Baby, Let's Play House Part 35

"He was really involved with what was going on in a healthy way," Howe recalled. So when Finkel told him that the Colonel insisted that the NBC show be a twenty-song Christmas special and that Elvis was not to say anything other than, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," and "Merry Christmas, good night," he scowled.

Binder and Howe realized the best way to present Elvis was in a relaxed atmosphere-some kind of showcase where people could see how warm and funny he was, instead of the canned personality from the movies. They tossed around the idea of a live segment where Elvis could talk about his musical roots, and then maybe play a little informally. Binder talked to Finkel and said he would only come on board if he could draw the curtain back on what he saw as a once-in-a-lifetime personality.

On May 14, Finkel again met with Elvis, who listened to his ideas and agreed with his direction. Afterward Finkel wrote a memo reporting that Elvis would like the "show to depart completely from the pattern of his motion pictures and from everything else he has done. . . . [He] wants everyone to know what he really can do."

Next Binder and Howe met with the Colonel, who lived up to his eccentric reputation, showing them the sc.r.a.pbooks he kept as the dogcatcher in Tampa, diverting their attention while he sized them up. Binder, watching Parker in action with his staff, saw that the Colonel prided himself on his ability to terrorize grown men all around him. Politely, but firmly, Binder insisted he needed a one-on-one meeting with Elvis before he committed to the special.

Secretly, Binder was thinking that at thirty-three, Elvis was no longer the rebellious Hillbilly Cat whose fluid hips and good-natured sneer had captivated a nation. The world was a different place than it had been in 1956, and the movies had rendered Elvis an anachronism. Musically, he had been eclipsed by a long list of British and American musicians, from the Beatles to the Doors to the Jefferson Airplane. He would always be remembered as a pioneering rock-and-roll icon, but to a generation that listened to FM rock radio and elongated alb.u.m cuts, he was a relic, a man who hadn't placed a record at the top of the charts in six years.

The producer-director suspected that "with that exterior of self-confidence and bravado, Elvis was actually a scared little boy," even as the singer had to know that the special, if done correctly, could rejuvenate his career and liberate him from the artistic brimstone of grinding out three B movies a year. And indeed, years later, Priscilla would tell Binder she had never seen Elvis so excited about anything, that he was so eager to get started he could barely sleep.

They met in Binder's office, in what was known as the gla.s.s elevator building on Sunset Boulevard. At first Binder was taken aback by the enormity of Elvis's presence, which he hadn't expected. ("You certainly knew that this was a special person . . . his looks were just phenomenally sculpted, without any weak points.") The two men liked each other, and both were comfortable enough to speak candidly.

"I felt very, very strongly that the special was Elvis's moment of truth," says Binder, "and that the number one requirement was honesty." They joked around a bit, and Elvis told Binder he had never felt at ease doing television, going back to Steve Allen, the tuxedo, and the ba.s.set hound. Binder told him he understood, but that this would be different, because this time it would be about music: "You make a record, and I'll put pictures to it, and you won't have to worry about television."

They talked about the Colonel, and Binder said they would probably move in directions that Parker wouldn't like. Then as tactfully as possible, Binder told Elvis that Parker had neither kept up with the times nor his client's need to grow. Parker had certainly been a promotional genius, though "once he had the stranglehold, he forgot that what he was marketing was built around talent, and manipulated the whole thing with smoke and mirrors." The Colonel had pulled off a great con in getting MGM to pay Elvis a million dollars for Harum Scarum, Harum Scarum, but if Parker had been really smart, he would have turned around and given that money to a great director to put Elvis in the right kind of movie. but if Parker had been really smart, he would have turned around and given that money to a great director to put Elvis in the right kind of movie.

"He laughed at that, and said, 'You're right.' " He then told Binder he had been burning up inside for years to communicate.

But Binder still wasn't sure what that meant. How was Elvis's musical gut these days? If songwriter Jimmy Webb had brought him the melodically complex, lyrically poetic "MacArthur Park," for example, would he have recorded it, even at seven minutes?

