Every boy's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man

Everyone who’s able to access this blog has heard of the Beatles. There’s no denying that they were one of the most talented bunch of scousers to ever walk this earth, but you need more than talent to really make it big. The bloke that was absolutely crucial to the Fab Four’s success over the first part of their career (and beyond) was manager Brian Epstein.

Now, before you get all cross with me for calling him crazy in the title of this post, do please remember that it’s the title of a running series and I can hardly write a series of posts about prominent rock managers and not include young Brian, can I? And while he certainly wasn’t as batshit bonkers as Colonel Tom Parker, he did share a knack for achieving massive success in spite of some questionable business decisions. And it wouldn’t be wrong to file the hero of this particular (tragically short) story under ‘Troubled’.

It’s possible the Beatles might not have enjoyed anything beyond modest success without young Epstein’s guiding hand. He helped to develop their style, already influenced by Astrid Kirchherr and other Exi friends in Hamburg, and had enough business sense to help them turn an immaculately tidy profit. While many folk can lay a reasonably valid claim, Brian has to be the bookie’s favourite for title of ‘Fifth Beatle’.

He even managed to make an army uniform look natty

Brian Samuel Epstein was born in Liverpool in 1934. His family ran a large department store, NEMS (North End Music Stores), which sold musical instruments as well as furniture and other household goods. Old Paul McCartney’s dad once bought a Joanna there. Brian worked there as a young lad, before being drafted into a fairly hazard-free data entry job in the Army in London. On his return to Liverpool he was put in charge of his own shop.

During sessions with a psychiatrist friend of the family Brian came out as gay (a very big deal in the ’50s when homosexuality was still considered a crime in the UK), also expressing a wish to become an actor. His family agreed that he could go back to London, where he studied at RADA with the likes of Albert Finney, Susannah York and Peter O’Toole. Being more of a businessman than a creative type, Brian dropped out and headed back once again to the ‘pool, where his dad put him in charge of the record department of NEMS’ Charlotte Street store. Under Brian’s management, it quickly became a huge success and he was put in charge of an entire store on Whitechapel. In August 1961 he was given his own column in Mersey Beat magazine and was on his way to becoming kind of a big deal on the Liverpool music scene.

Stories vary, but it was either at the record store or in Mersey Beat that young Brian first heard about a band of local lads calling themselves The Beatles. He decided to check them out at the Cavern Club and got very excited about what he saw. He came back to hear them play at the Cavern on a daily basis for weeks before plucking up the courage to pop the question of whether they’d like him to be their manager. After several weeks of discussions, The Beatles signed a management contract with Brian Epstein.

But Brian didn’t.

I take back what I said at the start. That’s pretty fucking crazy right there, especially in hindsight. The biggest British band of all time and you don’t bother signing the piece of paper that says you’re entitled to take money off them? That’s more than a little nuts. As it happens, the contract was never contested, and UK law would almost definitely have found in Epstein’s favour, but still! It’s only a signature Brian!

The Beatles with John Simm. Hang on...

Still, the deal that Brian didn’t sign was a pretty sweet one. Like the Colonel’s with Elvis, it entitled him to a whopping, and highly irregular, 25% of their gross income. What balls these people have! Unlike the King, at least the Beatles did try to negotiate him down, even if they failed. He also, smartly, signed Lennon and McCartney to a 3-year publishing contract, just days before the release of Love Me Do.

Brian very quickly smartened up The Beatles’ act, another factor that undoubtedly contributed to their success. While they had already come back from Hamburg with their trademark ‘mop tops’ (I’ve never owned a mop that looked like that), they still wore leather jackets and jeans like stereotypical rockers. Young Brian got them to wear suits on stage, and also banned them from smoking, drinking and eating on stage. That’s right. Eating. Musicians smoking or having a drink during a gig, that’s pretty commonplace, but these skanky fuckers were eating on stage?! Imagine being down the front at one of their historic Cavern gigs, only to get spattered with soggy scotch egg debris as Lennon chews his way through Twist and Shout? Dirty sods.

Anyway, little changes like this helped them to appeal to a wider audience than Liverpudlian teens, but Brian’s hard work didn’t stop there. He traipsed down to London on numerous occasions to court various record labels, eventually securing a fairly shitty deal with EMI which entitled the Fab Four to a penny between them for every record sold. This deal earned them half as much for sales outside of the UK. Good job they were as successful as they were or they wouldn’t have been eating much on or off stage. Brian did eventually manage to renegotiate them a fairer deal.

