People – Page 10 – I Remember JFK: A Baby Boomer's Pleasant Reminiscing Spot

Growing Up Alongside the Beatles

I have vague memories of nursery-rhyme-type records played on our portable player. When the Beatles arrived in February, 1964, I was primed and ready to get into their music. It was lightweight, fun, and easily remembered for later singing in the side yard. My favorite early Beatles songs were “She Loves You” and the bluesier “I Saw Her Standing There.” That latter song was rock and roll every bit as hard as anything the Stones were putting out at the time.

I never missed a Sullivan performance, and faithfully tuned in for every episode of the cartoon. I was one six-year-old Beatlemaniac, to be sure.

But then, that year of 1966, the Beatles began growing up. And they dragged me along, kicking and screaming, forcing me to one day grow up as well, although I held off for as long as possible.

That year, the group decided to stop touring. That decision was preceded late in 1965 by a flowing gush of creativity that accompanied the release of Rubber Soul. That deluge of genius would make their albums of the three previous years look positively amateurish in comparison.

Rubber Soul took the Beatles places that they had never been before, in grand style. But the music, to my chagrin, sounded very little like “She Loves You” or “I Saw Her Standing There”.

It also sounded very little like the music on their cartoon. And needless to say, the Sullivan appearances were now a thing of the past.

Not only that, but they started looking different! The lovable moptops of 1964 were sprouting facial hair by the 1967 release of Sgt. Pepper. I really didn’t like where this was going.

I still tuned into the cartoon every week, but there was something empty about it, knowing that the animated scenes of the band playing were now very seldom performed in real life. And when they WERE seen in musical filmed shorts that foretold MTV, they were long-haired dudes dressed in outrageous costumes!

My depiction of the post-breakup Beatles

In the meantime, the group was taking astounding quantum leaps with their music that it would take me quite a few more years to appreciate. The Beatles was basically solo performances by the group that caused consternation for many, myself included, of course. Many critics panned it, but that didn’t stop it from riding at #1 in the US for nine weeks.

I was beginning to lose hope that the Fab Four that I remembered from my youth would ever be back. Seeing the cover for a 1969 collection of singles which was only released in the US (popularly known as Hey Jude), I was absolutely disgusted with John’s out-of-control hair. He looked like an Amish farmer.

Sadly, I let that picture prejudice my love I formerly had for the Beatles. I was frequently heard lamenting the fact that they had become “hippies,” and thereby left their roots. When I read the 1970 newspaper article announcing that they had called it quits, I didn’t even care all that much.

It was at the age of sixteen or so that I began getting back into the group, and likewise began appreciating the enormity of their latter years’ work. I had finally stopped being a child and begun reaching out for adulthood, though that would be a struggle in itself.

Of all the great things about growing up a Boomer, I count one of my most treasured as being able to grow up alongside this unequalled group.

Dylan: Scratching the Surface

I just had an epiphany.

An epiphany is basically an awakening. My tiny little version was that I had been cranking out Boomer memories for what will be two years in a couple of months, and yet, I had never written about the poetic voice of our generation, who appeared on the national scene in 1962, just in time to explain the tumultuous events which were about to unfurl for the rest of the decade, and whose words and music would be followed with nearly religious devotion by the nation’s youth.

Thus, my tiny little epiphany was that I needed to bring up the much greater one given the world by one Robert Zimmerman, better known by his self-chosen name Bob Dylan.

This column is entitled “Scratching the Surface,” because much more will need to be written about Dylan here to present an acceptably whole picture of him and his effects on the Boomer generation.

Dylan got his start in the New York coffee-houses that were Beatnik hangouts in the early 60’s. He was an ardent fan of Woodie Guthrie, who was dying in a New York hospital. Dylan traveled all the way from his home state of Minnesota, and did manage to meet his idol, as well as Guthrie friend Ramblin’ Jack Elliot.

Dylan and Elliot would eventually perform live shows together, and still remain good friends.