"Definitely," Elvis said, his voice firm and eager. Now Binder felt certain that Elvis was thinking more about the future than the past. They had a deal.

Elvis said he was going to Hawaii to get a tan and relax for a few weeks, and Binder told him they'd have a project he could believe in when he returned.

On May 18, Elvis, Priscilla, and the baby flew to Honolulu, and while they had talked about the trip as being a second honeymoon, they also brought along Joe and Joanie Esposito, Patsy and Gee Gee Gambill, and Charlie Hodge. Elvis, determined to be in the best shape of his life, went on a crash diet and slacked off on his barbiturates so as not to impede his weight loss.

Still, he indulged his interests. A week after they arrived, the group attended Ed Parker's champions.h.i.+p karate tournament at the Honolulu International Center. Elvis had known Parker since 1961, but he had never met Mike Stone, the former international light-contact champion.

When the couple was introduced to the c.o.c.ky young champ, Priscilla's eyes lit up. She now looked at other men the way Elvis looked at women, and Stone was precisely her type. The twenty-four-year-old half-Hawaiian was the recognized bad boy of karate, a dangerous rebel who considered compet.i.tion a blood sport. Moreover, he was dark-skinned and swarthy, which she found a turn-on. ("There is a certain strength I feel with dark men. They're very virile.") Less than a year after their marriage, Elvis had heard that Priscilla was having an affair with her dance instructor, Steve Peck, a tall, dark, tough-talking Sicilian. And only recently, word had gotten back to him that she had danced and flirted with Little Anthony of the Imperials at a disco on a recent trip to New York. In fact, they'd had a terrible row about it.

Priscilla was just so tired of the lying, sick of the games, and especially angry that she and Elvis had not had full intercourse for ten months, while she knew he was getting s.e.x elsewhere. As Joe remembers, "Often Elvis would say, 'I've got to go away, honey, to get away from all the pressure.' She'd say, 'What pressure? You're at home with your wife and daughter.' And he'd go, 'I've just got to get away,' which meant he wanted to go out and fool around."

What was good for the goose was now good for the gander. Priscilla's flirtations with Steve Peck and Little Anthony wouldn't amount to anything, but Mike Stone would be big trouble down the road. Elvis either didn't see it coming, or didn't care.

"This guy's great," he told her. "You should take karate lessons from him." Priscilla would later tell Mike that she decided the day of the tournament that she would do exactly that. She also vowed that he would be her lover. There was something catlike about Mike Stone that she found irresistible. And the fact that Elvis admired him, that he couldn't touch touch him in the sport they both loved and shared, made Mike an especially delicious conquest. him in the sport they both loved and shared, made Mike an especially delicious conquest.

While Elvis was in Hawaii, Binder brought in writers Allan Blye and Chris Beard, who structured the special around Maurice Maeterlinck's 1908 theater staple, The Blue Bird, The Blue Bird, in which a young girl and her brother leave home to pursue their cherished lost pet, quite literally the blue bird of happiness. in which a young girl and her brother leave home to pursue their cherished lost pet, quite literally the blue bird of happiness.

To tailor the theme for Elvis, Blye and Beard wove a medley of songs that told a story about an innocent, small-town boy who loves to play the guitar. Soon, he sets out to explore the world, traveling what he hopes will be the road to success. His journey leads him to a carnival boardwalk, a house of prost.i.tution, a seedy dance bar, an upscale nightclub, and a stadium arena.

So that viewers would realize it was Elvis's story, too, the team incorporated snippets of his own music, as well as a gospel segment that symbolized salvation. They'd use very little actual dialogue but rely on his song "Guitar Man" as an autobiographical cord to tie it all together.

It was a clever, if natural, concept, but a more inspired moment came from costume designer Bill Belew, who conceived Elvis's now-famous black leather suit, a brilliant update of the cla.s.sic '50s motorcycle jacket, and an inside homage to James Dean and Marlon Brando, Elvis's idols.

