Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

  I thought about the first times I’d been on the plane, when it was just a gutted shell. Trip after trip to Meacham Field, I’d been aboard to watch Elvis excitedly take his Polaroids as the interior was slowly transformed into what he wanted. Now, every detail of the plane’s cabin was an extension of Elvis, from the leather chairs he’d picked, to the intercom system he’d requested, to the bar he’d kept stocked with soda and Mountain Valley Spring Water. With so much of the man around me, it was hard not to think that he’d be stepping onto the plane any minute.

  I walked to the back of the plane, to the bedroom. Laid out neatly on the bed were a pair of his pajamas—still ready for him to wear on the flight to his first concert tour city. A few of his favorite books were on a little night table, some opened to the page where he’d stopped reading.

  I knew the funeral and the days ahead were going to be especially hard on Vernon, Grandma, Priscilla, and Lisa, and I wanted to be as strong as I could for them. There were going to be a lot of details and logistics to handle, and I wanted to do whatever I could to help. As much as I hurt, I didn’t feel I could give myself over to grief. It wasn’t the time for me to become sentimental. But alone in that bedroom, looking at my friend’s empty pajamas, I found myself wanting to touch something of his. I sat on his bed and grabbed his pajama top, holding it close. I sat like that for just a moment, then went back to the conference room, sat in one of the leather chairs, and waited for the others to arrive.

  The loss became even more real for me when I saw the pain in Priscilla’s eyes after she stepped on the plane. We embraced for a moment, but could hardly put into words what we were feeling. In fact, there wasn’t much talk among any of us on the flight to Memphis. I realize now that all of us were in shock, sunk into a sadness so deep there wasn’t much energy for anything else. I do remember that about an hour into the flight, we detected the unmistakable smell of something burning, and soon saw that smoke was coming from somewhere inside the plane. And we were in such a state that we barely reacted to the possibility of a fire onboard. A crew member went to the cabinets in the conference room and discovered that a blanket had been up against an exposed wire and had begun to burn. The blanket was extinguished. The flight made its way to Memphis.

  I know Vernon wanted to be strong for his family, but he was absolutely devastated by the loss of his son. And seeing those who had loved and been loved by Elvis only sharpened the pain. He was sitting in a back room at Graceland when our group from Los Angeles arrived at the house, and, at the sight of Priscilla, he broke down into uncontrollable sobs. I went over and put my hand on his shoulder, hoping I could provide some small comfort to him.

  I hadn’t been at Graceland for a while, and I don’t think my name came up at first when the list of pallbearers was being decided on. But when George Klein mentioned me to Vernon, Vernon had insisted I be one of the guys to carry his son’s coffin. I was one of nine, along with Joe Esposito, George Klein, Charlie Hodge, Lamar Fike, Billy and Gene Smith, Felton Jarvis, and Dr. Nick.

  A public viewing of Elvis’s body was held at Graceland. Several people had tried to talk Vernon out of this, but he felt very strongly that Elvis himself would want this last opportunity for his fans to say goodbye. I don’t remember much at all about the days around the funeral, but I do remember the incredible sight of so many people wanting to pay their respects to Elvis. That Elvis was loved by his fans was no surprise—you could always feel it coming back at him from the audiences at his shows, and you could feel it in the excitement he created everywhere he went. But now all that love had a new physical presence. It was there in the tens of thousands of people, lined up from the Graceland front door down the driveway, through the gates, and out along Elvis Presley Boulevard—all of them waiting patiently in the Memphis summer heat to say their own personal farewell to Elvis.

  Vernon extended the hours of the public viewing to accommodate as many of those fans as possible, and later, in the Graceland living room, there was time for a private viewing for the family and those closest to Elvis. Memories of the time are a blur to me, but I do remember one awful detail—the whole time we friends and family members were paying our respects, there was a single sound that cut through the room: Vernon howling in anguish.