Bob was soon noticed by newspaper reviewers who hung around the coffee-houses and caught local concerts. His fame grew among professional musicians, and he was asked by folksinger Carolyn Hester to play harmonica on her third album.

This caught the attention of John Hammond at Columbia Records, who signed Dylan up. His first album, Bob Dylan, was released in 1962. It sold a piddling 5,000 copies its first year, and Columbia pondered dropping him. But Hammond (who produced his first album), as well as a rocakabilly singer by the name of Johnny Cash, fought hard to give him a second album. Thus was released later that year The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, which was much more successful, and finally turned the public onto this amazing folksinger.

Dylan in the Subterranean Homesick Blues video

Freewheelin’ had, among other classics, Blowin’ in the Wind, Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right, and A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.

Indeed, Dylan’s reputation as a visionary largely came about because of the description of an apocalyptic world in the latter song. The album was released shortly before the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Among those taken up with the Minnesota poet were many who would eventually constitute 1960’s music. This group, all of whom have acknowledged their inspiration by Dylan, includes the Beatles, the Byrds, Joan Baez, Van Morrison, Neil Young, the aforementioned Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, the Animals, the Rolling Stones, Elvis Presley, and countless others. How many of them would have accomplished what they did without Dylan’s genius driving them?

Dylan’s lyrics were turned up several notches on his, and arguably, rock and roll’s, two greatest albums, 1965’s Highway 61 Revisited, and 1966’s Blonde on Blonde.

The words were often nonsensical collections of strange ideas that somehow made sense. Who was Ballad of a Thin Man about? What did it mean when Mr. Jones was called a cow by the one-eyed midget? Who were his contacts among the lumberjacks? Who is this geek that he purchases a ticket to go watch, who would call Jones the freak?

The song has been analyzed by many, with possible meanings ranging from Dylan’s distasteful view of Rolling Stones guitarist Brian Jones to a personal admission of homosexuality.

Such was Dylan’s songwriting at its greatest. The things he wrote about were very much open to interpretation. But all agreed that they were truly great songs.

Look for more on Dylan in future installments at I Remember JFK.

Dr. Demento

There has always been a group of musicians who were just a bit off-center. When my mom was waiting for my dad to get back from the war, it was Spike Jones. Jones, a gifted musician and bandleader, used guns, whistles, pots, pans, cowbells, hammers, bird calls, klaxon horns, bricks, gargling, breaking glass, and God knows what else to make some truly wonderful and unforgettable music.

Jones was quite the celebrity in his day. But when the Big Band sound died, his music slipped into obscurity. Sure, Big Band stations can still be found, but what are the odds that a serious deejay would dare play the William Tell Overture that segued into a truly bizarre horse race (…and Beetlebaum…)?

Well, Mr. Jones, who died too young at the age of 53 in 1965, would have been quite pleased with the emergence of a 1970 jock at KPPC in Los Angeles. His name was Barry Hansen, but the persona he created that year was Dr. Demento.

It all started when Hansen got a deejay gig while still in high school. He was in charge of serving up sock hop music at local dances. The young jock had discovered, in his childhood, a store that sold 78’s for a nickel apiece. The music was quite hit and miss, but some of the misses were hysterical.

Hansen was hooked on the deejay thing, and pursued a musical career. This included working as a roadie for Spirit and Canned Heat, both out of L.A. 1970 found him spinning records at KPPC. His specialty was oldies, and some of them were quite obscure and funky. One in particular attracted the attention of fellow DJ Steven Clean: Transfusion, by Nervous Norvus. “You have to be demented to play that!” he told Hansen.

An idea was born.

Spike Jones, right, and his City Slickers, who received a career revival via Dr. Demento

He changed his on-air name to Dr. Demento and began specializing in songs that were, well, nowadays we would describe them as the kinds of songs you’d hear on the Dr. Demento show. Viewers ate it up. Spike Jones was suddenly thrust onto the children of the parents who remembered him from the 40’s, and the kids loved him! The good Doctor relished digging up old gems from his massive collection of 78’s. Benny Bell’s 1940’s record Shaving Cream might have become forgotten without Dr. Demento’s help. The show’s closing theme was Cheerio, Cherry Lips, Cheerio, a 1929 Scrappy Lambert recording.