When he first saw the singer in the initial production meeting, Belew, a graduate of the Parsons School of Design, perked up: "This is somebody who is going to be fabulous to dress. This is one gorgeous man!" He chose Cordoba leather, the kind usually reserved for ladies' gloves, so that the heat and perspiration would mold the suit to Elvis's body, despite a lining of black Chinese silk. Belew knew the suit would be hot under the lights, but he felt certain Elvis would like it.

On June 3, Elvis arrived at the Binder-Howe offices for the start of two weeks of rehearsals. He was fourteen pounds lighter from his diet, and his skin was bronzed from the Hawaiian sun. "He looked amazing," Binder remembers. Elvis got excited about the script, and then Howe said he'd like to bring in some of L.A.'s best session players, like guitarists Mike Deasy and Tommy Tedesco, and drummer Hal Blaine. Elvis nodded in agreement. In fact, he said, "I like it all."

However, the team's buoyant mood vanished three days later, when on a visit to Los Angeles, Robert Kennedy was shot and killed at the Amba.s.sador Hotel. His death, coming so close on the heels of the Martin Luther King Jr., a.s.sa.s.sination, spiraled Elvis into a well of despair. Binder, seeing Elvis's deep reaction and listening to him talk about the lost Kennedy brothers-and in a roundabout way, civil rights-asked songwriter Earl Brown to compose an emotional finale that captured some of Elvis's idealistic and spiritual outlook on life.

Brown stayed up all night to write a climactic ballad called "If I Can Dream," the t.i.tle hinting at the slain leaders' impa.s.sioned words.

In mid-June, to Elvis's surprise, Binder dismissed Billy Strange, the musical director who, with Mac Davis, had written "Memories," one of the special's keynote ballads. Strange, who also worked as a writer-scorer for Nancy Sinatra, was the only person Elvis had asked to be on the project, stemming from his work on Live a Little, Love a Little. Live a Little, Love a Little. In his place, Binder brought in Billy Goldenberg, a cohort from a number of Binder's previous specials In his place, Binder brought in Billy Goldenberg, a cohort from a number of Binder's previous specials.

At first, both men were uneasy. Goldenberg thought, "I'm a Jewish kid from New York who grew up on Broadway. What am I doing playing 'Hound Dog'?"

Their first big test came on the day the team went to Elvis's dressing room and played "If I Can Dream." Howe said he was sure it was a hit song, but the way Goldenberg played it, Elvis thought it sounded a little too theatrical. Howe knew it was right for him: "You can do it with a real bluesy feel."

"Let me hear it again," Elvis said.

Goldenberg played it seven or eight times, Elvis bowing his head, getting inside the song. Finally, he looked up. "Okay, I'll do it."

For his entire life, Elvis had fronted nothing bigger than a small rhythm section onstage. Now, in backing him with a thirty-nine-piece orchestra, Goldenberg would bring about the biggest change in Elvis's music since his move from Sun to RCA.

Ultimately, the musical director would create a new, sophisticated sound that would set Elvis up for the next phase of his career. But Elvis had never allowed anyone to tamper with the direction of his music. The angriest he'd ever gotten with Colonel Parker was in January, when Parker had ordered RCA to remaster "Guitar Man" and bring Elvis's voice farther out front. And when he walked into the session at Western Recorders and saw the horns and string section, he nervously called the producer-director aside. Binder told him they'd send everybody home if he didn't like it.

"When Elvis heard the first note, he loved it," Binder says. "He had his sungla.s.ses on and was standing next to Billy on the podium, and he looked into the control booth at me and gave me the high sign, like, 'We're going to be okay.' He just fell out, and he never once questioned anything that we did musically. That was the one moment when he knew it would all come together."

Elvis had now literally moved into the NBC studios, the staff having converted the dressing rooms on the stage into sleeping quarters. Each evening, Elvis jammed and cut up with Charlie, Joe, Alan, and Lamar, and Binder was enthralled, realizing that was the kind of intimacy, informality, and playfulness he'd hoped to get onscreen. He could use a new little handheld video camera to capture it and give the audience a glimpse of an Elvis that no one outside his friends and family had ever seen.

