talent scout there. Jimmy, of Jimmy and Johnny, was making eyes at Maxine, singing “If you don’t want
to love me, honey, somebody else will,” and trying to make out with her. I never realized that was part of being a singer.
Finding the girls. I hated him.
Billy told the longest joke I ever heard in my life. I’m laughing. I’m sitting there with my eyes like dollars. I’m thinking
Tillman Franks might be the Mercury Records talent scout.
Right in the middle of my spot, I was singing a Faron Young song, “If You Ain’t Lovin’ You Ain’t Livin’,” when my voice went.
In the back of my palate, I have a long thing that hangs down like a match stem. Sometimes, if I’m anxious or nervous, it’ll
touch down to the back of my tongue, or hit my vocal cords, and that’ll just take my voice away.
All of a sudden I stopped singing. I thought my life was ruined. I couldn’t believe that there was my big chance and I blew
it.
I did make thirty-five dollars at the door. And I got to meet Elvis in Lubbock. Even then, he was about the hottest thing
to hit West Texas. They invited me backstage, gave me free tickets, and the whole show was there. He and Scotty were standing
over by the stage, and Elvis was just jumping around everywhere, bouncing and bubbling over with enthusiasm, full of more
energy than anybody I ever saw. He was talking to me like he’d known me a thousand years.
“I’ll sing you my next thing I’m going to record,” he said. It was “Tweedle Dee,” the LaVern Baker song. “My next single,”
though I don’t think he ever recorded it. He did it on the show that night.
I was crazy about Elvis. I loved that churning rhythm on the bottom. He didn’t even have drums yet, but the rock ’n’ roll
part was unmistakable. You’d think it was overnight, but he’d been plugging away a long time. He had a hard way to go, because
they were fighting him from every corner in the South, calling him names—white trash bebop nigger stuff; though he could pretty
well handle himself. I think he popped a couple of guys on his way up.
On my radio show we’d do some of the rock ’n’ roll things: Chuck Berry, Ray Charles, Little Richard. Every time I played a
Little Richard record the owner would come all the way back to the station from home. He wouldn’t even call. He’d just cuss
me, until one night I played two of them in a row and he fired me.
My hero then was Sonny Curtis. He was so far advanced to what I was as a guitar player that I seemed struggling compared to
him. His uncles were the Mayfield Brothers, a bluegrass group, and Ed Mayfield had actually been in Bill Monroe’s band. Sonny
couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know how to play guitar. We had met when he used to come to Littlefield to perform
at the Palace. I’d do a few songs, he’d do a couple more, and then we’d sing “It’s Been a Blue, Blue Day” and collect our
ten dollars.
We were all coming out of the woodwork. We’d seen most of us at the small-town talent contests and country music shows in
the area, and when KDAV in Lubbock started hosting
Sunday Party,
as early as August 1953, we got to meet each other on a regulee, regularily, uh, regularlee scheduled basis.
KDAV was located in a small shack outside of town, with a big tower rising beside it and 580 KC . painted on the side. On Sunday afternoons at about two all the local teenagers would drive out and park around the station,
radios tuned to KDAV, sitting on their cars and watching us play through the station’s glass windows. It was kind of a free-for-all.
Everybody had bands, and whoever booked the gigs would mix and match musicians. I had a band with a steel guitar player, Bill
Clark. I didn’t get as much into the Elvis thing as I did Bill Haley’s sound, because of the steel. There was Hope Griffith,
who was about fourteen and dressed like a cowgirl, and had appeared on a local television show
to love me, honey, somebody else will,” and trying to make out with her. I never realized that was part of being a singer.
Finding the girls. I hated him.
Billy told the longest joke I ever heard in my life. I’m laughing. I’m sitting there with my eyes like dollars. I’m thinking
Tillman Franks might be the Mercury Records talent scout.
Right in the middle of my spot, I was singing a Faron Young song, “If You Ain’t Lovin’ You Ain’t Livin’,” when my voice went.
In the back of my palate, I have a long thing that hangs down like a match stem. Sometimes, if I’m anxious or nervous, it’ll
touch down to the back of my tongue, or hit my vocal cords, and that’ll just take my voice away.
All of a sudden I stopped singing. I thought my life was ruined. I couldn’t believe that there was my big chance and I blew
it.
I did make thirty-five dollars at the door. And I got to meet Elvis in Lubbock. Even then, he was about the hottest thing
to hit West Texas. They invited me backstage, gave me free tickets, and the whole show was there. He and Scotty were standing
over by the stage, and Elvis was just jumping around everywhere, bouncing and bubbling over with enthusiasm, full of more
energy than anybody I ever saw. He was talking to me like he’d known me a thousand years.
“I’ll sing you my next thing I’m going to record,” he said. It was “Tweedle Dee,” the LaVern Baker song. “My next single,”
though I don’t think he ever recorded it. He did it on the show that night.
I was crazy about Elvis. I loved that churning rhythm on the bottom. He didn’t even have drums yet, but the rock ’n’ roll
part was unmistakable. You’d think it was overnight, but he’d been plugging away a long time. He had a hard way to go, because
they were fighting him from every corner in the South, calling him names—white trash bebop nigger stuff; though he could pretty
well handle himself. I think he popped a couple of guys on his way up.
On my radio show we’d do some of the rock ’n’ roll things: Chuck Berry, Ray Charles, Little Richard. Every time I played a
Little Richard record the owner would come all the way back to the station from home. He wouldn’t even call. He’d just cuss
me, until one night I played two of them in a row and he fired me.
My hero then was Sonny Curtis. He was so far advanced to what I was as a guitar player that I seemed struggling compared to
him. His uncles were the Mayfield Brothers, a bluegrass group, and Ed Mayfield had actually been in Bill Monroe’s band. Sonny
couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t know how to play guitar. We had met when he used to come to Littlefield to perform
at the Palace. I’d do a few songs, he’d do a couple more, and then we’d sing “It’s Been a Blue, Blue Day” and collect our
ten dollars.
We were all coming out of the woodwork. We’d seen most of us at the small-town talent contests and country music shows in
the area, and when KDAV in Lubbock started hosting
Sunday Party,
as early as August 1953, we got to meet each other on a regulee, regularily, uh, regularlee scheduled basis.
KDAV was located in a small shack outside of town, with a big tower rising beside it and 580 KC . painted on the side. On Sunday afternoons at about two all the local teenagers would drive out and park around the station,
radios tuned to KDAV, sitting on their cars and watching us play through the station’s glass windows. It was kind of a free-for-all.
Everybody had bands, and whoever booked the gigs would mix and match musicians. I had a band with a steel guitar player, Bill
Clark. I didn’t get as much into the Elvis thing as I did Bill Haley’s sound, because of the steel. There was Hope Griffith,
who was about fourteen and dressed like a cowgirl, and had appeared on a local television show
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