The Greatest Show on Earth — Tales from Talladega Superspeedway.

The Greatest Show on Earth

Tales from Talladega Superspeedway.



	Hueytown’s Donnie and Bobby Allison in the early ’70s.

Talladega Superspeedway is a remarkable spectacle, a sprawling 2,000 acres that at one time was only soybean fields and a pair of abandoned airstrips. Completed in 1969, it was first christened Alabama International Motor Speedway, where on any given day the greatest names in auto racing history could be found turning laps at speeds of more than 200 m.p.h. Mario Andretti, Cale Yarborough, Tiny Lund, A.J. Foyt, the Unser family, the Allison brothers, and Richard Petty are among the racing champions who have charged across its asphalt. No other sport features athletic stars two decades removed from their glory days remaining competitive enough to challenge those 30 years younger. That an aging champ such as the late Dale Earnhardt could bang fenders with an upstart kid named Jeff Gordon made the speedway as much a time machine as a sporting endeavor.



	The start of the 2001 Talladega 500 at the Talladega Superspeedway.

The first Grand National race (today known as Winston Cup) at Talladega was threatened by a driver boycott. Tire manufacturers had not created a compound that would hold up for any reliable length of time at 199 m.p.h., so when tires began to crumble, Richard Petty led most of the drivers in a walkout. NASCAR ran the first Talladega 500 without its stars, filling the field with whatever drivers they could recruit from the previous day’s Bama 400, a touring car event of unknown drivers.

The first race I attended at the track in 1985 was mind-boggling. The ground quaked as the engines roared to life, and surprisingly, the cars looked brighter and smaller than on television, which could never accurately convey the surrealism of seeing 42 cars speeding along at more than 200 m.p.h. The racing pack moves so fast that it forces spectators to turn their heads rapidly to see anything more than a blur. Fenders were inches apart, and a sense of impending danger pervaded every lap. Fans don’t like to admit it, but the ever-present possibility of a wreck is part of the thrill of racing. It’s a bloodsport, invoking images of the James Caan film Rollerball, right down to the roadway carnage and corporate sponsorship of each racing team.

High-priced network television contracts and a barrage of high-pressure sponsors have boosted NASCAR racing to the upper echelon of the sporting world. As a result, rednecks are no longer racing’s main audience, and it’s kind of a shame. Gone are the days of the hedonistic Talladega infield, where I once watched a dozen men wait in line at a converted yellow school bus, from which a woman emerged to inform me she was available for a price. I declined her invitation into the bordello on wheels and continued my stroll across the infield. A sea of Confederate flags, topless women, and old men with oil-stained fingers peddling moonshine out of pickup trucks made the mile-long journey to the other side of the racetrack a jaw-dropping trek of sin and debauchery.

The new drivers are not quite the sophisticated breed that NASCAR’s public relations machine tries to portray. That’s probably just as well, because the single event that put NASCAR on front pages was a fight in the closing laps of the 1979 Daytona 500, the first stock car race televised nationally from start to finish. On the final lap, Cale Yarborough and Donnie Allison spun each other out, then crawled out of their cars and staged NASCAR’s version of a middleweight championship bout for all the world to see. The nation was hooked, and NASCAR began to surge in popularity.

The current crop of drivers are apparently eager to preserve an old racing tradition that involves thinking with their fists. As a stock car veteran once reminisced of the old days on the Saturday night circuit: “We’d race awhile and then fight awhile.” More recently, fan favorite Ricky Rudd angrily criticized his team about the lack of power in his engines, prompting a crew member to punch him in the eye. Driver Tony Stewart, who knocked a tape recorder from a reporter’s hand last year, allegedly punched another reporter at Indianapolis Motor Speedway earlier this year. Most recently, Stewart was filmed slapping away the hand of an ambulance driver attempting to help him climb from a crashed racecar at a New Hampshire Speedway. Stewart is a pariah in Alabama racing circles after having called Talladega spectators the “most obnoxious fans” on the circuit.