"Absolutely not," Parker vetoed, but he gave Binder permission to re-create it. That inspired the "improv" segment, in which Elvis sits on a small stage with Charlie, Scotty, D. J., and Alan, jamming and telling stories of the early days. A highlight came when he poked fun at the Judge Gooding incident in Jacksonville, as well as his own famous sneer: "There's something wrong with my lip, man. No, wait a minute, wait a minute. There's something wrong with my lip. Hey, you remember that, doncha? I got news for you, baby. I did twenty-nine pictures like that."

At the last minute, Binder and Howe informed Colonel Parker that "If I Can Dream" would close the show. After a battle of wills ("Over my dead body will Elvis sing an original song at the end of the show! We had a deal for a Christmas song!"), Binder added "Blue Christmas" to the improv. Dream" would close the show. After a battle of wills ("Over my dead body will Elvis sing an original song at the end of the show! We had a deal for a Christmas song!"), Binder added "Blue Christmas" to the improv.

Binder had bested the Colonel, something few men had ever done. But Finkel gives some of the credit to Parker's client. "We got Elvis to take a stand. It was a miracle."

On June 23, Elvis recorded "If I Can Dream" in several pa.s.sionate takes. To Binder and Howe, his performance was so staggering as to seem almost a religious experience. Out on the floor with a hand mike, standing in front of the string section, Elvis fell to his knees. For a moment, he was back at Ellis Auditorium, at the gospel sings of his youth, or maybe down in Tupelo at the a.s.sembly of G.o.d church. Howe, having worked with him before, might have antic.i.p.ated such an immersion. Not everyone was prepared: "The string players sat there with their mouths open. They had never seen anything like this."

But the more astonis.h.i.+ng performance came when the producers sent everybody home and Elvis rerecorded the vocal in the dark. Binder sat motionless, afraid to move as Elvis lost himself in the song. Once again, he fell to his knees. But this time, in a fervent act that was equal parts artistry and emotional regression, he a.s.sumed a fetal position, writhing on the cement floor. Then, after four takes, he got up and walked into the control room, and Binder played the recording back for him. Elvis sat in rapt attention and asked to hear it again until Binder had played it some fifteen times. Only then was he satisfied.

At the start of the project, Parker had told Binder he'd never interfere if things were going well. "On the outside, the Colonel was very unhappy with what was happening. But being a good businessman, there's no doubt that he saw we were on to something special and he shouldn't rock the boat."

Parker was, in fact, a step ahead of everyone. The show would garner high ratings and sell alb.u.ms, yes. But the Colonel had long foreseen the event as a catalyst for the next stage of Elvis's career. Elvis had three movies to make to fulfill his contracts, but then the Colonel was taking him to Las Vegas, where Elvis would be the biggest act in the desert, and the highest paid performer in Vegas history.

Two months earlier, in April, Elvis, Priscilla, and the Colonel had gone to see Tom Jones in concert at the Flamingo Hotel. On the surface, it looked like nothing more than a star, his wife, and manager out for a night on the town, especially since Elvis and Jones were friends, and the Colonel could never pa.s.s up a blackjack table.

But they were there for a much bigger purpose. That night, Parker met with Flamingo president Alex Shoofey, whom he'd known during Shoofey's twenty-year tenure at the Sahara. Over dinner, they roughed out an agreement by which Elvis would appear at the International Hotel, which Shoofey would build with Kirk Kerkorian the following year.

It was time to start reshaping Elvis's profile. Lamar figured it out: "The only way he could set it up was to show how Elvis would perform with a group behind him. That's why the Colonel envisioned the special."