But there were a plethora of newer songs, too. Hello Mudda, Hello Faddah, Poisoning Pigeons in the Park, They’re Coming to Take Me Away (ha ha!), One Horned, One Eyed Flying Purple People Eater, Monster Mash, and my all-time favorite: Star Trekking. That last song makes me laugh out loud every time I hear it. “It’s worse than that, he’s dead, Jim! He’s dead, Jim! He’s dead, Jim!” Oh, by the way, on the very first Dr. Demento show, a ditty called The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins was sung by none other than Leonard Nimoy.

The show became syndicated in 1974, and is still around today, I’m happy to say. In 1976, an aspiring musician sent in some tapes, and Dr. Demento liked what he heard. So did the listeners. Thus was launched the career of Weird Al Yankovic.

The Doctor is going into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in a few days as of presstime, and it will be a better place for his presence. Unfortunately, no local station carries him in my area, but I do have some collections on mp3. They’re a hoot to listen to, and we should all be grateful that Barry Hansen was demented enough to dig them up for us.

Death of an Angel, Birth of a Cause

Not many knew what anorexia nervosa was back in 1970. However, everyone was aware of what an angel’s voice sounded like.

That was the year Carpenters released their second album, Close to You. Two gold record hits sprang from the release, the title track and We’ve Only Just Begun.

Indeed, things had only just begun for the brother-sister duo. Before the dark days of disco would change the public’s fickle tastes, Karen’s sweet voice would be a staple of both AM and FM airplay, and she would also be heard on frequent television appearances (including The Carpenter’s own variety show).

But sadly, Karen isn’t remembered so much for her golden pipes, but for her falling victim to a disease few were aware of before she thrust it into the limelight with lots of help from trashy tabloids in particular and the media in general.

Karen and Richard grew up listening to their father’s records, and thus learned as children to appreciate the music of Patti Page, Spike Jones, and Les Paul and Mary Ford. Older brother Richard began showing signs of musical talent, and in 1963, when Karen was thirteen, dad Harold moved the family to Downey, California, in part because he hated the cold winters of Connecticut, and also to give Richard a better chance at becoming a professional musician.

Tomboy Karen thrived in Southern California. She too enjoyed music, and soon was practicing the drums every chance that she had. Drumming came naturally to her, and she became an excellent musician in her own right.

In 1964, Richard formed the Richard Carpenter Trio, with his sister and a tuba and bass player friend named Wes Jacobs. They played local gigs for wedding and dances and found their love of music increasing daily. They also won a Battle of the Bands at the Hollywood Bowl.

As the 60’s wore on, Karen and Richard eventually parted ways with Jacobs and pressed on as a duo. They began using overdubbing in their makeshift studio to make the group sound bigger, and a demo tape made it all the way into Herb Alpert’s possession.

In April 1969, Herb’s A&M Records signed up “Carpenters” (no “the”) to a contract. Their first album, Ticket to Ride, was a modest success, but their smash second album placed them permanently into the history of popular music.

Karen and Richard both disliked their sugary-sweet reputations, but not so much as to go out and party till they puked. They also gave much creative control of their music to A&M in the contract that they signed, and while this did eventually result in sixteen consecutive Top Twenty hits, it also meant that they recorded a lot of what they considered dreck. Karen was also unhappy with being forced to sing standing up at public appearances, preventing her from playing her beloved drums.

Karen had once gone on a diet to lose nearly 25 pounds when she was seventeen, and continued to obsess about her weight throughout the rest of her life. As the popularity of the group began to wane in the mid 1970’s, she lost control of her obsession and began starving herself.

