whose radio connections were significant, immediately got on the phone and secured "The Grass Won't Pay No Mind" from Neil Diamond. Klein also had second thoughts about "In the Ghetto." He had been thinking about it the day after and his advice had been a mistake. When he told Elvis he thought the song would be a hit, Presley grinned, "No shit, I'm cutting it tonight."

Back in the studio, Elvis began work on "Suspicious Minds" and "In the Ghetto." It was obvious that these were going to be big records. Diskin and Bienstock began to get antsy. They caught Chips alone in the hall and started working on him, trying to get a piece of the songs he owned. Finally Chips had had enough. Gentlemen, I thought we were here to cut some hit records. Now if that's not the case, let me tell you what you can do. You can take your fucking tapes, and you and your whole group can get the hell out of here. Don't ask me for something that belongs to me. I'm not going to give it to you.

Surprisingly, RCA's Jenkins chimed in with Chips. The session was going well. Everybody was going to make out just fine. There was no need to let the whole thing unravel.

Diskin was furious and sought out Elvis to plead his case. But Presley had already made up his mind. He wasn't going to let the home office or H & R or RCA for that matter, ruin his session. He politely told Diskin to let him and Felton and Chips handle things.

 Presley then did something which surprised even Chips. He asked the producer how they could eliminate the hassels, and Chips told him to just get everyone out of there. And that was it.

Diskin grabbed the hotline to the Colonel's office and, frustrated and perplexed, spelled out the circumstances. Elvis was going his own way. He didn't want them around. They had absolutely no control.

Many critics and fans alike have often claimed that if only Elvis had taken more control of his career, had trusted his own instincts, made the movies and recorded the music he really wanted, if he had just gotten rid of the Colonel entirely, his career would have been much better off. It's hard to argue with the Colonel's success, but it may be said with certainty that in this instance, without being tied by the Presley machine, Elvis rose to and met every challenge.

 Marty Lacker puts it succinctly:

So Elvis fell on his ass, all right. In twelve days, he cut thirty-six sides. Four of them were singles - "In the Ghetto," "Suspicious Minds," "Don't Cry Daddy," and "Kentucky Rain," and all but the last were gold, even though Kentucky Rain was a substantial hit. And the two albums that came out of it [From Elvis in Memphis and From Memphis to Vegas/From Vegas to Memphis] went platinum. That's some falling on your ass.

When Elvis walked into American Sound Studio that January evening, he hadn't had a top five record since 1965. He would never get as high on the charts again as he did with Chips Moman. Elvis himself believed that he had recorded some of his best material. He did so with focus and effort, and by asserting a kind of independence which was unusual for him. But it was an independence tempered by a willingness to work with and be guided by a producer he had never met, in a studio he knew by name only. Desperate for a number one record, Elvis took chances he would never take again.

In 1973, when recording at Stax (also in Memphis), bad habits and boredom returned. During a Monday night session, he had the guys buy a television so he could watch the football game (the TV was left behind when he left). Larry Nix, the engineer, remembers the cookie cutter mentality.

They'd bring a song in... Elvis would listen, and he'd go do it. The song would be done identical to the demo. That dumbfounded me. There was no imagination, no "Create a little bit here," you know! Felton Jarvis was the producer, but all the production was already done on the demos. They just copied them.

Elvis never returned to American partly because of the divisions it created in his organization and the hassles with his management. But also because he didn't need to or want to take any more chances. The success of the records and the ensuing act in Vegas spurred him into a flurry of tours and live performances, the whirlwind of which echoed the relentless manufacture of films in the ‘60's. He would rise to meet the challenge of the Satellite Special from Hawaii, Aloha, but this was almost entirely based on his standard, well-worn repertoire.

By 1974, Elvis didn't even want to record. He went the year without producing a single side. At the RCA session in March of 1975, Elvis managed ten songs in just three days. Quickly trying to meet his obligations before yet another Vegas opening, the songs were chosen without any sense of direction and did nothing to boost his flagging sales. In 1976, he decided he might just as well record at Graceland, and RCA built a studio of sorts in the Jungleroom. But after six uninspired days and only a handful of songs that showed any real promise, he refused to come out of his bedroom, and RCA packed up and went home. The next year he showed up a day late for a session in Nashville. Elvis was so disconcerted by his girlfriend's ongoing rejection that he wouldn't even leave his hotel room. He left for Graceland the next day. In 1977, he all but collapsed while filming a television special for CBS.