At six-fifteen on the evening of June 25, Parker presented his rehabbed attraction to fifty TV-radio editors at a press conference on NBC's Rehearsal Stage 3. The Colonel cracked a few jokes to warm the crowd, and then Elvis bounded into the room in an electric blue s.h.i.+rt, black pants, leather wristbands, and a diamond ring one reporter described as the size of a Ping-Pong ball.

"Come on, Steve," Elvis said to Binder. "These are always fun."

Binder and Finkel sat on either side of him as he smoked his favorite stogie. Bones and Lamar anch.o.r.ed the end of the table, and Joe, Charlie, and Alan stood behind them. Almost everyone had on a yellow scarf-Parker had handed them out as gifts from Elvis.

The reporters were eager for answers.

"Elvis, why are you doing this show?"

"We figured it was about time. Besides, I thought I'd better do it before I get too old."

"Do you think your audience has changed?"

Elvis smiled: "Well, they don't move as fast as they used to."

They were just starting to enjoy the exchange when the Colonel ended it abruptly, springing his client in full pitchman's style. "Right over here, folks, get your picture taken with Elvis."

"I have no proof to back this up," says Binder, "but I felt the Colonel had the magic power. And I believe that before Elvis did anything, the Colonel would take him quietly into a room and use his hypnotism on him. Elvis was very insecure. But fifteen minutes later, he would come out oozing confidence, convinced that he was the greatest performer who ever walked on the stage."

Somewhere around June 26, ch.o.r.eographer Jaime Rogers began rehearsing the "Let Yourself Go" dance sequence. Like everyone who worked with Elvis on the show, he was impressed: "People would be shocked to know how hard Elvis worked on this special." Yourself Go" dance sequence. Like everyone who worked with Elvis on the show, he was impressed: "People would be shocked to know how hard Elvis worked on this special."

d.i.c.k Loeb, an NBC executive, would later nickname the production number "Bordello," as it frames Elvis wandering into a house of ill repute. There, the Guitar Man is surrounded by a bevy of older, hardened prost.i.tutes who paw and grab at him seductively. He has fun with them, and just as he is about to pick one for the evening, he spots a virginal innocent, a young girl with long blond hair who has yet to meet her first client. They eye each other from across the room, but as the Guitar Man makes his way toward her, the vice squad arrives, and he jumps out the window, continuing on his journey.

In the days leading up to the segment rehearsals, "Elvis ushered young girls into his dressing room like they were on a conveyor belt," Alan remembered. And then the dancer playing the "Virgin" showed up: It was Susan Henning, Elvis's mermaid from Live a Little, Love a Little. Live a Little, Love a Little. He had no idea she would be there, and Binder wasn't aware Elvis even knew Susan when he hired her: "With her blue eyes, long blond hair, and angelic face, she just looked like the ideal person to cast." He had no idea she would be there, and Binder wasn't aware Elvis even knew Susan when he hired her: "With her blue eyes, long blond hair, and angelic face, she just looked like the ideal person to cast."

Susan thought she'd have a little fun with it.

"When I walked into the room where we were to rehea.r.s.e the dance, he had his back to me. He had his little macho pose, and I think I had on a pair of short shorts. . . . I remember walking up and sticking my leg between his legs, and kind of doing a little can-can. He looked down [and said] his favorite expression, 'My boy, my boy!' "

Susan spent her nights in Elvis's studio dressing room, and then she would have to get up and rush to her parents' home to pick up her daughter. "Mom would say, 'You still taping?' And I'd say, 'Yeah, Mom, sometimes they need you late.' I remember it was a teensy bed, and one night, one of my eyelashes came off on his pillow." At first, it scared him-he mistook it for a spider, he later told the guys. "He thought that was so funny."

Though Binder didn't realize that Elvis and Susan were spending time together ("I was and still am very naive about these kind of things"), it was obvious to everyone else that they were dating. Priscilla was always home with the baby, and Elvis and Susan flirted openly. Says Binder, "I understand that was the real reason Elvis didn't want Priscilla around. A few years later, she told me Elvis said for her to stay home because there were too many good-looking men on the set."