WHY, BRIAN, WHY????

As you may already know, The Beatles quickly became a huge success, first in the UK and then pretty much the entire world, making them and Brian very comfortably off men. Brian soon took on management duties for other artists, although none enjoyed success anywhere near that of the Fab Four. Some of his ‘discoveries’ lead me to believe that his belief in The Beatles’ potential had nothing to do with an artistic ear. After all, it was Brian Epstein that launched Cavern cloakroom attendant turned tuneless shrieker Cilla Black on an undeserving world. Still, he made a few bob by sending these artists on tours around the UK.

Managing The Beatles soon became a pretty much full-time job, especially after they conquered America. There were lots of merchandising and publishing deals, some of which Brian managed very poorly indeed. While it seems a bit perverse to say so, The Beatles could have made a lot more money in the ’60s if Brian had handled things a little better.

Away from the business side of things, Brian had other issues to deal with. His homosexuality – still a crime in the UK – was a well-kept secret outside of close circles and keeping his love life under wraps must have been a struggle. His relationship with young Lennon was close and particularly intense, although by all accounts never went beyond platonic. Again, like Colonel Tom Parker, Brian didn’t object to the use of stimulants to cope with a busy schedule. Unlike the Colonel, Brian extended this blind eye to his own drug use and in fact was taking even more uppers to keep going than the members of the band. After they were all introduced to cannabis by Bob Dylan in 1964, Brian was as keen to experiment with drugs as the rest of them, eventually checking himself into the Priory in an effort to get himself off the old Billy Whizz. He was also a compulsive gambler, even playing roulette and cards with the Colonel himself when The Beatles visited Elvis at his house in California.

The last known photo of Brian, taken by Tony Bramwell

Brian Epstein died of an accidental overdose of sleeping pills on 27th August 1967, at just 32 years of age. While his methods weren’t always sound, he was instrumental in giving The Beatles to the world and setting them on a path that would produce pretty bloody good music that is still loved by millions almost 50 years later. Somehow combining business savvy with a free and creative spirit, Brian was a very unique creature indeed.

And a fucking snappy dresser.

Anyway, to start resting your mug on Siouxsie’s, all you have to do is give me the song title depicted in the old picture down below here:

I think this one’s pretty easy, mind you I thought the last one was hard and the first guess was correct. We’ll see. Stick your guesses in the comments below and the very first right answer wins the fantastic Siouxsie Sioux coaster set. Good luck!

Update: Well, that was ridiculously quick. The answer was E=MC2 (E from Eels, The Equals and MC Hammer in a square) by Big Audio Dynamite. Congratulations to Chris Gunning, four lovely Siouxsie coasters are heading in your direction! By post, I’m not throwing them at you or anything.

Chas 'n' Dave eventually gave up piracy for the less cutthroat music business

Rock ‘n’ roll is full of surprises. With all the musicians hanging out together and contributing to each other’s stuff, you can get some interesting combinations sometimes. Then there’s the supergroup, the fantasy football of rock ‘n’ roll (sort of) where we get treated to dream team mixes of rock majesty.

But how the FUCK did cheeky rap scamp Eminem end up being backed by Rockney rebels Chas ‘n’ Dave?

It’s unclear whether old Slim Shady has ever been a fan of the dynamic duo of Chas Hodges and Dave Peacock (if not, he should be), yet they do appear quite prominently on one of his best-known tracks. How did this happen? Well, it’s simple really:

Before they were known for rollicking cockney jams like Rabbit, Gertcha and The Sideboard Song, pianist Chas and bassist Dave were prominent session musicians who played with a whole host of artists. They happened to feature on the track I’ve Got The… by Labi Siffre, as you can see below (keep with it, all of a sudden it will make sense).

If you got as far as the two and a half minute mark (I’ve no idea why you wouldn’t listen to the whole thing and then play it again immediately) then you’ll have a good idea of where this is going, so I’ll keep it brief.

That track was sampled by old Marshall Mathers for his debut single My Name Is, which means he pretty much owes his entire career to the cockney legends that are Chas ‘n’ Dave. Jay-Z also sampled the same tune on Streets Iz Watchin so they are as essential to hip hop as James Brown or Apache.