But the American sessions stand as a personal triumph for Elvis, a performer at a turning point, an artist who that Winter in Memphis, was again sharp, eager, and alive. And the music he created there will always prove it.

Bibliography  1) Clayton, Rose and Dick Heard, eds. Elvis Up Close. Atlanta, Georgia: Turner Publishing, Inc., 1994.  2) Dickerson, James. Goin'Back to Memphis. New York: Schirmer Books, 1996.  3) Gordon, Robert. It Came from Memphis. Boston: Faber and Faber, 1994.  4) Gray, Michael and Roger Osborne. Elvis Atlas, A Journey through Elvis Presley's America. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1996  5) Guralnick, Peter. Careless Love, The Unmaking of Elvis Presley. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 1999.  6) Guralnick, Peter. Last Train to Memphis, The Rise of Elvis Presley. New York: Little, Brown and Company, 1994  7) Lacker, Marty, et al. Elvis, Portrait of a Friend. Memphis, Tennessee: Wimmer Brothers Books, 1979. 8) Nash, Alana, et al. Elvis Aaron Presley, Revelations from the Memphis Mafia. New York: HarperCollins, 1995. 9) Osborne, Jerry. Elvis, Word for Word. New York: Harmony Books, 1999.  10) Pierce, Patricia Jobe. The Ultimate Elvis, Elvis Presley, Day by Day. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1994.  11) Worth, Fred L. and Steve D. Tamerius. Elvis, His Life from A to Z. Chicago, Illinois: Contemporary Books, 1988.

A Turning Point In History

But with the dramatic changes on the music scene that seemed to leave him behind while he was busy with his series of formulaic movies, did he still have anything to offer in the one area he knew was his true calling? Elvis quietly pondered that thought. But with the transition of a new year, a simple conversation served as the impetus for some major change. That inner spark would soon flare into a raging inferno as he bolted from the confines of both his internal restraint and from external forces to pursue what he wanted – instead of once again settling for what he didn’t.

A few days after his birthday on January 8, a gathering of compadres assembled in Graceland’s den while Elvis’ RCA producer Felton Jarvis discussed the Nashville recording session booked for the following week. Memphis Mafia foreman Marty Lacker recounts, “It would have been just another ordinary, boring and really unproductive, non-hit generating session in Nashville – again. He was basically recording to appease Parker and RCA, who were always nagging him for product.” Listening to the details of yet another status quo session being hashed out, Marty’s vexation and annoyance could no longer be contained. He shook his head subconsciously in frustration. Elvis looked over to ask, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” As he’d done repeatedly for months, Marty retorted, “I wish for once you would try working with Chips.” About a year younger than Elvis, Chips had amassed quite an impressive music industry résumé, tackling various genres along the way. In many ways, his story paralleled Elvis’ ascent to fame. Praised by former Atlantic Records executive Jerry Wexler as “the best, most under-rated guitar player in the South,” Chips hitchhiked to Memphis from LaGrange, Georgia as a 14-year-old man-child with a guitar and a very bright future. With no inclinations towards a music career at that time, he planned to work as a house painter. Fate would intervene to have him instead coloring the world through his various roles in the music industry. He made his mark as a musician, composer, publisher, studio head, engineer and producer. Discovered by Sun artist Warren Smith while sitting in a drugstore romping on his guitar, he was recruited to serve among an army of Rockabilly cats. For a while, he played on the same bill as Carl Perkins and Roy Orbison and performed with brothers Johnny and Dorsey Burnette and Gene Vincent. A stint with Gold Star Recording Studios in California beckoned, where he attentively observed engineer Stan Ross’s work. Back in Memphis, he parlayed those skills with natural ability and his finely tuned ear into chart success with Brunswick-turned-Stax Studios in the late 1950’s. He produced Stax’s first big hits Gee Whiz by Carla Thomas, You’ll Never Miss Your Water by William Bell among several others. After a few years, he was deeply hurt by broken promises and unfair treatment at Stax. His exodus from McLemore Avenue and entrée to Thomas Street was only the beginning of another level and layer of success. Chips channeled his business acumen into creating American Studios, where he could freely practice creative control. Within a five year period, his group generated a still unrivaled 122 hit records. At one point, American Studios boasted of one-fourth of the songs on the Billboard Hot 100.