It made Elvis feel good to have Susan nearby. They were always joking and jos.h.i.+ng and teasing with everybody, and to her, "he seemed very comfortable. He was happy to be back working."

Elvis never let her know about his anxiety, but still, she saw herself as his support, since he asked her to stay for much of the taping. "I almost feel I was there to be his strength during that time. I would just be off on the side, and when he's singing, you can often see him looking over that way."

They saw each other for a year and a half. "And certainly we talked about the future." But in the end, she didn't think they had enough in common. She was ready to phase out of show business, and he was going in deeper. And while they shared a love of horses, his was an occasional interest, and hers was a pa.s.sion-she would become one of the top horse breeders in America.

"The sparks and chemistry lasted with us. But I wasn't prepared to follow anybody around the country. I still had a lot that I wanted to accomplish." And, of course, there was another problem: "He had a mult.i.tude of women."

The Bordello sequence would be cut from the original broadcast, as the sponsor was afraid it "might offend the little ol' ladies in the Singer Sewing Centers across the country," as Binder puts it. However, the segment was reinserted in the airings that followed.

On June 27 Elvis rehea.r.s.ed the gospel medley, taped the carnival segment, and then went to his dressing room to rest before his two, one-hour sets before a live audience that evening. But shortly before the six o'clock taping, he panicked, reporting "sheer terror" that he might lock up once he got onstage. Binder had seen him agitated only once, when Finkel suggested they might need to lighten his hair ("Do you think my hair's too went to his dressing room to rest before his two, one-hour sets before a live audience that evening. But shortly before the six o'clock taping, he panicked, reporting "sheer terror" that he might lock up once he got onstage. Binder had seen him agitated only once, when Finkel suggested they might need to lighten his hair ("Do you think my hair's too black black?"). But now Howe recognized a crisis: "He sat in that makeup chair and literally trembled, just really sweated. He said, 'What am I going to do if they don't like me?' " Binder reasoned with him and then asked Elvis to do it as a personal favor: "If you get out there and you have nothing to say and you can't remember a song, then say, 'Thank you,' and come back. But you've got to go out there."

It was his first serious musical performance in seven years. Although he was so nervous that his hand shook, he performed as an artist who was evergreen and timeless, and he revalidated his achievements and rendered himself fresh at the same time. When he lit into the rockabilly and blues that fueled the engine of his life, his energy blazed raw and palpable, his voice boasting a tough exuberance, his looks telegraphing sensuality, submission, cruelty. By the time he taped the arena segment two days later, he'd summoned such a.s.surance that he was not so much a man, but a panther, feral in his black leather skin, growling, prowling, strutting across the stage.

For the production team, part of the thrill was seeing the metamorphosis take place. But Elvis may have had some help. After the first taping, when they had to peel the suit off him, Bill Belew went to Binder. "We have a problem," he whispered. The suit would have to be cleaned: Elvis had experienced a s.e.xual emission onstage. "That," declares Binder, "is when I really believed that Parker had planted the seed through hypnotism that Elvis was the greatest s.e.x symbol who ever existed. I don't think he could have built himself up to have an o.r.g.a.s.m unless there was a stimulus there to drive him to do that. I just felt it was not a normal act."

The "stimulus" may have been Susan Henning, sitting offstage, but where Elvis could see her, as he requested. Either way, it was a remarkable reaction.

In a conversation with the late Dr. William Masters, who pioneered research into human s.e.xual response with his wife, Virginia Johnson, psychologist Peter O. Whitmer asked about Elvis's onstage climax, which was well known in show business circles. "Bill Masters said yes, it happens, but it's very unusual. It shows the real depth of the drive of an individual to prove his abilities."