Her preferred method was crash dieting. She would gain some weight back, then starve herself again. Such a regimen is tough on one’s body, particularly the heart. When she died in 1983, it was shortly after gaining back thirty pounds. While good for her physique, it was more than her weakened heart could handle. She died of cardiac arrest at her parents’ home.

Sadly, Karen had planned to publicly share her victory over anorexia nervosa and become a spokesperson in making people more aware of the disease, but her untimely death prevented her from doing so. Yet, with her passing, she still accomplished part of her goal.

Karen’s name became synonymous with anorexia, and after her death, a lot more media attention was given the ailment. Today, signs of anorexia are often spotted early by people who are much more aware of the warning signs. When Karen first began her unhealthy dieting ritual, it took a long time for her condition to be diagnosed. Today, thanks to this sweet-voiced singer, untold numbers of anorexics who might otherwise succumb are being helped to recover from their illnesses.

Casey Kasem and the American Top 40 Countdown

Thanks to popular demand (and please, keep your requests coming!), today’s I Remember JFK memory is about a radio voice that is so familiar that it seems parodied, even when it’s not: that of Casey Kasem.

I wasn’t always a Kasem fan. That’s because his rise as the voice of America’s Top Forty coincided with the decline of my beloved AM rock and roll medium. It wasn’t Casey’s fault, but his packaged FM show hastened the death of WLS’s rock and roll 100,000 watt voice, as well as that of other AM powerhouses.

But Casey couldn’t be blamed for that, any more than airline magnate Howard Hughes could be blamed for the fact that you can no longer catch a passenger train to any town in the US with a population of 1,000 or more.

In fact, Mr. Kasem is an amazing story of just how ANYBODY can succeed in America. And he is also a nice part of the memories of Baby Boomers. And that makes him an essential cog in the I Remember JFK machinery. So Casey, this one’s for you.

The story begins in Detroit, on the day of April 27, 1932. That was the day that Kermal Amin Kasem was born to his Lebanese-descended parents.

Casey, as he preferred to be called, was proud of his Arab-American lineage. But he also knew that he was a minority, and would therefore have to work hard to be accepted in the less-than-enlightened years in which he grew up.

Casey Kasem in the 70’s, hosting America’s Top Forty

Kasem was blessed with a golden radio voice, and he went to work in the medium in short order. In 1952 he was drafted into the U.S. Army where he was a successful deejay for the Armed Forces Radio Korea Network.

When the “conflict” was over, he landed an on-air gig with Detroit station WJBK early in the 50’s. He liked radio, and, like many successful DJ’s, began moving to new locations across the nation as opportunities arose.

By the early 60’s, he was jocking for Oakland station KEWB, and he was becoming known as a trivia specialist.

This was basically what his syndicated show would be about, and his American Top Forty debuted in 1970 as a presentation of what was hot, along with a little-known-factoid here and there to spice things up.

The show was a hit, and fledgling FM stations all over the country began syndicating it in droves during the Blow Dryer Decade. Soon, Kasem’s perfect voice was heard coming out of wedge speakers in the rear decks of 60’s era vehicles all over this great nation of ours every Sunday afternoon.

By the 80’s, American Top Forty was huge business. Kasem cut his ties in 1988, only to give it another go in 1998. He continues to play a part with the show, even though he no longer does the talking.

Kasem also does extensive work promoting the importance of the work that Arab-Americans play in our society.

So here’s to a self-made man who is also a part of our Boomer memory banks: One Casey Kasem.

Raquel Welch

Every generation has its sex symbols. Our grandfathers swooned over Clara Bow. Our fathers were gaga about Betty Grable. Our big brothers got saucer-eyed over Marilyn Monroe. And we Boomer kids felt the first stirring of our hormones over Raquel Welch.

Raquel (that is her real name, BTW) was born in Chicago in 1940. Fresh out of high school in the late 50’s, she was living in San Diego and had landed a gig on the local television station as a weather girl. She was using her maiden name of Tejada back then.

In 1959, she married James Welch. They had two Boomer kids of their own, Damon and Tahnee. Tahnee, BTW, is an actress, and a lookalike of her mom. You may remember her as the beautiful Kitty in Cocoon.

