A few minutes later when I got to my room the phone immediately rang. It was my bandmate, Dana Key. He invited me to come down to the restaurant and have breakfast with him. “Sure,” I said. “Give me a few minutes to clean up and I’ll be down.” Cleaning up, for me, meant getting my hair under control. I had some kind of hair in those days. My wife and daughters said I could easily be confused with “The Beast” from Beauty and the Beast. Others said I looked like a wrestler. I liked that description better.
The hostess desk and cash register in the lobby restaurant was directly across from a double set of glass exit doors. I could see people sitting at booths and tables in the large dining area beyond the chest-high hostess desk. There were a couple of hipster street looking guys standing there paying their bill to the waitress from behind the cash register as I strolled up. The hallway was too narrow for me to pass behind them so I walked up between them and the hostess desk, smiled, and said, “Excuse me.” The two guys graciously backed up to the glass exit doors, allowing me to pass by in front of them. When I walked into the restaurant, oddly, every eye in the place was trained on me. Suddenly I heard a woman’s bloodcurdling scream from behind me and I turned around just in time to see those two men running through the glass exit doors as the waitress continued to scream.
They robbed the place!
I briskly stumbled over to the row of booths where Dana was sitting. He looked up astonished and gasping for air saying, “Do you have any idea what just happened? Those guys had guns trained on that waitress! We were all watching! You just walked up and said, ‘Excuse me’ and they raised their gun arms just like a tollgate at a parking lot and let you pass by. Then, they lowered their guns and finished the hold-up! Unbelievable! Eddie, you are Mr. Magoo!”
I have thought a lot about that morning since then; whether those guys knew whether I saw their guns or not. Maybe they thought I was some kind of bad-*** longhaired dude not to be messed with. I like the thought of that but I’ll never know for sure.
Like they said at that seminar, there are people who make things happen, people who watch things happen, and people who wonder what happened. When the speaker laid it out like that we all laughed. What he said was funny, but I have found myself falling into the third category more than I like to admit.
“What happened?” The story of my life. It’s definitely been exciting.
TWO
In the Days of Thy Youth
Memphis, Tennessee sits proudly upon a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. They call it the Bluff City, actually. That’s where I grew up. I never understood the nickname until I got older. They say the river bluff makes the tornadoes jump over Memphis. Maybe that’s true, but it seems I do remember a couple of them wreaking havoc a little east of downtown when I was a kid. I guess they just didn’t jump far enough to get past the hood or the suburbs for that matter. Downtown was the only area that seemed to be spared. Across the Big Muddy river, the land is as flat as the back of your hand, with cotton fields stretching for miles in every direction. That’s where West Memphis is. It’s actually in Arkansas and things are just a little bit different there. More about West Memphis later; it’s important.
Downtown Memphis was extremely vibrant and alive in those days. Front Street, next to the river, was lined by cotton companies in both directions. They traded it, shipped it, picked it, sold it, or did whatever else could be done with cotton. They mostly made money. Every fall, during the harvest, you could see thousands of cotton bales stacked upon the cobblestones next to the river, waiting to be loaded onto barges. The businessmen and workers inspected and moved them around, circling them almost like vultures on the hunt.
Memphis could still be hot in October. It seemed everyone—whether dressed in suits or work clothes—was drenched with sweat. The city hosted the annual King Cotton Parade and it was quite a big deal back then. I represented my fourth grade class at the festivities one year. It was a proud moment and an honor when I was chosen to be the ambassador of my class at the King Cotton Parade! This was back in the late fifties and early sixties. When I met the girlfriend of my life years later she worked at a cotton company on Front Street, as did her father before her. Two things seemed to be the lifeblood of Memphis back then—cotton and music. The latter still runs through my veins to this very day.