With the combination of rockers earning their bread and butter with session work before they get big and rappers pinching every catchy riff they can find, there are probably a lot of similarly surprising combos out there. If you’re aware of any, let me know!

Anyway, here are hip hop legends Chas ‘n’ Dave, with a bit of help from some geezer called Eminem:

(PS I know there are better versions of this video available but I chose one without pussy airplane dubs. “Do you like Primus” indeed. I bloody love Primus, so don’t go taking their name in vain. Since when was “violence” a swear anyway you fannies?)

He knows if you've been bad or good rockin' tonight

It’s Christmas, so let’s have a laugh.

I like making up stupid ‘misheard’ lyrics to well-known songs. Some of my lovely Twitter friends (@That_Lolly and @sharonGOONer especially) are really good at it. I’m willing to bet a lot of you enjoy it too.

So I wanna see ‘em! It’s Christmas after all, so I probably won’t be blogging much, so let’s fill my comments with ridiculous misheard/deliberately vandalised song lyrics. There’s no prize as such, and no winners or losers, I just thought it would be a nice bit of Crimbo entertainment for us all. I’ll start you off with a couple of my own favourites:

“Ooh girl, the cockneys love them jellied eels“

“And as we wank on Gary Rhodes, our shadows taller than arseholes“

Plus of course, changing the words ‘Merry Christmas’ to ‘Hare Krisna’ in any Christmas song that fits.

It’s peurile, it’s juvenile, it’s bloody hilarious. Now it’s your turn! Add your stupid lyrics to my comments, let’s all have a bleedin’ good laugh over Christmas. HARE KRISNA EVERYBODY!

Yes, they really did dress up like this

“You’ve heard of Oxford Circus, you’ve heard of Piccadilly Circus, well this is the Rolling Stones Rock ‘n’ Roll Circus, and we’ve got sights and sounds and marvels to delight your eyes and ears!” - Old Mick Jagger

The world of rock ‘n’ roll and cinema have bumped hips on many occasions, with mixed results. The Beatles had several goes of course, and we talked about young Elvis’ cinematic exploits a few weeks ago. From documentaries to half-arsed drug induced ‘experimental’ efforts, there’s a whole lot of rock ‘n’ roll on film.

One band that seem to have had several hundred miles of celluloid expended on them are the Rolling Stones. Mick has had a go at the old acting on numerous occasions, and of course old Keef played a character much like himself but with a hat on in a couple of the Pirates of the Caribbean films, not to mention a wealth of documentaries and concert films centred on the band.

One particular gem, which remained largely unseen for almost 30 years, is The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus. Filmed over two days in 1968 and originally intended as a TV special, it’s a great piece of memorabilia from the height of the British rock ’60s rock scene. Y’see, it’s not just a film about or featuring the Rolling Stones. A whole host of distinguished guests pop in to say hello.

The brainchild of old Mick, Rock and Roll Circus was basically conceived as a concert video, complete with audience in weird ponchos and floppy hats, with a circus theme to make it a bit different. The second half of the film would have the Stones knocking out some of their popular hits, with the first half featuring some of their contemparies and some acrobats and fire eaters to make sure the Circus criteria of the title was filled. While the Stones’ portion of the show is ok, it’s the first half that contains the most entertaining performances, some brilliant, some bonkers.

The film starts with the Stones and friends (including members of The Who, Lennon, Clapton and Marianne Faithfull) parading into the circus tent with jugglers and acrobats and all that kind of shower, with Jagger giving the speech partly quoted above in his trademark mockney manner (Noel Fielding does a nice little piss-take of it in the last ever episode of The Mighty Boosh). Then he and someone I swear is Jeanette Krankie introduce the first act, Jethro Tull.

Disappointingly, Tull mime Song for Jeffery, although old Ian Anderson sings live while doing his usual unhinged tramp/flamingo impersonation. The reason for this, supposedly, is that the band weren’t happy with the playing of short-term stand-in guitarist (and Black Sabbath LEGEND) Tony Iommi. Despite not actually being a southpaw, old Tony played left-handed, with thimbles on the ends of two fingers of his right hand after losing the ends of them in an industrial accident. By all accounts, the Tull weren’t too keen on how it sounded, so mimed to the recorded version while nutty Ian sang live.