The creative kinship between Elvis and the plucky, straight-shooting Chips, who has been heralded as the “midwife of (Elvis’) creative rebirth,” was obvious. “As Elvis’ talents as a singer are great and come naturally without training, so are Chips’ talents as a guitar player and as a producer,” Marty says. It’s all in his ears – and in his feeling inside. He just has a natural instinct of what should be on each record while he’s producing it.” Two forces of nature. Strong personalities. Tremendous, organic talent. History was yet to be made – and Elvis’ finest work was yet to come.

“… you should try working with Chips.” With that assertion, the wheels were set in motion. It was to be an act of rebellion that launched Colonel Parker, his assistant Tom Diskin and Hill and Range song plugger Freddy Bienstock into orbit. The creative freedom Elvis had been yearning for was finally within his grasp. Was he doing the right thing? While the uncertainty nagged at him, he also contended with a nasty cold as the January 13 rendezvous with fate drew closer.

The day finally arrived. Elvis nervously walked into the studio full of ace musicians who were unsure of just what to expect from the most famous and highest paid actor in the world. After all, while Elvis was concentrating on his movies, these guys had been busy churning out an impressive succession of hits. He’s a celebrity. Would he be difficult to work with? Would he have an ego? Guitarist Reggie Young recalled, “Personally, I wasn’t that impressed when they said Elvis was going to be in. But then he walked in that back door. We were all standing around. We all kind of took a step back.” When the term charisma was mentioned, Young agreed. “It really was. He had that.” Keyboardist Bobby Wood elaborated on the charisma dynamic – going so far as to say that the moment Elvis pulled into the parking lot, they could feel his energy inside the building. “When he walked into that back door, I almost choked,” Wood said. But whatever skeptical stoicism the group had, it vanished as they were quickly ingratiated by Elvis’ natural warmth and easygoing, personable charm. And soon, they’d be bowled over by his sheer, electrifying talent.

Long Black Limousine. Wearin’ That Loved On Look. You’ll Think of Me. This Is The Story. Elvis began what was planned to be 10 days at the funky studio. One musician recalled that the first couple of days were rough in part due to a focus on material from the Hill and Range catalogue – the quality of which had diminished considerably over recent years. Elvis’ upper respiratory ailment that had him feeling less than his best contributed to the raspy, roughened wail evident in the first few songs. Working through the night until 8:30 a.m. the following day, Elvis had reached a level of commitment to the material that he’d not had since his 1966 How Great Thou Art album – which earned him a Best Sacred Performance Grammy. His voice and body in need of rest, he succumbed to the exhaustion of laboring arduously while fighting an illness. But milestones were reached that first critical night. Elvis had easily assimilated into the group, fitting in like an old friend. A brother in music. “They got along great together because they were all from similar backgrounds and felt the music the same way,” Marty recalls. Through the sheer passion and fire he exuded through his singing, everyone had sat up and taken notice. It was likened to “being in church” – and he brought the songs to life. And without the slightest hint of objection, Elvis eagerly and enthusiastically took direction from Chips, who approached recording in a way new to Elvis: as an art form. A skillful blend of extemporaneous avant-garde with a flawless touch of tight timing generated by masters with their instruments. Present at the right place and time were all the elements for a perfect hit-making recipe. With The Memphis Boys and Chips, Elvis was energized by the perfect musical symbiosis. “Chips and the musicians were innovative and creative, and made all the difference in why they cut 122 hits at American. Elvis could feel that from the first song. What is equally phenomenal is that the same six musicians played on every one of those 122 hits,” Marty said. The Memphis Boys: Reggie Young on lead guitar. Bobby Emmons on organ and keyboards. Tommy Cogbill on bass. Gene Chrisman on drums. Bobby Wood on keyboards. Mike Leech on bass.