The marriage was pretty much over by 1961, and in 1964 or 65 (sources vary), they were divorced.

In the meantime, she was pursuing an acting career. She landed guest starring roles on Bewitched, McHale’s Navy, and The Virginian.

She also made one beach party movie, A Swingin’ Summer, in 1965. But it was in a movie the next year that she would be permanently etched into the memory banks of the nation’s male population.

One Million Years B.C. was actually a remake of a 1940 film starring Victor Mature and Lon Chaney, Jr. It was a colorful spectacular featuring claymation dinosaurs chasing helpless humans all over the place. One of those humans was bikini-clad Raquel Welch. A still shot from the film became a poster that adorned the walls of millions of Boomer males’ bedrooms.

The movie made her a star. Unfortunately, she never managed to click in any more blockbuster flicks like she should have. The next few films she appeared in, with one dubious exception, were forgettable.

She caused a bit of a stir with her love scenes with Jim Brown in 1969’s 100 Rifles. As liberating as the 60’s were, it was still a bit shocking for the public to see an interracial romance on the big screen.

The next year, she took on a challenging role that she felt would make the public take her more seriously as an actress. The movie was Myra Breckinridge, an X-rated adaptation of a Gore Vidal novel. She played the transsexual Myra in what turned out to be one of Hollywood’s most monumental flops. The infamous film is frequently mentioned in the same breath with Ishtar and Heaven’s Gate as major Tinsel Town mistakes.

Two years later, in 1972, she starred in Kansas City Bomber as a roller derby competitor. Despite good reviews, it too was a box office disappointment. The next year she won a Golden Globe for her role in The Three Musketeers, her artistic high point.

She did a couple of TV specials, hosted Saturday Night Live in its golden first season, and made more modestly successful movies. She’s still acting these days, recently appearing in Legally Blonde. And she’s still a stunning beauty at the age of 69.

But that’s what you would expect from Raquel Welch, the lady who caused many of us kids to realize that girls weren’t so icky after all.

Mel Brooks

Everybody loves to laugh. And growing up a Boomer, one of my most consistent sources of laughter was Mel Brooks.

Melvin Kaminsky was born in 1928 Brooklyn to a father descended from German Jews and a mother whose lineage was Russian Jews. He was a sickly child who soon discovered that he loved to entertain and make people laugh. His first public performances came as a tummler at various Catskill resorts. As master of ceremonies, he took advantage of opportunities to poke fun at acts, audience members and just cut up in general. Soon, he moved on to full-time standup. However, he eventually specialized in writing gags behind the scenes.

After serving as a corporal in the army in WWII, he landed a gig writing for Your Show of Shows in 1950. He worked alongside Carl Reiner, who would eventually base Morey Amsterdam’s role of Buddy Sorell inThe Dick Van Dyke Show on his pal Mel.

In 1960, Mel and Carl landed a writing/performing role on Steve Allen’s variety show. They created the routine of The 2000 Year Old Man, which went on to live a life of its own, spawning five albums and a 1975 TV special.

Brooks expanded his career into films. In 1963, he produced and voiced an animated short called The Critic. It won an Oscar, boding well for Mel Brooks, filmmaker. He continued to stay busy on TV projects. He soon got a job working with Buck Henry writing for Get Smart.

However, Mel wanted to get back into the cinema. He wrote and directed The Producers, starring Zero Mostel and a young, unknown Gene Wilder. The movie’s premise, celebrating Hitler in song, was so outrageous that the major studios wouldn’t touch it, a situation that would repeat itself in Mel’s career. Eventually, he persuaded Embassy Pictures, an independent, to release it like an art film. He once again attracted the attention of the Academy, and The Producers won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay.

That’s one of the reasons I personally love Mel Brooks so much. He eschews all things politically correct in order to make statements that actually require brain cells in order to decipher.

The Producers went on to become a recent Broadway smash, earning twelve Tony awards. And yes, it still sarcastically celebrates Hitler.