The second performance of the show is inarguably the best. You can, of course, argue that it isn’t, but if you do you are simply wrong. In fact, it’s widely believed that one reason this film didn’t see the light of day for 28 years is that the Stones were so spectacularly upstaged on their own show. And who handed them their musical arses that day? The Who, that’s Who. Here it is (in a slightly dodgy copy, but the best I could find) in all its glory:

Electrifying, ain’t it? They’re all on top form, Townshend flailing, Daltrey wailing, Entwhistle playing it cool as usual and MOON! MOON! LOOK AT MOON! HE’S FUCKING MENTAL, LIKE AN ELECTRIFIED OCTOPUS!!! Truly, young Keith Moon is mesmerising. You can’t take your eyes off him. Watch as he rolls his eyes and gnashes his teeth like a Bedlam inmate! Stare entranced as he holds his sticks in that funny camp way when he’s tapping the high hat! Gasp as he casually tosses a tom over his shoulder like a discarded beer can. The man is rock ‘n’ roll personified, and fucking entertaining with it. I bloody love Keith Moon.

They were close, but Lennon shared his lunch with no one

Anyway, so The Who were pretty good. Then follows some thoroughly enjoyable, if not particularly extraordinary, performances from Taj Mahal and Marianne Faithfull, interspersed with circus shenanigans and followed up by Keith Richards in an eyepatch introducing Lovely Luna the fire eater.

After Luna we’re treated to a lovely little interlude, featuring good pals Mick Jagger and John Lennon fucking about. It is genuinely lovely, because watching it it’s clear to see that a) they really were good pals and b) they really liked fucking about. There’s more than a suggestion that they may well be a bit wrongchopped on the old drugs ‘n’ all, but fair play to ‘em I say.

The purpose of their meandering little chat is to introduce The Dirty Mac, one of the superest supergroups to ever put their pants on outside their strides. How about this for a lineup:

• John Lennon – vocals, rhythm guitar
• Eric Clapton – lead guitar
• Keith Richards – bass guitar
• Mitch Mitchell – drums

That’s a fuckin’ SUPERGROUP if ever there was one. When the members of your band are so good that Keef is relegated to bass, you got it goin’ on.

The Dirty Mac churn through The Beatles’ Yer Blues and, while it’s not quite the spectacular chemical reaction you might have hoped, you get the feeling they’re just getting into their stride. Another song or two and they’ll be rockin’. It would take something truly awful to drag them back now. I mean, it would have to be something fucking terrible, like, oh, I dunno, Yoko Ono wandering on and literally screaming into a microphone for a full five minutes.

Oh fucking hell.

Yes, that is exactly what happens. Old Yoko and violinist Ivry Gitlis, who I’m sure is very good, join the band, who proceed to make some avant-garde noise while she shrieks and wails. That’s it. For five minutes. Potentially the greatest band in the world rendered fucking dire by the addition of a tiny but incredibly loud performance artist. That’s love for you.

The Dirty Mac never performed again.

Anyway, it’s now time for the headline act, introduced by young John Lennon in (very possibly made up) sign language, The Rolling Stones themselves. They launch straight into Jumpin’ Jack Flash and the crowd seem to be suddenly more animated than they have been for any of the more previous acts. The same can’t be said of the Stones.

The problem is, they were knackered. Thanks to cameras repeatedly breaking down the shoot had gone on much longer than expected. Unlike The Who, who had just finished touring, the Stones had been on a bit of a break, and their performance was nowhere near as energised. To make matters worse, young Brian Jones, in his last ever public performance with the band, is quite clearly completely off his tits, and I think someone may have wisely switched off his amp or at least taken his guitar out of the mix in post-production.

The only one who doesn’t look shagged out is old Mick, who keeps the band together and proves why he is genuinely one of the most skilled frontmen in the history of rock music. He looks fucking sexy to be perfectly honest. This is what it means to have moves like Jagger, and Maroon fucking 5 don’t even come close:

After a few hits, including a pretty good version of Sympathy for the Devil in which Brian Jones does literally nothing but giggle and stare at fairies, the band take the wise decision to have a bit of a sit down. Surrounded by a swaying audience, which now includes a fair few of the other performers, Mick ‘n’ Keef belt out Salt of the Earth and the end credits roll for a nice mellow ending.

After recording, the film sat gathering dust for nearly three decades, with only some of The Who footage being shown in the documentary The Kids Are Alright in 1979. Parts of it were believed to be completely lost until someone found them in a bin in 1989 (and I moan about the bin men round here only coming once a fortnight)! In 1996 the film was put back together, restored and released for public consumption.

