There is Gene Vincent, entering from stage left. He's running to the microphone on one leg and a pair of crutches, a caliper worn on the game leg. He's covered in several guitar cases worth of black leather. He's shaking the lyrics loose from his mind like a man experiencing pleasure from the confessional. Eyes rolled up and staring at the rafters or Heaven or the woman as though from his knees. The Blue Caps flail. It's a comfortable riot.
There is Jerry Lee Lewis, long curly hair hanging across his face, a veil of immodesty. A British boy reaches out to touch his hair, possessed by instincts he could probably never verbalize. Killer denies sharing his essence and jerks back. It is the end of the show but he looks like he is just getting started, where did the party roll next? The English should have rioted.
A ruptured stomach ulcer almost killed the Killer, one did kill Vincent on a California visit to see his daddy.
In an alternate reality, Sam Phillips holds steady when the bill comes due and Elvis doesn't get scrubbed clean by the Sanitary Department at RCA. Maybe he kicks or moderates his love affair that began with Army issued greenies?
There Is Elvis, the Melungeon Sun King of Memphis. Why riot?
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