  And I do remember that after that private service, I went to Grandma Presley’s room to check on her. She was very old by then, and looked so small and fragile. She and Elvis had shared a home almost since the day he was born, and Elvis had cared for her so much. On the small night table near her bed, she still had two framed photos: one of Elvis, Gladys, and Vernon, and one of Priscilla. Now she took my hand, and in a trembling voice asked, “Do you think you could come back and live at the house, son?”

  There was a moment when I found myself alone in the living room with Elvis, and I thought about a day long ago when I’d been just steps away from the very same spot—looking through the living room to the music room, where Elvis sat by himself playing the piano. The powerful, beautiful music had drawn me up from my room in the basement, but as I got closer, I thought maybe I was intruding on something personal. Elvis was lost in his singing and playing, and I didn’t want to interrupt his private moment. But I couldn’t walk away from his music, either. I was trying to figure out which way to go, when he happened to look up and see me. He didn’t stop playing. And, with just the hint of a smile on his face, he gave me the faintest of nods to let me know it was OK to stay and listen. He turned his attention back to his hands over the keyboard and continued singing the song that had drawn me, a song that had long been one of his favorites, “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

  The funeral procession from the house to Forest Hill Cemetery was slow and stately. It may have taken over an hour to travel the short distance down Elvis Presley Boulevard. Riding in one of sixteen white limousines behind Elvis, I kept thinking about a song he had played for me several times in the TV room at Graceland—a song that was on one of the records he kept in his special drawer down there. It was “The Bells” by the Dominoes—an almost operatic pop song about a man witnessing the funeral of his true love. Elvis loved listening to the way the lead singer, Clyde McPhatter, actually broke down and cried his way through the verses. Now, I couldn’t stop thinking of Elvis singing along with the record:

  Well, I know why they’re ringing

  They’re ringing out for me…

  As we slowly made our way down the boulevard, I witnessed a sight that was powerful and heartwrenching—thousands and thousands of people lined both sides of the street, standing in solemn, respectful silence as the procession passed by. I saw children crying, grandparents crying, cops standing at attention with their hats over their hearts, and the toughest-looking bikers with tears in their eyes. White folks stood side by side with black folks.

  A huge part of Elvis’s legacy became clear to me on that slow ride to the cemetery. Before Elvis and his music, there was nothing that could have brought all these different people, from all these different walks of life, together. His music had pulled together gospel, blues, country, and R & B into one sound. Now here were all the faces and lives behind each strand of that sound, standing as one. All those faces, all those people, had become one living tribute to Elvis, feeling his loss as one, and expressing their sorrow as one. In death, Elvis had done what he’d always sought to do in life—he’d brought us together.

  I stayed busy enough in the days around the funeral that emotions never had a chance to take over. All the guys worked together—the same way we had in our football games, on the movie sets, at the ranch, on show nights—knowing that this was the last time we’d ever be together this way, doing what we could for Elvis.

  I was still in a daze when I traveled from Memphis to New York to catch up with the Beach Boys before their big Central Park show. My old friend Tom Hulett was promoting the tour, and before I left L.A. he’d let me know his staff would get the tour started smoothly (Tom had also been at the funeral, attending with the Colonel).
I was running on autopilot as I made the rounds to let the band and road crew know I was back. Everyone certainly knew what had happened and knew where I’d been, but nobody seemed to want to talk to me about it. They didn’t know what to say, and I suppose I didn’t look very approachable.

  Most of the band members were staying at the Plaza, but Carl and his wife, Annie, were staying at the Sherry Netherland. He called me from there and said that he was in his room with his wife—a beautiful, gentle spirit just like Carl. The two of them wanted to know if I would come over just to sit and talk for a while. He said they could only imagine what an awful time I was going through, and that they wanted to be there for me. I didn’t think I really wanted to talk about anything, but I went over to meet with them. I’d always thought of myself as a strong guy, but there was a strength and a centeredness in Carl that I respected. I’d felt comfortable talking to him as long as I’d known him, and I felt I’d be comfortable with him now.

  “Jerry, how are you doing?” Carl asked.

  “Are you OK?” asked Annie.

  I had thought I was all right. But I wasn’t. As I began to answer them, it hit me like a punch in the stomach: I was never going to see Elvis again.