At 2.66 miles, Talladega Superspeedway is the largest track on the NASCAR circuit. In 1985, Bill Elliott pulled off the most incredible feat in Talladega’s storied history when he came from two laps behind to win the Winston 500 without the benefit of a caution flag. Two years later, Elliott set a qualifying record (212.8 m.p.h.) that remains today. That same year Bobby Allison wiped out on the track’s front stretch, his car becoming airborne and repeatedly slamming into the fence that separates the track from the grandstand, as if it were actually trying to climb the barrier. Allison emerged unscathed but several fans were hospitalized after being struck by flying automobile parts. Restrictor plates were later added to racecars at Talladega and Daytona to reduce speeds and the odds of a car flying into the stands. The plates restrict the amount of air taken into the carburetor, reducing speeds some 15 to 20 m.p.h. Drivers complain that the results equalize the cars too much, bunching them together in freight-train packs of 25 or more for an entire race. The fans, of course, love the fender-to-fender racing and multi-car crashes that have increased with the use of restrictor plates.

The late Neil Bonnett’s account of his first lap around Talladega Superspeedway, as told in his biography From Last to First, describes the fear and excitement of topping 200 m.p.h. on a superspeedway:

I started down pit road and shifted through the gears. When I hit the track I was in fourth and had my foot on the floor. I was flyin’ by the time I got on the front straightaway. You know how the interstate narrows as you look down it? Well, you can imagine what that front straight at Talladega looks like at two hunnerd mile an hour. It’s four lanes wide but it doesn’t look wide enough for the car to fit through the corner . . . So I sucked in a deep breath, planted my foot firm on the floor, and dropped off into [turn] one. Damn, it was like goin’ down Third Street in Birmingham and tryin’ to drive up the side of the Twenty-Twenty Building. The track just went up and up and I couldn’t see nothin’ but asphalt. It was like bein’ in a big asphalt fish bowl . . . I could tell I was driftin’ across lanes with the rear end hung out — sorta sideways, floatin’ up toward the wall. Normal drivin’ experience would make you want to back off on a deal like that but somehow or other it felt like the thing to do was to keep my foot in it — it just felt right. Besides, I’m not sure I could have lifted [off the accelerator]anyway — everything was pressed down toward the floor [from G-forces exerted on the driver during a 33-degree banked turn at high speed] . . . It felt like somethin’ was tryin’ to pull my jaws off my face . . . The rear end was still hung out and that whole car was still driftin’ toward the wall. By then the only thing to do was hang on and keep the faith — I didn’t know what else to do. . . . Then I sort of felt the car push into the air cushion that gets pinched against the wall. The car straightened out and lined up perfect and here we went down the back straightaway like we was shot out of a cannon. &

Johnny U

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Quarterback Johnny Unitas’ death on September 11 stirred childhood memories: Sunday afternoon pickup games played on empty church lots, NFL championships on television, or the solitary make-believe of an electric football game. Unitas was considered by most to be the greatest quarterback ever, and was credited by the late sportscaster Dick Schaap as the man primarily responsible for elevating football above baseball as the national pastime. There was nothing fancy about Unitas. A blue-collar quarterback with a crew cut and a simple, workmanlike effort, Unitas shredded the NFL’s staunchest defenses to ribbons each autumn Sunday afternoon. The image of Unitas on a black-and-white television set leading another come-from-behind victory was simply spellbinding. He could make the closing minutes of a football game seemingly go on forever. Expertly milking the clock for every precious second, Unitas invented the “two-minute” offense that eventually became an integral part of modern pro football.



	Johnny Unitas prepares to pass while Jim Marshall of the Minnesota Vikings gives chase during a 1967 NFL game.

Growing up Catholic in Pennsylvania, Unitas dreamed of playing college ball at Notre Dame but was rejected because he only weighed 138 pounds. Drafted by the Pittsburgh Steelers out of the University of Louisville, he was released at season’s end because the Steelers had too many quarterbacks. He took a construction job in the Pittsburgh area in 1956, playing semi-pro football for the Bloomtown Rams on dirt fields “for three dollars a game and the promise of a cold shower,” according to Unitas. Baltimore’s starting quarterback broke his leg against the Chicago Bears and the back-up had chosen law school over the NFL when Unitas was picked up by the Colts for $7,000 a season. He threw an interception that was returned for a touchdown the first time he passed, and lost a fumble in each of his next two possessions. But the next year he led the Colts to their first winning season, and in 1958 he guided Baltimore to the first of back-to-back world championships over the New York Giants. Packer coaching legend Vince Lombardi said he was the greatest player to ever play the game.