“In Nashville, the musicians basically played what was on the demos – and added nothing really creative, soundwise. That’s the main reason I nagged Elvis about recording with them for almost a year,” Marty continued. During the ride home after that first night, Elvis told him and Red West that the session felt great. He wanted to see if he could “do it again” – that is, cut meaningful songs like he did early in his recording career. “He wanted to have hits this time,” said Marty. Momentum. Renewed exuberance. Hope.

While Elvis rested at Graceland and fought his cold, instrumental tracks were laid down at the studio. On January 20, Elvis returned to sink his teeth into more than 20 takes of the Mac Davis-penned In The Ghetto. The approach was reverent, subdued and simplistic. Horn player Wayne Jackson recalled, “I thought, ‘Oh my God, this is wonderful. This is it!’” Everyone knew gold had been mined and a future classic was certain.

The collaboration did experience its complications – but they were short-lived and wrought at the hands of the usual power brokers who were threatened by Elvis’ emerging independence. Diskin summoned Parker and spelled out the news; Elvis had dared to stray from the cookie-cutter, assembly line modus operandi of the usual sessions. Parker issued his expected admonitions, with a deriding scoff that Elvis was going to “fall on his ass.” But the creative fire that had been kindled could not be extinguished. The quest for artistic fulfillment was now a force majeure that would not be assuaged. The work proceeded until some three dozen sides had been cut by February 22. The heights Elvis reached and the depths he explored to belt every ounce of feeling he could muster would be unparalleled in his recording career. Elvis’ vocal performances were genuine and raw – yet distinctly more refined, mature and focused than his previous Memphis recordings some 13 years prior. Absent the pop polish characteristic of most of his releases throughout the 1960’s – and without any trace of the novelty of his movie numbers, Elvis possessed a new element of ardor, energy and edge that was among many things, abjectly sincere. With ease, he shifted gears with the musicians through songs in which he vocalized plaintive yearning, desperation, indignation, passion, grief, funky swagger, tenderness and a veritable grab bag of emotions. Reaching inside himself perhaps to draw upon his own life experiences, he emoted through the lyrics – taking the listener on a musical journey to feel those same feelings. The sincerity in the way Elvis’ voice melded with the music spoke to our hearts – just as it still does 40 years later. That plaintive ache in Elvis’ voice was back. The kitsch of the movie era was shaken off like layers of road dust from a journey that had taken him much too far away from what he’d always known was his true path: Making damn good music. One fan says, “The songs show how much power and how much heart Elvis really had. His soul is just… all there. Some of the songs selected for the sessions are the most tear-jerking and heartfelt music I’ve ever heard. ‘Superb’ isn’t a strong enough word. And the true centerpieces are the smash hits, In the Ghetto, Suspicious Minds, Kentucky Rain and Don’t Cry Daddy. Need I say more?”

The liner notes from the two-disk compilation Suspicious Minds: The 1969 Memphis Anthology observe the strides from the Elvis Presley/American Studios collaborative efforts: “It was a session that everyone without exception could look back on with the greatest satisfaction: RCA because it had at last gotten the product it knew it could sell; Felton Jarvis because Elvis had come alive in the studio in the way that he always knew he could; Chips Moman because he had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt what he could achieve as a producer who was in charge; and Elvis most of all because he had been induced to reveal himself in a way that clearly provided him with the deepest sort of satisfaction, but from which he had increasingly shrunk of late in the humdrum world of commerce to which he so often found himself consigned.”

Perfectly exemplifying the lyric from the song Tin Man by 1970’s Folk-Rock band America: “Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man that he didn’t already have.” Certainly, the correlation between Chips Moman and Elvis Presley was in no way like Dr. Frankenstein and his creation. But there can be no doubt that the unique touch, perspective, approach and keen ear of the man behind the board awoke something long dormant within Elvis’ psyche. It was something he silently and self-consciously ruminated compunction whether he still possessed. Chips didn’t give Elvis any talent that he didn’t come into the studio with. But among his contributions were his uncanny ability to know what songs were just right for an artist. He had an assembly of tight, hip, crack Southern musicians and troubadours who instinctively knew how to lay down some sides. And importantly, Chips had an almost supernatural ability from behind the board to invoke and summon all the soul that had for too long been in stasis inside Elvis. Did he still have “it?” Damn straight. And how.