When the special, t.i.tled Singer Presents ELVIS, Singer Presents ELVIS, aired on December 3, 1968, critics hailed the return of an authentic American original. The program garnered 42 percent of the viewing audience and gave NBC its biggest ratings b.u.mp of the year. The soundtrack also soared to number eight on aired on December 3, 1968, critics hailed the return of an authentic American original. The program garnered 42 percent of the viewing audience and gave NBC its biggest ratings b.u.mp of the year. The soundtrack also soared to number eight on Billboard Billboard's pop alb.u.m chart. Today the music, which has been repackaged several times, most recently as The Complete '68 Comeback Special, The Complete '68 Comeback Special, still inspires wonder. still inspires wonder.

"What impresses," says music reviewer John Bush, "is how much it prefigures the rest of Elvis' career. . . . During the '70s [Elvis] was the apotheosis of rock music, a righteous blend of rock and soul, gospel and pop, blues and country."

"The greatest thrill I got out of it was seeing a man in a small window of time rediscover himself," Binder reflects. "That's the legacy of the '68 special."

Before they parted that summer, Binder screened an hour's edit for everyone on the project. Elvis didn't react, which made Binder terribly nervous. Then Elvis asked if he could see it again, just with Binder. "He watched it three more times, and laughed and applauded, and he said, 'Steve, I will never sing a song that I don't believe in, and I will never make a movie that I don't believe in. I want to do really great things from now on.' "

But first he had to go to Arizona to make Charro!, Charro!, an offbeat film that aspired to Sergio Leone's spaghetti westerns. Elvis, heavily bearded for his Clint Eastwoodlike role of Jess Wade, a reformed badman, had high hopes that an offbeat film that aspired to Sergio Leone's spaghetti westerns. Elvis, heavily bearded for his Clint Eastwoodlike role of Jess Wade, a reformed badman, had high hopes that Charro! Charro! would be a serious film, as the director-screenwriter, Charles Marquis Warren, had produced the legendary TV westerns would be a serious film, as the director-screenwriter, Charles Marquis Warren, had produced the legendary TV westerns Gunsmoke, Rawhide, Gunsmoke, Rawhide, and and The Virginian. The Virginian. But the studio, National General, was in flux, and when Elvis arrived at the Apacheland Movie Ranch, nothing seemed to gel. But the studio, National General, was in flux, and when Elvis arrived at the Apacheland Movie Ranch, nothing seemed to gel.

He was disheartened over the poor production values, and European star Ina Balin, who played the dance hall queen with whom Jess was involved, seemed ill cast. The script painted Jess as a cynical antihero, and one day at the studio, Charlie remembered, "They had the house sitting there . . . Elvis was standing over at the end of the porch, and he looked down and said, 'Charlie, I'm beginning to feel like this character.' "

The film nonetheless would give him a margin of crowing rights, and he was eager to promote it: "Charro! is the first movie I ever made without singing a song," he told reporters. "I play a gunfighter, and I just couldn't see a singing gunfighter." However, in the end, he relented and crooned the t.i.tle tune. "I'm sure they had to pretty much hog-tie him to get him to cut it," says Mac Davis, who wrote it. is the first movie I ever made without singing a song," he told reporters. "I play a gunfighter, and I just couldn't see a singing gunfighter." However, in the end, he relented and crooned the t.i.tle tune. "I'm sure they had to pretty much hog-tie him to get him to cut it," says Mac Davis, who wrote it.

By the time he reported to the set of The Trouble with Girls The Trouble with Girls in October, he was in high spirits again, hearing nothing but great things from the Colonel about NBC's reaction to the special and the antic.i.p.ation over its airing in December. He was also happy to be at the end of his MGM contract. In this movie, with Broadway musical star Marlyn Mason as his a.s.sistant, he plays the manager of a traveling Chautauqua in the 1920s. in October, he was in high spirits again, hearing nothing but great things from the Colonel about NBC's reaction to the special and the antic.i.p.ation over its airing in December. He was also happy to be at the end of his MGM contract. In this movie, with Broadway musical star Marlyn Mason as his a.s.sistant, he plays the manager of a traveling Chautauqua in the 1920s.