  Then it all came pouring out of me, everything I’d held back for a week: anger, rage, pain, loss, grief. My best friend was dead. We didn’t have to lose him like this.

  I hit the room’s stone mantel so hard I broke my hand. Carl and Annie grabbed hold of me and held me as long as it took to calm me down. And they sat with me until my hurt and my anger had left me exhausted.

  We’d been sitting quietly for a while in Carl’s room when the phone rang. I wasn’t surprised to hear that the call was for me, but I was surprised to hear who was on the line—Billy Joel. He and Elizabeth knew the Beach Boys were in town, and decided to track me down. They wanted to offer some comfort, too, and asked if I’d come see them. I went over to the Joels’ apartment and right away could sense the deep concern for me that Billy and Elizabeth shared—the same kind of concern I’d felt from Carl and Annie. We sat and talked for a while, but Billy had something he thought would communicate his feelings a little better—he had some music he wanted to play for me, if I was up to it.

  “When I heard the news, I didn’t know what else to do,” he said. “I figured Elvis would just want us to rock.”

  Billy had been down at JP’s Tavern when he heard about Elvis. He’d gotten up on the tiny stage there, sat at the piano, and played an impromptu forty-five-minute set of Elvis songs to an almost empty room. Somebody in the club had the sense to roll tape. I really wasn’t sure if I was ready to listen to the performance, but I asked Billy to play the tape. And as I sat there listening, all I could think of was what a beautiful tribute he had created on the spot. The hurt was still fresh and I was already missing Elvis like I was missing a part of myself. But that night I began to think about how much Elvis had left behind for me, and for all of us.

  The next day the Beach Boys were scheduled to take a flight out of New York City. I had calmed down enough to worry about brother Brian, and how Elvis’s death might have affected his sometimes fragile state of mind. I asked Carl if Brian had said anything about it, and Carl told me that Brian wouldn’t talk about it. When we got on the plane I sat with Carl. As the plane took off, Brian, who at that point had still never initiated a conversation with me, came up and sat facing Carl and me. He looked very nervous. And for the first time, he spoke directly to me. In a trembling voice he said, “Jerry, what happened? What happened? I’m scared… .”

  “It’s OK, Brian. We can talk about it.”

  I tried to comfort Brian as best I could on the plane that day, but frankly, I was scared, too.

  Elvis had been there for me every day of my adult life. Now I was going to have to walk alone.

  EPILOGUE

  I still live in the house Elvis gave me. I always wear the emerald ring he gave me. And it doesn’t take more than a few bars of any of his songs to send me right back to the Rainbow skating rink, or the pool room at Graceland, or the Paramount lot, or backstage at the Las Vegas Hilton. In the years since he’s been gone, my life has been rich, eventful, and rewarding. And I don’t ever forget that I’ve had a chance to live that kind of life because of the time I spent with Elvis.

  The Beach Boys became a very big part of my life. By the end of 1977, I was working as Carl Wilson’s personal manager, and in 1978, at Mike Love’s recommendation, the Beach Boys voted to make me their manager. I was proud to be trusted with the career of one of America’s greatest rock-and-roll bands, and in 1980, I was able to follow through on an idea of Mike’s and organize the first of a series of shows that marked one of my most satisfying accomplishments as a manager: the Fourth of July concerts on the Mall in Washington, D.C. I worked with the Beach Boys for more than a decade, years that included some hard times, but some great times and great music, as well.

  After losing Elvis, I was especially sensitive toward Brian Wilson’s situation. I took the initiative to bring therapist Eugene Landy back to work a second round of intensive treatment with Brian, a decision that was supported by Carl, the band, Brian’s attorney John Branca, and promoter Tom Hulett. Landy’s approach was controversial, but we kept Brian alive. With the help of a lot of other friends, family, and musical colleagues, Brian became an active, creative artist once again. And, on a November night in 2004, I was privileged to be at Disney Hall in Los Angeles when Brian triumphantly led his own band through a beautiful performance of his long-anticipated masterpiece, “Smile.”

