3rd July 1956, Tuesday

[Graeme]

Day number 7848Site Date Map

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At eleven-thirty Tuesday morning, on the eve of the Fourth of July, we caught a Pullman that was on its way fo Washington, Chattanooga and points south. The conductor said we'd be in Memphis the following afternoon.
      As we emerged from the tunnel under the Hudson River fo the sunlight of industrial New Jersey, Elvis and Junior were unpacking in their compartment while Scotty, D. J. and Bill were moving into the compariments next-door. I was looking for the Colonel.
      I found.him and Tom Diskin in the restaurant car. The Colonel turned from the scenery and directed, like a drill instructor to a fresh boot, “Take a load off your feet, Wertheimer. Have a bite to eat.”
      “Yeah, I think I will, Colonel, but I'll sit here in case Elvis comes by.”
      “Okay. Suit yourself.”
      I took a seat at the table across the aisle and ordered a club sandwich, something I could eat with one hand, so I could be ready with the camera in the other.
      Elvis walked in with Junior, dressed in the same grey suit and diamond point shirt he’d worn for the “Steve Allen Show.” In fact, with the excepfion of the recording session, he'd been wearing a suit since Friday.
      He looked over my sandwich and quipped, “I see photographers gotta eat, too.”
      I swallowed a half-chewed lump. “Yeah, eat while I can.”
      “Finger not tired, yet?”
      I looked at my index finger and flexed it for him. He chuckled and said, “Good,” and slouched next to Tom.
      Junior carefully laid a white linen napkin on his lap and ordered a cup of coffee, Elvis asked for a club sandwich and a Coke. All sat quietly looking out the window. Newark, New Jersey, blurred by.
      The Colonel turned to Elvis. Sounding like a father asking a son what he did at school today, he said, "How'd it go yesterday at the recording session?”
      Elvis replied blandly. “It went pretty well.”
      The Colonel carried on the conversation. “The reaction was terrific on the “Steve Allen Show”. Better than I thought.”
      Elvis shrugged. He seemed unimpressed. “Glad to hear it.”
      This appeared to be a routine. The Colonel would start the conversation and Elvis would end it.
      "It's gonna be good to get back home. I'm sure your folks'll be mighty glad to see you,” said the Colonel.
      “Yeah, it'll be good to see ‘em.”
      That was the end of the conversation, The Colonel looked out the window. Tom talked shop. Junior talked to Elvis, and Elvis ate his sandwich. It was two generations sitting at separate tables.
      A teenaged blonde walked by, quickly backtracked and examined Elvis' profile. He let her have a good look, then turned and looked her straight in the eye. She retreated.
      "Oh, excuse me, you look alot like Elvis Presley.”
      With a straight face, he said, “Oh, do I?”
      She shifted to view him from another angle. "Yes, you cerifainly do.”
      Without another thought, she walked away. Elvis smirked. Nobody else at the table paid any attention. It seemed as if they had seen this routine before.
      The train passed through Baltimore and Wasington. I left Elvis alone. It was going to be a long trip and I wanted to give him some room.

      Outside Alexandria, I knocked on his open door. A porter plugged something into the shaver outlet then walked out. Elvis combed his hair.
      “Hi, Elvis. Do you mind if I come in?”
      It was all the same to him. “No, come on in.” On his lap was a portable phonograph.
      “I'm not disturbing you, am I?”
      “No, not at all.”
      At his side was a pile of records in plain brown sleeves labeled “Soundcraft.” He selected oné and put it on. It was “Don't Be Cruel” on an acetate disc that had been cut the night before. As he listened, he ran a thumb across his lower lip and gazed at the scenery. I waited until the song was finished before I spoke.
      “Elvis, I've got a question I want to ask you.”
      His eyes cleared, “Yeah, what is it?”
      “Why do you play it back on such an inexpensive little record player when you can hear it in the studio over a great speaker and really hear evervthing that's on the record.”
      “Well, you know, most of the people who buy my records con't afford expensive record players. I want to hear it the way they hear it. If it sounds good here, then I know it's good.”
      He thooght for a moment and added, “It's important that when I sing a song before an audience, I sing it the same way as I sang it on the recoroding.”
      He continued playing “Don't Be Cruel.” After several run-throughs, he put on “Hound Dog,” replaying certain parts over ond over, listening with the same motionless concentration I had seen in the studio the day before. He repeated this routine with “Anyway You Want Me.”

When he finished playing his records for himself, he called in his musicians and his cousin. I left the compartment to allow them room.
      While I watched the Virginia countryside, I thought about Elvis' consideration of his audience and how they heard his music. I was impressed.