Beale Street intersects with Front Street and South Main right on top of the river bluff above the muddy Mississippi. It’s like you can smell the catfish when the breeze blows just right off the river. It’s been called the Home of the Blues. I lived just a few miles south in a neighborhood called Whitehaven. When I was a kid my older brother and I, and sometimes a friend or two, would hop on the city bus and ride down to go hang out on Beale Street. I was only eight or nine years old. It was safe to do that back then. Incredible! In those days, Beale Street was lined with the coolest and most outlandish rock ‘n’ roll and soul clothing stores, a lot of pawnshops, and some infamous soul food restaurants. The century-old buildings were weathered and tattered and in serious need of fresh paint.
The streets had open air produce markets on the corners with vendors who called out when you passed by, “Hey boy, you wanna buy a slice of watermelon for a dime?”
Old black men sat on apple crates, played bottleneck guitar, and sang the blues all down the street. I remember a band called “The Three Tuffs” except there were four of them. One of the guys played bottleneck slide on an acoustic guitar with open tuning. One played a guitar with only five strings instead of the normal six. One played an upright bass made from a washtub and a string. The drummer beat a cardboard Stag Beer box with drumsticks. I asked the guitar player why he only had five strings. “Well, I only got five fingers,” he said. “It only seemed right I didn’t need that extra string.” Made sense to me. I later found out the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards did the same thing. Guess it made sense to him too.
The drummer did fantastic things with that Stag box. He hit it in different places for different sounds and raised and lowered it with his foot for more bass resonance. The kids today do the same thing with the five-gallon plastic buckets. But this guy played a Stag Beer box! “Why that brand?” I asked.
“No other beer box sounded right ‘cept Stag,” he said. I was smitten. That was cool.
My family moved from Detroit to Memphis in 1959. My folks were both from backwoods, northeast Arkansas towns called Marked Tree and Piggott. They were country kids who grew up in the cypress swamps and farm country of the rural backwoods. They didn’t know each other growing up, but both went north to Detroit during the beginnings of World War II when they were “all grown up” teenagers hoping to find work in the factories and help the war effort. I think a lot of folks did that then.
Strangely enough, my father was in the Army’s horse cavalry back in Kansas during 1939 before we entered the war when he fell ill with a very bad case of dysentery. Uncle Sam thought he was sure to die and discharged him, giving him only six months to live in 1941. He received a pension of seventeen dollars a month all of his life after he was sent home. That doesn’t sound like a very good deal. My dad wasn’t allowed to re-enlist during World War II. I’m pretty sure he always felt guilty about that, seeing how all his friends went off to fight the good fight overseas. He just never died like the Army said he would. He met and fell in love with my mother in Detroit and started our family there. Though they lived up north for twenty years, they always had a longing to move back to the South. In June of 1959 Dad bought an old truck, packed us up, and headed back to Dixie. I was four years old. My folks were known as Cliff and Marge.
I’m the youngest of four boys. My oldest brother, Shelton, is eleven years my senior. Then came Mike and Larry. I came into the world almost six years after Larry. That worked out pretty well for me, actually. I was the only one at home from seventh grade through high school. I got all the attention.
When we moved from Detroit to Memphis our parents dropped us four boys off at my grandparents’ farm o
utside McDougal, Arkansas. It was the month of June in between school years. We stayed with them for about a month while Mom and Dad went to Memphis to find us a place to live. That was when I first learned what chopping cotton was all about. My grandparents were good people, but thought it was right that we worked while we stayed with them on the farm. As I mentioned I was only four, so I’m sure I didn’t work very much, but my brothers did. My grandma took us out to the fields every day with a hoe and had my brothers chop the weeds away from the cotton plants. I just remember it being hot and dirty and watching out for snakes. My grandma seemed to always have killed a copperhead or two with her hoe and stretched them out for us kids to see. I also remember my brothers hating chopping cotton with a passion. We learned to pick it later that year. We hated that too. Those are my earliest Southern memories; cotton, heat, dirt, snakes, and sweat. It all fit together pretty well.