The 28 year gap made seeing this film for the first time seem a bit like opening a time capsule. The film is a little glimpse into the British music scene in the late ’60s, and a pretty entertaining one at that.

And The Who fucking rock in it.

But one thing punk gave us, which I’m sure we can all agree was a load of shit, was gobbing.

During punk’s short reign spitting became popular amongst fans as a gesture of rebellion and to further fuel the outrage of their troubled elders. Weirdly, the people who bore the brunt of most of this salvo of saliva were the fans themselves and, of course, the bands they went to see. Which pretty much defines the phrase “shitting on your own doorstep”.

It’s not entirely clear how this unhygienic craze began. Some believe a bronchitis-ridden Johnny Rotten coughing up lung omelettes on stage one night might have triggered it. The Damned also had a habit of going to other band’s gigs and gobbing at them if they didn’t like them, which could have been the catalyst for this mass releasing of sputum. Personally I’m tempted to blame these two:

Believe it or not, spitting at bands was meant affectionately, in the ugly, aggressive way of punk. It wasn’t easy to play guitar, though, with the strings and your hands all covered in flob. Poor young Joe Strummer even ended up catching hepatitis after catching a mouthful of someone else’s mouthful.

Fortunately for all of us, the spitting craze was short-lived. While the trend for waving lighters in the air during slow numbers, which has lasted for decades, might be nauseating, it won’t cause you to catch something nasty from a stranger. Well, not directly, at least.

There really was no one like Freddy, one of the greatest entertainers in rock and a thoroughly unique man. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like Queen and I hope I never do. Here’s to you Freddy, no doubt drinking Moët & Chandon from a pretty cabinet in Valhalla tonight. Love you x

As I lay in a festive stupor trying to remember if I had been given any books, book tokens, or socks with washing instructions – anything I could read instead of watching this dreary celebration of the triumph of blandness over slightly more blandness – I was suddenly shocked to see the following scene unfold on the television screen (except in English):

I was stunned. For the full time they were on the screen I gaped, pointing and looking at my family for some kind of recognition of the bizarre occurrence that had just occurred bizarrely on the telly. Finally, I blurted out (in English), “That’s Anthrax! What the FUCK?”

It turns out my mum and dad are not able to recognise members of the band Anthrax on sight. They tried to cover it up but I suspect they may not have even heard of Anthrax prior to this incident (well my dad might have).

But despite having no reliable witnesses to back me up, I was able to confirm that yes, that was indeed Scott Ian, Frankie Bello and John Bush of thrash metal superstars Anthrax making a cameo appearance in a film about middle aged women getting their yobbos out. I am, after all, a rock historian.

I have no idea, other than cash and a chance to meet the delicious Helen Mirren, how or why these three ended up lounging round a pool with Shaun of the Dead’s mum and her pals, but for me it was the highlight of the film. I think we can all agree that, as highlights go, it wasn’t much of one.

Scott Ian’s career as a walk-on didn’t stop here either. Apparently he can be seen somewhere in the background of this clip from awesome wild west swearfest Deadwood. I’ve watched it a few times now and haven’t been able to spot him, although I have spotted a bloke that looks like Josh Homme but isn’t, and in the top right-hand corner 13 seconds in, a bloke who apparently is Lemmy from Motorhead. It certainly does look like him. Think of it as a metal Where’s Wally?:

Would you buy a family bucket from this man?

It’s not just the musicians that bring life to the lumbering beast of rock, y’know. There are a whole bunch of people behind and in front of the scenes without whom the wheels of rock ‘n’ roll would stop turning, from the hairy-arsed roadies to the fans themselves.

Unsurprisingly, many of these other cogs in the rock machine (I’ll try to stop the awful metaphors now) are as bonkers as the ones with the instruments. A group that is particularly prone to eccentricities is managers. Some of the best loved bands of the last 50-odd years have the machinations of an utter fruit loop, or several fruit loops, to thank for their success. Others seem to have made it ginormous despite the bizarre decisions made by their crazy managers. Today we’re going to look at arguably one of the craziest, and certainly one of the most successful: Colonel Tom Parker.

It’s fair to say the Colonel was a bit of an odd man, but he was also smart enough to capitalise on the success of the biggest rock ‘n’ roll star on the planet while keeping himself as much out of the public eye as possible. This is understandable considering the rumours of dodgy behaviour and dubious immigrant status that hung around the Colonel like special sauce round a hot wing.

