Chapter 9: Rocking In Elvis’ Hometown

I imagined the cloud I’d been floating on was now soaring to the heavens. Life was good. Not even the sweltering heat of Mississippi bothered me, possibly because I was working in an air-conditioned studio.  And soon, I ‘ll be driving around in a convertible. 

I had dreamed, wanted, worked, and finally became a DJ motivated by Elvis. And my first time on-air in Mid-63, there was just one Elvis song: (You’re The) Devil In Disguise in Billboard’s top 100. Of course, there were his previous hits to play. But I was anxious to say, “Here’s the latest from The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

When the milestone of becoming a DJ in Elvis’ hometown in 1964, no Elvis was on the Billboard Top 100;  Not one. That was not a complete surprise as the Beatles were storming America in April 1964. No less than eight of the Fab Four’s songs made the Top 100 that year, and five of their songs were numbers 1-5 simultaneously! Who didn’t want to hear the risqué I Want To Hold Your Ha-a-a-and five times in a row? That same month and year, another phenomenon that appealed to America’s youth was released.*

Although many fans thought they heard a new Elvis song in 1964. Instead, it was an Elvis sound-alike, with a slight similarity in looks (but not an Elvis impersonator). It was the handsome Terry Stafford with “Suspicion,” a popular song that peaked at number 22 on Billboard’s Top 100 in 1964.

Then, in 1965, Crying In The Chapel by Elvis made it all the way to number nine on the Top 100. On WTUP’s Sonic 60s survey, it went to Number One. Unchained Melody–The Righteous Bros, You’ve Got Your Troubles–The Fortunes, Little Things–Bobby Goldsboro, and (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones were big hits in 1965.

At WTUP, I did remotes (broadcasting live) at grand openings for car dealerships, furniture stores, record shops, and the like. That exposure led to jobs as Master of Ceremonies (MC) at music venues.

When Jerry Lee Lewis came to Tombigbee State Park near Tupelo for a performance, I introduced him and acted as MC for him and the other bands. Jerry Lee was the headliner with hits like Whole Lotta Shakin’,’ Great Balls Of Fire, and Rockin’ Pneumonia. I was excited and playing it like a seasoned pro, I thought. When introducing his band members dramatically and asking them to say “Hello Tupelo,” I inadvertently bopped Jerry Lee’s drummer in the mouth with my mic.

Jerry Lee Lewis performs in Elvis’ hometown in 1965.  (Photo courtesy Wiki Commons)

I was showing off on stage like I was part of the band when an audience member handed me a request. “Not doing no damn gospel song,” Jerry Lee told me. As of this writing, fortunately, he’s still alive and living in Mississippi.** I hope this doesn’t piss the “Killer” off for me telling this story of his implied disrespect to his audience’s good, God-fearing members.

Although his moniker “Killer” isn’t to be taken literally, he is known to have a mean streak. Hopefully, I am so insignificant that he wouldn’t waste his energy on me. I was given a $20 bill for that gig, about two days at WTUP.

Since I wasn’t working Sunday mornings, I visited Hatley Missionary Baptist Church occasionally and was happy to hear, see, and talk with Bro. McLeod. I thought I probably would have taken my first radio gig without his blessing. But, of course, I didn’t tell him that I’d downed almost an entire bottle of lukewarm Miller High Life® — Baptists don’t have confessionals — from a bootlegger up in Lee County. (Mississippi was a dry state.)

I didn’t like the taste and didn’t have another beer for a year or so, and never in excess. I couldn’t understand the appeal it had for so many.  A lot, I assumed, had to do with its illegality in the state. How wrong was that?

I was driving back home from Tupelo one Friday evening in a steady rain when I saw car lights in my lane at an upcoming curve. At about 50 miles per hour, I swerved left to avoid the headlights and rolled the Beetle a couple of times before landing right-side up in a cornfield.

The lights I’d seen came from a telephone utility truck parked partially in my lane and on the shoulder of the road with its brights on; the man drove me to the hospital in his vehicle.

I was met at the hospital by WTUP’s manager (where I was treated and released). He paid the bill and drove me to his house in his white 1965 GTO convertible. I will remember for a long time that ride in his four-on-the-floor 389cid Tri-power Pontiac® and the taste of the coffee he gave me spiked with hard liquor. It was worse than the accident. Like beer, I thought the appeal of spirituous beverages must be small.  Wrong again.

The next day, I was sore, but I needed to see the car that hadn’t crushed my head during the flips. The roof of the Black Beetle remained intact from the blacktop scrapes and its tumbles in the field — the engine, front end, not so much. Someone said the speedometer was stuck at 90 mph, its highest reading. (That’s a joke; the Bug would barely do 70 on a slight downhill.) Dale, who had given it to me on a permanent loan, declared it totaled. Unfortunately, there was no insurance coverage.

Now that I had no transportation, the station allowed me to use its almost brand-new news cruiser, a red ’64 Falcon with a white convertible top, a 260 cid V-8, and a stick shift. I was making just above minimum wage, but the fringe benefits, wow. Now, I was motivated to finish high school.

Life was so fantastic the first time I drove up to Hatley High in that cool convertible, radio-blasting  House of the Rising Sun; it could have ended right there.

 In May of 1965, at age seventeen, I graduated from Hatley High — barely. Then, four months later, I was fired from WTUP.

9

*The 1964.5 Ford Mustang, of course.

**Unfortuantly, he died in 2022.