On Thanksgiving Day, 1959, my family bought and moved into our house at 4080 Whitehaven Park Circle. Graceland, Elvis’s home, was just a quick walk through the woods up and across Highway 51 from us. That’s when music came alive for me. Elvis Presley personified rock ‘n’ roll, and his mansion captured my imagination. That kind of success and fame became the goal and purpose of my life. In many ways, music became my god by the time I hit adolescence. I dedicated myself at the altar of rock ‘n’ roll completely.
Growing up in Whitehaven was fantastic. It was just a few miles south of downtown, but far enough away to feel pretty rural. We only had a few stores, but Elvis lived there! When I was in first grade our school bus passed Graceland every morning. Sometimes we kids would see The King outside riding a horse in his pasture. Sometimes he would wave at us as we went by. I actually trick-or-treated from him on Halloween once. I remember the kids lining up the driveway of Graceland waiting to catch a glimpse of him. I was a little vampire and Elvis gave me a one-dollar bill he signed. I did what every other little punk would have done. I spent it the next day. I can’t believe I did that!
My interest in music actually started back in Detroit. My mother played piano in our small Missionary Baptist church. She was really good at it. We had a piano in our basement, and I began to play around on it at the age of three. She taught me little melodies, very simple songs and such. Those were dear times with her I will never forget. She gave me lessons until I was five or six. Then she was done. I was unruly so she farmed me out to an evil piano witch. That didn’t go so well until the witch bought me a Beatles songbook in 1964. Then she turned into a piano goddess! Smart, she was.
I can also remember the first record I was old enough to put on the record player and play all by myself. It was “I Got a Woman” by Ray Charles. I played it over and over again all day long. It must have been my big brother’s record. My folks probably wouldn’t have bought me “I Got a Woman” when I was only four. I know it was my brother’s record player because it wouldn’t work right one day so I painted it with blue-gray house paint I found in the basement. I painted the whole darn thing, turntable and all. It ruined the record player and it about ruined my behind after my father found out. That was a bad day.
A couple years later, down in Memphis, on the first day of the first grade, I met a kid who became one of the most important people in my life musically and spiritually. Dana Key was kind of a big kid who surrounded himself with his own greasy kid-gang of minions. I can still see his dirty, smudgy face when we squared off on the playground. He asked me if I wanted to be part of his gang.
“No way,” I said. “I’m going to get my own gang and be the leader.”
That’s how we met. We competed with each other for the rest of our lives. We were friends, and truly loved each other, but we really acted more like blood brothers. I still recall, in the fourth grade, when we looked through the Sears and Roebuck catalog at the musical instruments. In the early years he was going to play trumpet and I was going to play trombone. I’m glad that didn’t stick.
THREE
Chase the Wind
My older brother Larry took up guitar around the time I met Dana. He was in high school by then and got pretty good at playing and singing. My father was an okay guitarist too, but was even better on the harmonica. He picked up harmonica as a kid while hopping trains around the country during the Great Depression. He said they were really popular because you could put them in your pocket if you had to jump off the train. He could play rhythms and melodies at the same time. I marveled at it. Dad and Larry sometimes played together in the living room.
Larry formed a neighborhood band with three or four other kids from around the block. They practiced in my brother’s upstairs bedroom after school. I often sat in the corner and listened to them play. It was magical. I was totally into the drums. I just couldn’t believe how cool it was to hit on things and keep a beat. When the kids left to go home, I would sneak in, sit at the drums, and try to make beats. By this time, my mother and father were home from work and the noise drove them crazy. They yelled up the stairs for me to leave those drums alone and come down and practice piano. Let’s face it; playing piano is not the coolest thing for a fourth grade boy to do. The other kids spent afternoons playing football and baseball while I had to practice my stupid piano. Drums seemed cool, though. You got to hit things.