For all his passing skills, Unitas considered his devotion to mental discipline his most vital asset as a quarterback. A master at finding vulnerabilities in opposing defenses, he astounded coaches with his ability to call the perfect plays in unpredictable situations. He was fabled for his toughness (quarterbacks were not protected back then as they are by today’s rules), which earned respect from teammates. Former Colts lineman Bubba Smith remembered the afternoon an opposing defensive lineman shoved Unitas’ head into the ground after a tackle. “He called the same play, let the same guy come through, and broke his nose with the football. I said, ‘That’s my hero.’” Former Colt tight end John Mackey said that playing with Unitas was like “being in a huddle with God.”

Comparing Johnny Unitas to the Almighty was not lost on my Sunday School pals. Conversation at church usually centered more on football than the Lord. We couldn’t wait to get home to watch Unitas rally the Baltimore Colts one more time. With his head tilted downward as if gazing at the ground, his black high-top shoes shuffling rapidly back into the pocket, his style of dropping back to pass was like that of no other quarterback. He appeared invincible in that white helmet with the big blue horseshoe on the side. For years I didn’t realize the logo was a horseshoe. To me it had always represented a big blue “U” for Unitas.

One Night With Elvis — Fans from across the globe visit Graceland to pay their respects.

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One Night With Elvis

Fans from across the globe visit Graceland to pay their respects.

Elvis Presley Boulevard in Memphis is a bizarre slice of civilization strewn with dilapidated barbecue shacks, check-cashing pawn shops, liquor stores, car washes (one doubles as a burger joint that serves a “Murder Burger”), and umbrella-toting prostitutes winking at passersby in the pre-dawn rain. It’s hard to believe that this neighborhood is the eternal resting place for a star of Elvis Presley’s magnitude. A few thousand feet from Graceland, cheap Screen Shot 2017-08-16 at 3.37.17 PM automobiles are available in a dismal looking car lot called Heaven-Sent Used Cars. Nearby looms one of the city’s several massive billboards that proclaim: “Johnny Cochran — America’s Lawyer,” a huge, imposing photo of the famous attorney accompanying his telephone number. Another billboard advertises “Dr. Nick’s Memories of Elvis” at a local casino, featuring Dr. George Nichopoulos himself, Elvis’ legendary prescription writer.

On the weekend of August 16, more than 30,000 worshippers solemnly filed past Elvis’ grave, each clutching a candle lit from another candle that was lit by the eternal flame at Presley’s tombstone on the mansion’s front lawn. Colored lights bathed trees in various hues as Graceland’s lawn stereo oozed Presley hymns and ballads around-the-clock, the only sound evident as several thousand worshippers patiently stood in a hushed, snail-paced line beginning at 5 a.m. on Friday to pay respects and proffer gifts at the grave of the King. Offerings included teddy bears, long-stemmed roses, poems, and assorted brands of pork rinds. In the middle of Presley Boulevard, devotees abandoned burning candles in parting tribute, creating an oasis of melting candlewax altars where flames sizzled as raindrops fell.

Welcome Elvis Fans: Feeding throngs of fans proved too exhausting for this vendor.

“I stood in line for six hours,” said Becky Baker, a 55-year-old Detroit woman who credits Presley with putting an end to her suicide attempts. “I had no desire to live ’til I heard Elvis sing,” she sobbed uncontrollably to a middle-aged man with sideburns, a pompadour, and a white Elvis suit and who claimed to be Elvis Presley, Jr. “My mother was Bonnie,” the man explained with a shrug, “one of Elvis’ early girlfriends. I was conceived when they were both 14.” He admitted to harboring lingering resentment at Lisa Marie’s refusal to recognize him as her brother. The crying woman from Detroit rubbed his hand, nodded her head, and sighed, “I knew there had to be more children, ’cause Elvis had so many girlfriends.”