The Trouble with Girls is an odd entry to the Presley filmography, as he's on-screen for only about one-third of the picture. Yet Marlyn would remember the movie is an odd entry to the Presley filmography, as he's on-screen for only about one-third of the picture. Yet Marlyn would remember the movie, a mix of music, comedy, and melodrama, as "ten weeks of hilarious bliss . . . all party, every day. I still smile." a mix of music, comedy, and melodrama, as "ten weeks of hilarious bliss . . . all party, every day. I still smile."

Marlyn hadn't been an Elvis fan and wasn't prepared to like him, but "I felt very close to him. I know that he liked me very much, and I liked him very much. It was a sweet relations.h.i.+p. We hit it off immediately. I think if you are in tune with somebody, you sense things. I could be sitting fifty feet from him, and I would just get a feeling, and I would turn, and he would be looking at me."

He called her "Cap," for a hat she wore to work. She was single at the time, and everything between them just clicked. She didn't mind the practical jokes-not even the loud firecrackers under her chair-and found they shared a s.e.xy sense of humor, both appreciating a line of dialogue in which Elvis tells her they should continue a conversation in bed.

"You could ad-lib with him. We would do a lot of that. If the director [Peter Tewksbury] was doing a close-up on Elvis and he wanted a certain reaction, he would come to me and say, 'I don't care what you do, but this is the reaction I need from him.' "

The next time Tewksbury said that, Marlyn "started slowly unb.u.t.toning [Elvis's] s.h.i.+rt and taking his belt off, very quietly. He was just giving me these looks. . . . He didn't stop and say, 'What is she doing?' He would just roll with the punches."

Elvis held his upbeat mood throughout filming, but in his quiet moments with Marlyn, he told her how he'd come to Hollywood full of dreams. "The saddest thing E ever said to me was that he'd like to make one good film, because he knew the town laughed at him. It broke my heart."

For all their rapport, theirs was strictly a working relations.h.i.+p, she says, and she never saw him after the picture wrapped.

It had been an extraordinary year, one that witnessed a birth, Lisa Marie, and a rebirth, Elvis himself. But just as it was a period of grand beginnings, it was also one of hard endings.

Johnny Smith, the uncle who taught Elvis guitar, died that year at forty-six, as did Bobby Smith, Billy's brother, at twenty-seven. Dewey Phillips, who had spun Elvis's first record on the radio, also pa.s.sed on. For years, Dewey had suffered terribly from osteomyelitis in his leg, which left him with a limp, an incessantly open wound, and an addiction to painkillers. But a heart attack took him out. He was forty-two, just like Bobby Kennedy. They were all too young to die: Nicks Adams at thirty-six, Martin Luther King, Jr., at thirty-nine.

"Mrs. Dorothy," Elvis said to the deejay's widow, "Dewey was my friend."

Steve Binder was his friend, too. But though Elvis had scribbled down his phone number and asked him to stay in touch, Binder's messages were always ignored, his calls never returned. Or maybe they had just been intercepted.

Yet Binder could console himself with the knowledge that together, he and Elvis had created one of the most important and defining moments in the history of rock. And maybe the producer-director had done more than that.

In March 2008 Priscilla Presley sat at the William S. Paley Television Festival in Los Angeles, watching a screening of a forty-year-old TV special in which a man in a black leather suit recaptured his lost glory. Eighteen minutes into it, she leaned over to the person next to her. "You saved his career," she told Binder. "You saved his life."

Joyce Bova (right) (right) and her twin sister, Janice, greet Elvis backstage at the Baltimore Civic Center, November 9, 1971. Their twins.h.i.+p intrigued and comforted him. "I understood," he told Joyce, "that until your twin gave her blessing to us [that] you wouldn't be able to give yourself to me." and her twin sister, Janice, greet Elvis backstage at the Baltimore Civic Center, November 9, 1971. Their twins.h.i.+p intrigued and comforted him. "I understood," he told Joyce, "that until your twin gave her blessing to us [that] you wouldn't be able to give yourself to me." (Courtesy of Joyce Bova) (Courtesy of Joyce Bova)