My mom and dad joined us all up to the Graceland Baptist Church when we moved to Whitehaven. I can still see the pastor, my dad, and the other deacons all taking a smoke on the church steps under a blue sky after the Sunday service. It was the early sixties and in the South after all. It seemed everyone smoked—even the dogs and cats. I tell folks I had a “smoking permit” in high school allowing me to smoke cigarettes at school. I don’t think my grandkids believe me when I tell them. That was before we knew smoking killed you. Now, we’ve come up with better and quicker ways to kill ourselves: drugs, gangs, junk food, and all kinds of other bad stuff.
Remember, I said earlier West Memphis figured importantly in my story. It’s known these days as the Truck Stop Capital of America. That’s something when you think about how many truck stops there are. It’s where the highly traveled I-40 and I-55 interstate highways intersect.
West Memphis was also known for the Southland Greyhound Park—the one and only place where legalized gambling was allowed around Memphis when I was a kid. Every night on the evening news the announcer gave the odds on the Trifecta or Quinella, or all sorts of crazy schemes a person could bet on and maybe win a little money. The Baptists didn’t think kindly of gambling, of course. Well, one night my dad, being the good Baptist that he was, decided to go over and bet on the dogs. He ended up winning $1,200, which was a small fortune in 1964. He took me out the next day, probably either out of guilt or his hatred of my drum playing, to Berl Olswanger Music on Union Avenue and bought me a Farfisa Combo Compact Organ and a Gretsch amplifier. It was the same keyboard many of the famous British invasion and American rock bands used. I was beside myself.
That is how I got started in Christian music—at the dog track.
God may have taken a few years to work out his plan properly with me, but that was the start of my apprenticeship. During my years as president of Capitol CMG Publishing, I purchased the exact model of that little organ and set it up outside my office with a picture of me playing the original one with our band when I was ten years old. It was a great reminder of where I came from and also a good story to tell to aspiring artists and writers.
I was nine years old when my dad bought me that organ. It caused quite a hoopla at home. All of a sudden it was cool to be a piano player in the neighborhood. It also drew some pretty snide remarks from my brothers. They couldn’t believe my folks spent that much money on me. Frankly, I can’t believe it either. We were a totally middle class American family and that sum was downright outrageous. I think it was the “sin money” from the gambling escapade that did the trick.
I was quickly invited to be in my brother Larry’s band. All the band members were in high school and I was just going into t
he fifth grade, but I had the organ and amplifier. It’s probably what got me in the band. We named our band The Chants. I practiced every day like clockwork. I learned songs from vinyl records by picking the needle up over and over again and copping the licks. I probably drove my poor family crazy. I couldn’t pass by a piano without sitting down and banging out a tune. That was my daily passion from then on.
One of my big moments came on the last day of the fifth grade. My teacher came to me and said there was going to be a celebration for the whole elementary school in a couple of weeks and our principal wondered whether or not our little rock band would play a few songs for the student body. I went home elated and asked my brother and the band if they would be willing. Of course he agreed, but they needed permission to get everyone out of high school that day. The parents of the band members wrote notes and, thankfully, it all worked out. We played three songs that day at Graves Road Elementary School; “Gloria” by The What (Van Morrison’s first band), “Louie, Louie” by The Kingsmen, and “You Really Got Me” by The Kinks.
The place went wild while we played. It was glorious. All the girls wanted to talk to me after I got offstage. I couldn’t believe it. It was kind of sicko when I look back at it. I was somebody! Our dear ol’ dad even showed up unannounced with a bunch of big amplifiers he rented. He wanted us to sound good. He was always into it that way.
That was the day I dedicated my life to becoming a rock star. Hell or high water, I was going to make it big someday. Unfortunately, for the next several years I visited hell first.
My first real conflict happened at our church. Our band was a dance band. All the kids wanted to do when we played was dance. There were dance TV shows like “American Bandstand,” “Hullabaloo,” “Dance Party,” “Where the Action Is,” and others. The Methodists, Catholics, and several other churches sponsored weekend dances in their gyms or youth meeting rooms.
Rebel for God Page 3