He was also had complete control of the life of rock ‘n’ roll’s first rebel, making himself a fortune from young Elvis Presley throughout his career and well after the King’s early shower. But it’s likely that Elvis might have raked in even more readies if it wasn’t for some spectacularly hatstand decisions made by Colonel Tom.

While the Colonel claimed for a long time to have been born in the USA, he was born Andreas Cornelius van Kuijk in Breda in the Netherlands on June 26th 1909. He started working in carnivals as a young boy, picking up the skills in rinsing poor bleeders of their hard-earned cash that he would put to great use later in life. In his late teens he ran away to America to make a (different) name for himself. There are plenty of suggestions that he was getting the fuck out of Dodge due to his involvement in some criminal shenanigans, possibly even murder, which goes some way to explaining why he worked so hard to remain in the USA once he’d settled in for good.

He joined the US Army and pinched the name of an officer to make himself sound a bit less illegal-immigranty. He never reached the rank of Colonel though. In fact he was put into solitary confinement for going AWOL on his second stint in the army, a punishment that made him ill enough to require two months in a mental hospital, which can’t have helped matters much. The Colonel title was an honorary one, much like Colonel Sanders‘, given to him in 1948 by the governor of Louisiana for helping out on his election campaign.

After the army, Parker did odd bits of work here and there, including back at carnivals. He also made money as a con artist, often working with Marie, his wife from 1935 until her death in 1986. In the late ’30s, he was given the task of promoting crooner Gene Austin, who’d already made millions but pissed most of it up the wall and had hit a bad patch.

Parker had found a career that perfectly fit his talents as a shyster. He had a knack for flogging tickets and drawing in packed crowds and would go on to manage a number of successful performers. He was just as good at fleecing his acts as their audiences, often taking way over the 10% of earnings that was usual for a manager.

All work and no play make Colonel Tom a dull boy. All work and no play make Colonel Tom a dull boy. All work and no play make Colonel Tom a dull boy...

In 1955, the Colonel became aware of the rapidly-rising singing sensation that was Elvis Presley. At the time, Elvis was being managed by Bob Neal, who was having trouble coping with the huge demand for the young star. Neal agreed to let the Colonel help him out with promotion and booking gigs. Parker very quickly took more and more control of Presley’s career, getting him a contract with a bigger record label (RCA) by the end of the year. When Elvis’ contract with Bob Neal expired a few months later, he didn’t hesitate in signing up the Colonel as his sole representative (Parker had conned the singer Hank Snow into believing he was also representing Presley, but the poor sod’s name never appeared on any contract).

Elvis’ first single with RCA, Heartbreak Hotel, was a massive hit. The Colonel wasn’t slow in capitalising on this success, booking TV slots and merchandising deals. He’d signed Elvis up to another of his above-the-norm-25%-of-everything deals so was making a tidy profit off the King’s name. He even marketed “I Hate Elvis” badges to make money out of the people who weren’t buying records, the crafty git! Apart from a dodgy booking at Vegas (ironically, the Vegas crowd didn’t really take to Elvis first time round), everything the Colonel did around this time was turning Elvis to gold, a quarter of which went straight into Parker’s pocket.

Elvis, a big fan of Tony Curtis and other movie stars, had expressed an interest in acting. The Colonel managed to negotiate a seven-picture deal with Paramount. He persuaded them and Elvis that he should sing in his films, seeing the money that could be made from movie and record tie-ins. This didn’t really match up with Elvis’ plans of being taken seriously as an actor, but he almost always did what the Colonel told him. Presley’s first film, Love Me Tender, was actually pretty good and wasn’t saturated with songs (although the name of the film was changed from The Reno Brothers after advance sales of the single hot more than a million), but the Colonel saw films as just another way to make money and flog records, and ensured most of the King’s films were tacky musical capers. Who knows, without the Colonel’s influence, could Elvis have been the next Marlon Brando?

Yeah, maybe not.

YOU BASTARDS

Anyway, a far worse decision was to come. Early in 1958, Elvis received his draft notice from the Army. It’s very likely that, what with him being such a profitable US export, the powers that be would have allowed him to avoid service (they probably would have helped the Colonel sort out his immigrant status once and for all and get a US passport, but he always avoided any opportunity to do this). But despite this and his own unpleasant experience, the Colonel decided the Army would do Elvis the world of good, and help to keep the young whippersnapper in line too. Elvis wanted to join the Special Services so that he could continue to perform, but the Colonel insisted that he should join the regular army and show the older generation what a fine upstanding young man he was. He even turned the induction into a media circus, with the press watching as the clippers were taken to Elvis’ amazing barnet. Elvis was given a crewcut and a uniform and shipped off to Germany.