As the 70’s began, Mel the writer once again turned his attention to the cinema. In 1970, he directed and starred in The Twelve Chairs, the funniest movie you’ve never heard of. The movie was a sendup of greed, Communism, and religion. Sadly, it remains obscure.

Mel’s next project was a trashing of the Western genre, a movie that would eventually be hailed as a brilliant statement of the stupidity of racism, but which would be reviled by the PC Police for years to come. Blazing Saddles horrified Warner Brothers executives, too. They objected to the repeated use of the “n-word,” (completely missing the purpose of the frequent use of the word in the process), the punching of a horse, and a bunch of cowboys sitting around a campfire passing cubic yards of gas.

However, Mel’s contract gave him final control, and the result was that the single funniest movie ever made, in this humble reviewer’s opinion, was released in 1974.

As the 70’s wore on, Mel the writer/director (and sometimes actor) rode a wave of good times. Blazing Saddles was followed by Young Frankenstein, Silent Movie, and High Anxiety. His hot streak continued into the next decade, with History of the World Part I and Spaceballs. All good things must come to an end, his output afterwards was received with mixed reviews and poor performance at the box office.

Unfazed, Mel went to work putting The Producers on Broadway, where it has set records galore and, as previously mentioned, won a host of Tonys. A similar reworking of Young Frankenstein didn’t do as well , garnering mixed reviews, but the unstoppable genius now has plans to similarly rework Blazing Saddles and Get Smart into stage musicals.

Here’s hoping he succeeds wildly.

Jean Shepherd

Boomers in the northeast US had lots of cool things growing up that those of us in the heartland didn’t have access to. For example, they got to visit Palisades Park, while the rest of us had to settle for dreaming about it. And they also got to listen to Jean Shepherd on WOR out of New York. While the station’s airwaves carried hundreds of miles, they didn’t reach northeast Oklahoma.

That’s a shame. I missed out on one of the greatest storytellers in history.

Jean was born in 1921 and heard the calling of the radio business. He obtained an amateur radio license when he was sixteen, and served in the U.S. Army Signal Corps in WWII. After the war, he landed his first radio gig for WSAI in Cincinnati.

He worked for various stations and even did a little television until 1956, when he went to work for WOR with a late night show. It would remain his home (with a little time off for bad behavior) until 1977.

Shep, as he was called, filled dead air time for a few months with his rambling commercial-free narratives. He quickly attracted a significant audience. WOR informed him that they would be replacing him with commercial content. He offered to run an ad. He did so, for Sweetheart soap. Unfortunately, the company was not a sponsor.

Miffed, WOR fired him on the spot. Then came the deluge of angry mail and phone calls from his fans. Sweetheart soap even offered to sponsor him, and he was rehired. The irreverent Shep would frequently make fun of the ads of his sponsors in the background while they ran, but they didn’t seem to mind.

Shep’s stories featured many remembrances of people who may or may not have actually existed, although he always claimed they did. Regardless, the stories were amazing to listen to. Shep would ramble on for 45 minutes or so with no script. But there was no hesitation as if he was trying to think of something to say.

Shep was a great leg-puller. He took issue with the fact that best-seller lists were formulated by requests for books at bookstores, rather than actual sales.

So Shep created a book-that-never-was-but-was. It began by his urging his listeners to go into bookstores and requesting I, Libertine, by acclaimed (and also made up) British author Frederick R. Ewing. Sure enough, the book dealers began requesting copies of the non-book from Publisher’s Weekly. The New York Times Book Review included it on their newly published works list. One college student wrote a thesis in the form of a review of the book — and got a B+.

Shepherd himself wrote “Friends would call to tell me that they’d met people at cocktail parties who claimed to have read it. One of the professors at Rutgers casually mentioned the book at a Sunday literary meeting and somebody present said he’d just finished it. When pressed, he was evasive about the plot.” And best of all, Boston’s Legion of Decency banned the allegedly bawdy non-work.