There is no doubt that the works generated at 827 Thomas Street in those weeks spread across January and February 1969 revived Elvis' stagnant music career. Redemption. Deliverance from mediocrity. The significance of the anniversary of these sessions is deep, profound and far-reaching – but not solely because it propelled Elvis back to the top of the charts after a lengthy absence. It didn’t just inspire him to get back onstage and to embark on nationwide touring that set records and blew the world away. The most important impact of Elvis’ work with Chips Moman, The Memphis Boys, the backup singers and the product of the songwriters at American Studios was that it revived his flagging self-confidence. Through these beloved recordings that only grow sweeter with time, Elvis didn’t just prove to the world that he was back, at his peak and loaded for bear. He proved all these facts to his toughest critic: Elvis Presley.

January and February 1969 at 827 Thomas Street. Elvis Presley, Chips Moman, absolute magic. The albums packaged from these sessions were aptly titled. Simplistic and to the point. “I had to leave town for a little while,” Elvis virulently laments in the first track on From Elvis In Memphis. An affirmation was made. Planet Earth was placed on notice: Elvis was back – and the music and the feeling were so uniquely homegrown Memphis, through and through.

Yet in the storm of minutiae pushed and promoted by EPE, it has been all too easy for so many to lose sight of the accomplishments that made Elvis a superstar. In the sea of ridiculous “celebriducks,” creepy talking heads, coffee cups, shoelaces and even kitchen sink drain plugs hawked by the merchandizing gurus, a wonderful opportunity to educate and enlighten fans and potential fans was passed over. Ignored. Forgotten? Overlooked by mistake? An unfortunate oversight? No reason can be justified to the true fans of the music and to those who genuinely care about Elvis not simply as the artist and entertainer, but as the man because of the sheer magnitude of this project to his career, his life – and the legacy he leaves behind.

Maybe the Army years get the nod as celebration-worthy remembrances – because in Priscilla’s hunger for adulation, it is a perfect opportunity to further spin her fairytale, beginning with her initial meeting with her future ex-husband. And playing upon the United States’ heightened patriotic sentiment while the country is at war, promoting Elvis’ Army service is a good marketing strategy. And further, perhaps it is easier to focus on Elvis’ material pursuits through campaigns glorifying the anniversaries of Graceland’s purchase, the installment of the music gates and other such trivialities. Yes; trivialities… when contrasted with the big picture of Elvis’ true career accomplishments. It could also be surmised that since Elvis’ former home is a tourist destination (the second most visited private home in the country), a campaign marking the 70th anniversary of its existence and the 50th anniversary of Presley ownership is a perfect tie-in to draw a larger crowd and sell more tickets.