This was a monumentally fucking crazy decision.

Elvis didn’t need to join the army! If he wanted to see the world, send him on a concert tour, not on a DC-10 to Friedberg for fuck’s sake. But of course the Colonel wasn’t keen on letting Elvis go abroad to perform as he wasn’t willing to risk going through customs himself. It’s also likely he didn’t want Elvis too far from his influence for long, in case someone let him in on just how much the Colonel was exploiting him. Having him stationed in a barracks surrounded by soldiers was nice and safe. The Colonel even prevented Elvis from recording any new songs while overseas. Elvis’ success would continue but he lost something special when he went into the army and he never really got it back. As young John Lennon said when he was told Elvis was dead, “Elvis died the day he joined the army”.

When he did finally return, the Colonel had him churning out cheesy records and even cheesier films for the best part of the next decade, and Elvis didn’t perform live at all between 1960 and ’68. The rise of The Beatles and other stars and bands in the ’60s threatened to overshadow Elvis completely, and the Colonel didn’t seem to give the slightest shit, as long as the money kept rolling in. One reason the Colonel needed to keep it rolling in was the massive debts he was racking up with his compulsive gambling habit. In ’67, he even managed to increase his share of Elvis’ earnings from 25% to 50%!

In 1968, Elvis stood up to the Colonel for once, making a bid to revive his floundering career with the Comeback Special. It was going out in December, and Elvis had the sense to ignore the Colonel’s ridiculous suggestion that he should wear a Santa outfit and only sing Christmas songs (the crazy old bastard was trying to turn the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll into Val fucking Doonican)! Elvis wisely ignored the old boy’s nonsense for once and the result put him firmly back on the rock ‘n’ roll map. That’s not to say the Parker-enforced wilderness years hadn’t done plenty of damage. Elvis had missed a generation, and was no longer the coolest kid on the block.

Gottle o

Elvis was now able to gig again, but the Colonel still didn’t want him straying too far. Elvis would never do a world tour. In fact, he was pretty much restricted to Hawaii and Vegas. One reason the Colonel booked him for so many Vegas shows is that it kept Parker’s creditors at the casinos sweet. His gambling habit was getting very expensive.

The Colonel had never done anything to discourage the King’s less healthy appetites either. A steady diet of uppers and downers allowed Elvis to do more shows and make more money, so the Colonel was never gonna complain about it. Elvis also had a tendency to overeat when not performing or making movies. The Colonel’s answer was to put him on a starvation diet just before filming or a tour was about to start. While it’s highly dubious that anyone would deliberately facilitate the death of such an abundant cash cow, none of this could have been doing young Elvis’ ticker much good.

As the ’70s rolled on, Elvis had to be too. His drug use and binge eating had got too much and he was no longer able to slim down for tours. He often appeared addled and incoherent on stage. His relationship with the Colonel was also becoming more and more strained, with Elvis even trying to sack him on at least one occasion (The Colonel claimed he was owed $2 million which would need to be paid to end the contract, which Elvis’ dad Vernon worked out they couldn’t afford to pay).

When the King finally cashed in his chips, the Colonel was quick to make sure it didn’t put him out of pocket, persuading Vernon to sign over control of Elvis’ posthumous career to him at the funeral. He also made sure the huge and sudden demand for merchandising was met. After Vernon’s death in 1979, someone finally cottoned on to the Colonel’s game. The Presley estate sued the Colonel, who immediately counter-sued! It was eventually settled out of court, with the estate paying the Colonel that magical figure of $2 million and the Colonel giving up all Elvis-related earnings for 5 years.

Colonel Tom Parker outlived Elvis by 20 years, dying from a stroke in 1997 at the ripe old age of 87, more than twice the King’s lifetime. He was a greedy conman with a million-dollar gambling habit, but some of his crazy schemes helped to make Elvis Presley one of the most iconic figures of recent history. It’s hard to say whether Elvis’ career would have been better off without him (he might have lived a lot longer), but it didn’t do too badly with him. You need to make a lot of money when you get through that many TVs.