There was only one thing to do, publish the book! So publisher Ian Ballantine, novelist Theodore Sturgeon and Shepherd met for lunch, and Ballantine hired Sturgeon to write the novel based on Shepherd’s outline.

It gets weirder. Sturgeon fell asleep on the Ballentine’s couch, and Ian’s wife Betty wrote the final chapter! I, Libertine was published simultaneously in paperback and hardcopy. Shep himself posed for the back-cover photo of Ewing.

Shep was a prolific writer. He actually penned many short stories that were collected into books. One was In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash. It featured a story about a kid who REALLY, REALLY wanted a Red Ryder BB gun for Christmas. It was turned into a 1983 movie that was a smash hit. A Christmas Story holds a very respectable 8.0 rating at IMDB.com, which means that over 36,000 voters thought it was pretty stinkin’ good.

Elvis Makes a Triumphant Comeback

Elvis performing on his 1968 Comeback Special

Regular readers of I Remember JFK know where I stand on the subject of Elvis. He had as much performing talent as any one individual who was ever born, but unfortunately, he also had the naiveté to put his trust in a manipulative individual who saw nothing but dollar signs as far as his client was concerned. The result was that Colonel Tom Parker stifled the man’s talent to an extent that we may never know. During most of the 60’s, instead of recording more and more great rock and roll like he cranked out during the 50’s, he was in movie studios. Disposable, forgettable dreck was the overwhelming result. Each bad movie came out with a bad soundtrack. Lots of money was made, but untold quantities of God-given talent was tragically, permanently wasted.

But in late 1968, Elvis, backed by TV producer Steve Binder, dug in his heels against Parker and starred in a December NBC special that reminded the world of what all of the excitement was about ten years earlier.

Parker wanted Elvis singing Christmas tunes. Binder, who had previously stood up to Chrysler over Petula Clark touching Harry Belafonte’s arm during a duet on her own 1968 special (Chrysler didn’t feel the world was ready for a white woman to touch a black man on broadcast TV), was not intimidated by Elvis’s doltish manager. The result was one of television’s greatest moments, and a revitalization of the King’s career.

The special consisted of staged songs on a set intermixed with live recordings.

There was all sorts of controversy. For example, one song was to be performed in a bordello! The network squawked, Binder held, and the scene was included.

Surprisingly, one of the strongest voices against the live segments was that of Elvis himself. His last live appearance, thanks to his Hollywood-obsessed manager, was in 1961. The Tupelo, Mississippi-born kid had stage fright after years of performing in front of movie crews instead of screaming fans.

Again, Binder stuck to his guns, and Elvis was convinced to get behind a microphone before applauding fans.

Thus, that summer, the King sat down on a Burbank stage before four different audiences in four different sessions, and history was made. Live performances would comprise the bulk of the rest of his career, definitely a positive move for the man and (sigh) unfortunately, the manager, too.

Elvis quickly got over his stage fright. Only a small portion of the live scenes were used in the show, but they had an impact. Plus, bootlegs were leaked onto the market of the four sessions. The lucky ones who got their hands on the boots were blown away by this man who had captured the imaginations of their parents and older siblings.

And fortunately, for us old goats, you can now obtain the four-CD set of the Comeback Sessions on the legal market. You can feel the passion of this man who was born to put soul into music finally getting his wish after so many years.

The next year, Elvis released an album in keeping with his newfound spirit. From Elvis in Memphis put the wasteland of the 60’s far, far behind. The man who had been coerced into taping stuff like Girls! Girls! Girls! was now belting out an R&B classic (Any Day Now), country fare (I’m Movin’ On, a harbinger of his future career path), and bold social commentary (In the Ghetto).

From Elvis in Memphis was justifiably given a place as one of the 500 greatest rock and roll albums ever created in the opinion of Rolling Stone magazine. I strongly agree.