So how exactly does this illustrate EPE’s perception (whether right or wrong) of the intellect of Elvis fans? Would the details of his career be too complicated and difficult for some to disseminate? Too confounding to wrap our minds around? Would information confuse us? Is it just easier – and more profitable – to dangle something shiny in front of our faces and to methodically machinate to increase ticket sales? Of course, we longtime fans know there is an initiative to attract a new, fresh, “hip” demographic to Graceland and the world of Elvis fandom. So, do they think these folks are the ones lacking sufficient intelligence to appreciate the real milestones in Elvis’ phenomenal career? Or could it be that perhaps by filling the void left by Colonel Parker and taking up the helm of marketing Elvis like a soul-less commodity – a mere caricature of the artist and human being – is much more… well…revenue-generating? There. I said it. Several interviews from certain individuals some 25 to 31 years ago besmirched the tacky souvenir shops across the street on Elvis Presley Boulevard and bemoaned the circus atmosphere Parker had generated through the dubious merchandizing deals that did nothing to garner a modicum of respect for Elvis. Devoted fans enthusiastically nodded their heads in full agreement then, thankful and relieved that efforts would soon be underway to nix these atrocities that only further robbed Elvis of post-mortem dignity. For years, “The Elvis Faithful” took up the fight largely waged by the man himself during his lifetime for respect, credibility and meaning. There was a time when being an Elvis fan meant certain ridicule. The stereotypes and generalizations flew. The tone was cruel and disparaging. But we remained devoted because we knew what he was truly about. We’ve overlooked the negative images and unfair perceptions to embrace the spirit and essence of this music man who sang the soundtrack to our lives. Fast forward to 2009. Once again, a mockery is foisted upon us, misrepresented as “keeping a legacy alive.” To see clear evidence that the only thing the corporate conservators of Elvis’ memory obviously begrudged about the tacky souvenirs was that they weren’t the ones profiting is deeply embittering and disgusting to fans. Nevermind that the best way to honor Elvis is to honor his accomplishments. But if it isn’t a cash cow, it has no reverence. It won’t even merit the briefest mention in the endless stream of free newsletters, whose tone has clearly changed over the past few years to a sales promotion tool peddling merchandise, cruises, paid events and other revenue sources. Elvis Presley the man and the artist – to the company that has obviously forgotten its duty to promote his legacy – is simply Elvis Presley the commodity and name brand. Tom Parker has been reincarnated

Celebrating the 40th anniversary of landmark sessions that turned Elvis’ life and career around? Oh, you mean the ones that were a huge turning point in Elvis history and in music history in general? The ones where he was supported by the best players, backup singers and the best producer of his entire recording career? Sure, those… Nope. Sorry. Can’t fit it into our busy schedule.

But… could I possibly interest you in a tribute artist, talking head or a celebriduck?

By Pamela Mays Decker, Feb 16, 2009

Pamela Mays Decker is a writer from Birmingham, Alabama. A lifelong Elvis fan, she parlayed her love for music into a seven-year stint as a radio personality. In the past two decades, she has worked as a newspaper reporter, advertising manager, magazine writer, voice-over talent, comedy ghostwriter and in various marketing and executive capacities in Corporate America with a lot of slimy people she didn’t like. Currently, she is focusing on individual freelance projects, including a book about Memphis history.

Chips Moman gives a little more conversation on Elvis' 1969 creative rebirth: By any standard, Chips Moman has an impressive résumé. As a songwriter, Moman is responsible for several true classics, from "Dark End of the Street" to "Luckenbach Texas (Back to the Basics of Love)." As a producer, he helped define Stax Records during its early years before going on to sire a succession of hits at his American Sound Studio. But, perhaps more than any aspect of his storied career, Moman will be remembered as the man who helped midwife Elvis Presley's creative rebirth in 1969. On Saturday, Moman will be back in the Bluff City for a rare public appearance and an even rarer conversation about the King. He'll be here, along with the members of his famed American Studio band, to mark the 40th anniversary their work on the landmark From Elvis in Memphis album. Moman and company will be interviewed on Saturday in a panel discussion at the Cannon Center for Elvis week. For Moman, his relationship with Elvis predates the 1969 sessions -- and actually began on a Ferris wheel. "See, I used to go out to the fairgrounds whenever Elvis would rent it out, and I would go out and hang out with him and ride the rides," says Moman. By 1969, with his movie commitments over and the famed "Comeback Special" behind him, Elvis was ready to get back to serious recording. As it happened, the hottest band, producer and studio in the world were right in Presley's backyard. Over the years, Moman and his American Sound Studio -- located on Thomas Street in North Memphis -- had grown into a monster. Moman had recruited a crack unit of players from the house bands at Hi Records and Phillips Records to form the American Studio group: guitarist Reggie Young, drummer Gene Chrisman, pianist Bobby Wood, organist Bobby Emmons and bassists Mike Leech and Tommy Cogbill. The lineup, mostly with Moman behind the board, would become a hit-making machine in the latter half of the '60s, working up a series of chart smashes for artists like the Box Tops ("The Letter''), Dusty Springfield ("Son of a Preacher Man''), Neil Diamond ("Sweet Caroline''), B.J. Thomas ("Hooked on a Feeling'') and Bobby Womack ("Fly Me To The Moon") . Given the firm grip of Elvis' manager, Col. Tom Parker, his label RCA, and song pluggers at Hill and Range Music Publishers, getting Elvis into Moman's studio proved a challenge. It was Marty Lacker -- onetime foreman for Presley, who'd gone to work for Moman -- who brought the project in through the back door. "Marty was working for me and he was still in close with Elvis," says Moman. "So Marty was talking to me about Elvis and talking to Elvis about me and slowly bringing us together. He's really the one that got that album to take place." The sessions, which took place in January and February of 1969, began with a bit of turbulence, as Moman was forced to take charge, clearing the studio of Presley's pals and business associates, and setting the tone for the record he wanted to make. "There was a big entourage and there were these publishers in town and they were pushing the kind of songs that Elvis had been cutting, and I wanted to change that," says Moman. "See, we all liked Elvis, but we all liked Elvis in the old days. And so we were really excited about cutting him because we thought that we could do something real special." For Moman, the secret of the sessions was finding the right material for Presley. A gifted songwriter himself, Moman always had an ear out for the next hit tune. "People were sending me songs all the time. People who write songs, they knew I would listen. I always stayed in touch with a lot of songwriters and I would constantly be calling them and asking them for new things."