  Myrna and I were married in 1980, with Carl Wilson serving as best man. We had a very small service in Hawaii for just a few friends and family members, but we were surprised by one unexpected guest: Dennis Wilson. We put him up in our bridal suite. I also continued to work with the Sweet Inspirations, and reached a high point with them when they were signed to Robert Stigwood’s RSO Records and were also chosen to be the opening act on the Bee Gees’ worldwide “Spirits” tour. Myrna and Carl also developed a great creative relationship, working closely together on a pair of solo albums that Carl recorded for CBS, and cowriting a national number-one hit, “Heaven.”

  At the end of 1980, I had a chance to bring together my Memphis and California roots on one stage: When the Beach Boys celebrated their twentieth anniversary with a big show at the Forum in Los Angeles, the band was introduced by Priscilla Presley. It was one of the last great nights the original band was together on stage. In December 1983, while I was having dinner with my father and Colonel Parker, I received the call from the L.A. County Coroner’s Office: Dennis Wilson had drowned in the waters off Marina del Rey, California, gone at the age of thirty-nine.

  In October of 1977, I had watched when CBS first aired Elvis in Concert, the TV special that had been shot weeks before his death, and I’d been shocked and saddened at what I saw: Elvis looked pitiful. I’d never seen him looking so unwell. And though the special contained a few moments of heartbreakingly beautiful singing, Elvis was clearly in a state of physical distress. I was furious, and got in touch with the Colonel right away, asking him how he could have possibly let Elvis continue to work—in front of the cameras, no less—when Elvis was in such terrible shape. The Colonel didn’t try to defend himself, but he gave me his explanation, one he thought would make sense to me as a fellow manager. He’d asked CBS for a ridiculous amount of money to do the special, assuming that they would say no. But they’d said yes. He felt obligated to report the offer to Elvis, assuming that Elvis still might not want to do the show. But Elvis did want to do the show, and the Colonel didn’t feel he could stand in Elvis’s way.

  My disagreements with the Colonel didn’t stop us from becoming friends. In the years after Elvis, we spoke almost every day, and I know I was one of the very few people he had that kind of friendship with. He was a smart, tough, complicated man, and also, quite often, a heck of a lot of fun to be around. Our differences were honest ones, and I maintained a great de
al of respect for him. Those who think of the Colonel as an evil puppet-master forget that such a role makes Elvis a puppet. That was not the case. The Colonel eventually paid me the highest professional compliment he could. When he was considering making deals on a book of his life story, and granting rights to his story for a 20th Century Fox production of Last Train to Memphis, he had me handle the negotiations. Our friendship lasted right up until his death in 1997. I truly miss him.

  Over the course of thirty years, I had the pleasure of becoming a friend of Sun Records founder Sam Phillips, and discovered that, in addition to being a man of courage and talent, he was an incredibly smart and principled man. As esteemed as he had become, he remained a champion of the underdog. One of the deepest honors of my professional career came when I was asked to accept, at Sam’s request, his Lifetime Achievement Award from the Blues Foundation (I saw it as a formidable task to speak on behalf of one of the most charismatic speakers I’d ever met). I remained close with Sam up until his death in 2003. He was a personal hero, who became a cherished personal friend.

  In 1985, after five years of marriage and ten years together, Myrna and I realized that we had grown apart. We divorced, but have been able to stay close friends in the years since.

  In 1987, I moved on from the Beach Boys to work for Elvis once again—I was appointed the creative affairs director for Elvis Presley Enterprises. Part of the job felt very familiar to me—I had to protect Elvis, although now it was his name and likeness that I was watching over. But the more satisfying part of the job was in finding new ways for Elvis’s legacy to be extended and strengthened. First, and most importantly, I was able to play an instrumental role in untangling what had been a very litigious relationship between EPE and RCA records. Once Elvis’s name and his music could work easily together, the way was cleared for all sorts of film and television projects. I got to play a strong consultant role on a number of those. I was also able to facilitate a film shoot at Graceland for U2’s Rattle and Hum documentary, in the process beginning a great friendship with fellow Elvis fan Bono.