Elvis was taken from us at too young an age, but how wonderful that his later career received a shot in the arm thanks to him and gutsy TV producer Steve Binder standing up to Colonel Tom Parker in 1968, and turning what was supposed to be 90 minutes of Christmas songs into a public reminder of just how much talent the King possessed.

Elvis Presley, Actor

Colonel Tom Parker had quite a goldmine on his hands. He managed Elvis Presley, the most valuable commodity in the entertainment industry of the mid 1950’s. Of course, even the most manipulative manager couldn’t make his client do anything he didn’t want to, at least not without getting him to sign contracts granting the power to do so. There was money in music, to be sure. But there was more money in movies.

It turned out that Elvis did want to act. And his talents included the ability to do so quite convincingly. And the first films that Parker convinced him to make looked like the best of all possible worlds was being reached. The films were good, the acting was challenging, and the songs that were performed were good stuff.

However, the job satisfaction of his client and the commitment to artistic quality were not very high on Parker’s agenda. So after a promising start, Elvis’s acting career went downhill, quality-wise. Unfortunately for him, it would continue belching smoke until 1969.

The first four movies that Elvis made, beginning in 1956, were Love Me Tender, Loving You, Jailhouse Rock, and King Creole. They were critical and financial successes. Elvis’s musical career didn’t suffer a bit, as the films garnered several hits, including the title tracks, as well as Teddy Bear, Mean Woman Blues, Hard Headed Woman, Trouble, and New Orleans. Elvis himself was happy with his roles, even if not starring.

A comment by producer Hal Wallis, who handled two of the films, would have ominous overtones about where this was all heading: “An Elvis Presley picture is the only sure thing in Hollwood.”

Parker and Wallis hit it off. He was given the job of producing many of the next 27 films that would be churned out on a frequent basis during the 60’s, only a couple of which would be recognized as approaching the quality of these first four. Many of the others called upon to produce the other films were journeymen who were delighted to get the work, or perhaps former greats who were past their prime and looking to make some bucks like the old days. Either way, artistic quality in serious danger of being tossed aside, and usually was.

Parker would delight in the easy revenue from the quickie films, and managed to get Elvis on board with it, even though the King for the most part despised what he was doing.

Elvis’s next film, 1960’s G.I. Blues, typified what was happening. Elvis found himself surrounded by cute babies, cute puppets, and a razor-thin plot. But a return to glory took place with Flaming Star, released that same year. Based on a novel by western storyteller Clint Huffaker, the film tackled racial prejudice head-on in the tale of half-breed Pacer Burton, played by the King.

Elvis and Mary Tyler Moore in Change of Habit

The next bright spot was 1964’s Viva Las Vegas. Co starring Anne-Margaret, it’s a tale about a kid with big ideas by the name of Lucky Jackson who blows into town with the idea of winning the Las Vegas Grand Prix. The cinematography was better than average, and the music worked, too. All in all, a success, as far as critics and Elvis himself were concerned.

What followed was more bad but profitable stuff. In 1969, Elvis made his final film as an actor. Change of Habit paired him with Mary Tyler Moore, ready to move on from her portrayal of Laura Petrie. Despite a shallow plot typical to the Elvis films of the 60’s, there was good chemistry between the King and MTM. Elvis even got to play the type of part he craved, a straight role as an inner-city doctor.

However, with the movie’s release, the era of Elvis the Actor officially ended. He had previously garnered an excellent reaction to his 1968 live comeback special, Elvis, and saw the light. Ironically, he had to buck Parker (something he very seldom did) to get the TV show made his way. Elvis would spend the rest of his post-film career performing live, particularly in Vegas, and releasing albums based on their own merit, rather than as hastily-recorded movie soundtracks.

Unfortunately, the era of Elvis, the Prescription Drug Abuser, was about to begin, which would greatly damage his creativity.

What kind of musical heights could Presley have reached in the 60’s had he been concentrating on music, instead of spending his time filming three- and four-a-year stinkers like Fun In Acapulco, Tickle Me, and Charro!? Sadly, the world will never know. But at least Colonel Parker died a wealthy man.