Among those who provided songs for the Presley sessions were young writers like Mac Davis ("In the Ghetto"), Mark James ("Suspicious Minds"), and Eddie Rabbitt ("Kentucky Rain"). Combining the fresh material with a mix of old country, R&B and rock favorites, Presley was able to showcase his range and interpretive gifts.
For Moman, the sessions with Presley were not unique from a musical standpoint -- "we did exactly what we normally did" he says -- but Presley, who was being pushed in the studio for the first time in more than a decade, was performing with a newfound energy and enthusiasm.
"He came in there and he was on fire, man. He really was," says Moman. "He was excited about this session. I think he liked the strangeness of it, 'cause it was so different from his sessions that he'd been doing."
"He hit it off with everybody too. He was in a good mood and always joking. And it was always funny. He could tell a joke and even if it was a bad joke, everybody would laugh," says Moman, chuckling.
The collaboration between Elvis and Moman would result in Presley's return to the charts, and the King's musical resurgence, which continued with his return to live performing later that year.
Though Presley did not return to record at American, another album, Back in Memphis, containing leftovers from the American sessions, was released in 1970, much to Moman's chagrin.
"The fact is they took the culls, the throwaways, that I had and made an album out of it and released it, too. That was all outtakes. The guys from RCA, they took every tape in the world that they thought had Elvis on it. And that's how they got that other album." (A remastered version of both Memphis albums was reissued by Sony/Legacy as a two-disc package last week.)
For Moman, who's been reclusive in recent years, Saturday's Elvis interview will be a rare opportunity to hear him talk about his most famous charge. "Ordinarily I just don't do any interviews about Elvis. The thing of it is, man, I just get wore out of people asking me about Elvis," he says, with a laugh. "This is the first time I'm doing something like this, but I think it will be great to be with the (American Band) and just reminisce."
The interview will also be the first public appearance for Moman since suffering a stroke last year. He's slowly been recovering, and getting back to the things he loves most. "I'm doing better, but I'm having to really work with my left hand a lot because the stroke messed it up. I haven't been able to play the guitar very well but I'm trying. I'm starting to play my guitar a bit and write some more songs," says Moman.
"Might be another hit left in there yet."

STAX STUDIO MEMPHIS In July and December 1973, the Stax studios were taken over by another pop giant: Elvis Presley, who recorded several sides, including "If You Talk in Your Sleep," "I've Got a Thing About You Baby," "My Boy," and a cover of Chuck Berry's "Promised Land" at 926 East McLemore. "The staff was notified that after-hours the building wouldn't be available to us because Elvis' production crew asked for privacy," says Parker. "It was off-limits to us for a week. I didn't even go into the studio, because I could see Elvis around Memphis. Anytime I'd drive down Bellevue, he might be out on his motorcycle. Having Elvis at Stax was just matter-of-fact, just another session." "By the time Elvis showed up, I had already left to start my own studio, Trans-Maximus," Cropper says. "But I think George Klein influenced him and made him aware of what was going on at Stax. George called me one day when I was still over there and said, 'Elvis would like you to write him a song.' We never really came up with anything, but Elvis had some gospel chops, and he knew his soul." Dunn, who was present for Presley's sessions, says, "When Otis [Redding] sang, he projected. When Sam and Dave sang, they projected. With Elvis, he didn't bellow it out, but it came out big. To end up so forceful, he was the softest singer I ever heard. "He'd have an imitator come in and lay down the track with the band," Dunn says, "and then they'd overdub his voice. I was actually a little nervous. He was Elvis: You didn't just walk up and talk to him. As far as being buddy-buddy with him, you didn't do it."