      I slept Through Sweet Briar, Monroe, Lynchburg and dinner. When I checked on Elvis, he was already tucked in his berth, listening to his records in the company of a four-foot teddy bear held in the webbing at the foot of the bed. I took his picture. He put away his records, stared down my camera with boredom, rolled over and went to sleep.

      Two doors down, Tom Diskin was toying on the stationary of “Thomas A. Parker.” There was no “Colonel” attached to the letterhead. I wondered about this title but didn't bother to ask. I didn't want to touch on any sensitive areas.
      I turned my camera toward Tom. He was a clean-cut man in his early thirties, with a soft-spoken competent manner and a sober style quite the opposite of the good ol' boy glad-hand flamboyance of his Southern employer. Tom was from Chicago and he had a background in accounting. He took care of advance bookings, the box office reciepts, letters, bills and any other loose ends the Colonel left unraveled.
      When I took his picture, Tom told me I was wasting film. “I don't take good pictures.” I said he was a handsome man but he didn’t believe it. He just smiled and kept on typing.
            [/Indent]The Colonel stepped in wearing his straw hat, black-framed glasses and a half-buttoned red-striped shirt. He looked like a football referee from the Panama Canal Zone. He lit the stogie clenched in his mouth and said to me, “Wertheimer, are you still at it? How can you take pictures, there's no light?”
      “Well, it would help, Colonel, if you pushed your hat back a little bit. The light might hit some of your face.”
      The Colonel gladly obliged. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth, took off his glasses and removed his hat. He didn’t bother to finish buttoning his shirt.
      “Are you getting any good pictures?” he asked.
      “Yeah, I'm getting good pictures, but my subject went to sleep, so I thought I'd hang around here for a while.”
The Colonel waved his cigar. “Well, make yourself at home.”
      I took a seat across from the Colonel. He daubed his forehead with his handkerchief and fired another question. “You ever been down South?”
      “Well, I was in Florida once.”
      “Then this is your first trip to Memphis.”
      “Yes, it is.”
      “Well, you're going to like it and you're going to see crowds like you never saw. If you think the other night of Richmond was something, wait 'til you see Russwood Stadium. You're going to see faces upon faces of peaple. That place is going to be packed.”
      “I'm looking forward to it.”
      In New York I had heard nothing but big bad wolf stories about the man, "Watch out for this guy,
he's tricky,” people said. Right now he wos more like an uncle, sweetalking and easygoing, and, besides, if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here. He could have dropped me at the last mail stop. So I took a chance.
      “Colonel, I notice you rarely travel by Elvis' side. I know you're his manager but I never see you by his side unless it's some kind of business affair. Like yesterday, at the recording session, I assumed you were gong to be there making all kinds of arrangements.”
      “When it comes to Elvis' music, he picks what he wants to sing. I'm not a musician, I dont know about music. I know about handling acts and booking theaters. As far as traveling goes, I think it's a good idea that Elvis travels with people his own age.”
      “Is that why Junior is hanging around with Elvis all the time?”
      “Junior is Mrs. Presley's sister’s boy. Elvis feels more at ease with people his own age. I'm in my forties. They're in their twenties and that makes a big difference, But when it comes to deals, that's my job.”
      Tom pulled a letter out of the typewriter, The Colonel tried to light his cigar again. I took a picture and asked another question.
      “Colonel, remember the other night in Richmond, at the Mosque Theatre?”
      “What about it?”
      “Well, after the first show, Elvis came out for an encore but after the second show, he left and didn’t do an encore. How come?”
      The Colonel thought about it, mouthed his unlit cigar and with the supreme confidence of an elder relating a law of nature, he said, “You know, Wertheimer, what you want to remember is . . . ” — he said each word distinctly — “you always want to leave them a little hungry. That way you can be sure they'll come back for more.”
      The Colonel let me ponder his wisdom. Tom finished typing another letter and excused himself. I thought it was time to go. I was wrong.
      “Wait a minute, Wertheimer.”
      The Colonel put his hat and glasses back on, refittedd his cigar and took a seatatf the typewriter. With a hunt and peck style, he labored through a letter. I took his picure. As I reset my frame, I noticed an addition to the bare compartment. In the corner of the window next to the typewriter, the Colonel had placed a pamphlet entitled, “Elvis Presley: why does he drive girls wild?” The Colonel didn’t miss a trick.
      I wondered if his typing was o “working” pose for my benefit, so I said “Colonel, you don't type very well I know you're not a poor man. Why don't you hove a secretary with you to type your letters? That way they'll be nice and neat and you won't have to sit there and hunt and peck.”
      The Colonel looked up startled. He slid the cold cigar to the side of his mouth and, with the conviction of a man who makes only sure bets, stated, “Wertheimer, I may not type very well but they sure know what I mean up there.”
      “Up there” meant RCA in New York. I guessed that they did.