It’s Different Now At Stax

Just how different is it now at STAX? Content Although it’s just part of Elvis face on the cover and even out of focus the cover looks attractive. Unfortunately that is all there is to be said about the design, the booklet is only two black pages with some well known images and a STAX logo. If you create a bootleg with “borrowed” why not “borrow” the great STAX mini site that is available on the world wide web with a good design, interesting background information and nice images.   Content Elvis’ 1973 recordings at the famous STAX studio – where American Sound Studio founder Chips Moman once was Stax's main man behind the control board – delivered some great tracks that hit the singles chart and ended up on albums like “Raised On Rock”, “Good Times” and “Promised Land”. A lot of these tracks appealed to me and therefore I picked up this CD although I hesitated a bit because of the source (I expected to be) behind this import release; the same as behind the Wolf Call “Legendary Performances” and other "undefined alternate takes" re-issues. Unfortunately I think I was right. Although the tracks in the track listing contain some of my favorites like “Raised On Rock” and “I’ve Got A Thing About You Baby” and of course “Promised Land” I don’t know what I’m listening to. Besides some originals the set contains “unreleased long and alternate” versions, but no information on the exact tracks is given. Listening to the tracks you can sometimes hear the alterations of the home made cut and paste edits. Some edits are done very nicely but on the whole the lack of information and several bad edits spoil the listening pleasure. It will do as a collection of STAX recordings playing on the background, but knowing it is not the real thing I think I'll skip it browsings through my Elvis collection looking for a CD to play. Conclusion It is too damn different at STAX, skip this one if you want a real STAX compilation, track a copy down if you need some elevator music that’s sound familiar.  Let's hope Ernst Jorgensen picks up on the idea of a STAX compilation. Tracklisting (for what's it worth): Raised On Rock 5.06 If You Don't Come Back 3.08 Just A Little Bit 3.57 It's Different Now 4.11 Three Corn Patches 3.51 Find Out What's Happening 3.30 My Boy 4.25 It's Midnight 4.14 Take Good Care Of Her 4.32 I've Got A Thing About You Baby 3.53 Mr. Songman 3.13 Promised Land 4.01 Love Song Of The Year 4.48 Your Love's Been A Long Time Coming 3.52 Bonus: Girl Of Mine - Undubbed 3.41 I Got A Feeling In My Body - Undubbed 3.38 You Asked Me To - Undubbed 2.53 If You Talk In Your Sleep - Undubbed 2.18 Thinking About You - Undubbed 3.57 Help Me - Undubbed 2.28 Sweet Angeline - Vocal Overdub 3.11

The Chips Moman Highway

Moman started playing guitar at age 3, accompanying his mother as she sang. He moved with his parents, Mildred Magnolia Deberry and Abraham Lincoln Moman, to the country when he was about 9 years old and attended Rosemont School while living on Rosemont, Smokey and Briley roads in south Troup County. He shares a birthday with his aunt, Bertha Lee Moman Robinette of LaGrange, who turned 97 today.

Moman returned to LaGrange in 1996 and lives on his family farm near West Point Lake with his wife, Jane. They tend to horses, and he enjoys his dogs and cats, and watching old westerns on TV. Moman can’t play guitar because of a stroke he suffered about two years ago, but he’s expected to make a full recovery.

“I really believe that caring about other people is an important factor in a person’s life and if you don’t have that, you don’t have anything,” he said. “If you can’t care about the people you love, what are you?”

June 16-2010

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