A disheveled woman with unkempt gray hair aimlessly wandered back and forth on the sidewalk in front of Graceland’s graffiti-covered stone wall. She babbled incessantly to herself while dragging a worn yellow suitcase with a Greyhound luggage tag dangling from the handle. Identifying herself as “Mary from Kansas City,” she explained that she had walked several miles from the downtown Memphis bus station to reach Graceland. She distributed photocopies of tabloid headlines about recent Elvis sightings in the Midwest. The woman ventured a theory that Elvis could have been abducted by curious aliens 25 years ago. Most of the mourners simply ignored her.

The annual Elvis Candlelight Vigil held each summer to commemorate Presley’s death is a world-class freak show that would have made the late Colonel Tom Parker proud. Nowhere else would this collection of oddities be afforded such dignity and respect. A midget Elvis posed for pictures with a group of Japanese tourists. A balding Canadian man with scraggly red sideburns said it was his third trip to the vigil. He moonlights as an Elvis and Roy Orbison impersonator in his native British Columbia, crooning a verse of “Love Me Tender” to convince all who doubted him.

The most notable curiosities, however, labeled themselves Presley’s closest confidants and assembled at a University of Memphis symposium. Framed by a backdrop of velvet Elvis paintings, the informal group recounted favorite stories about how much he had meant to each of their lives, offering nothing less than complete reverence and respect as they praised the man who at one time had most of them on his payroll.

Al De Goren, the man who coined the phrase “Elvis has left the building,” recalled Presley’s generosity. Julie Parish, Elvis’ costar in Paradise, Hawaiian Style, claimed that one afternoon the entire right side of her body had gone numb “after too many diet pills.” Presley laid his hands over her in a healing manner right there on the movie set. Elvis’ dentist remembered the day Presley refused painkillers before oral surgery. “Elvis hypnotized himself,” said the dentist, obviously still in awe. “He never blinked and he never moved. It was amazing.”

Charlie Hodge, the man responsible for handing Presley his scarves and glasses of water on stage, told of the evening Elvis and the Colonel purchased 150 seats behind the stage for a group of blind fans — except no one told Elvis they were blind. Each time Presley tossed the group one of his scarves, it would simply flutter to the ground as if no one cared to catch it. Elvis almost became unglued during the performance, convinced that he had lost his ability to mesmerize an audience.

Struggling with English in a thick Korean accent, Master Kang Rhee, Presley’s long-time karate instructor, remembered that Elvis often didn’t know his own strength when using bodyguard Red West as a practice dummy. Rhee used to applaud enthusiastically as Elvis smashed up hotel furniture with hand chops and flying kicks. “Master Tiger [Elvis] deserve all kind of black belt,” Rhee noted, praising the star’s martial arts prowess. At the end of his talk, Kang Rhee, dressed in a black business suit, removed his shoes and socks to give a karate demonstration, complete with grunts and the classic air punches that became a staple of Presley’s Las Vegas act.

Larry Geller, Elvis’ hairdresser and spiritual adviser, called Presley “an Adonis and modern-day Robin Hood” who had hair “so fine that it needed lots of hairspray.” The hair stylist has previously claimed that Elvis was reading a book about Jesus the moment he died, a book the barber had given him five days before his death. Geller at one time had been ostracized by Colonel Parker and the Memphis Mafia, who blamed him for Presley’s fascination with different religions. At one point, Colonel Tom refused to let him be alone with Presley, limiting barber sessions to a half hour with a chaperon. The Colonel eventually confiscated all spiritual books Geller had given the singer, which Priscilla convinced Elvis to burn one night at Graceland.

Red West was the unexpected guest. West and his brother Sonny had written a tell-all book entitled Elvis, What Happened? after being fired from their bodyguard roles. Presley contemplated having the pair killed after the book came out but failed to carry through with the scheme. Years later, a tearful West has nothing but kind words for his former boss, and recollections about various attempts to break the monotony of life with Elvis in Las Vegas. For one prank, the Memphis Mafia staged an assassination attempt on Elvis, loading everyone’s guns with blanks in an afternoon shoot-out where Presley played dead as those not in on the joke jumped on his body to protect him from the imaginary bullets.

Leave it to Sam Phillips, founder of Sun Records and the man who discovered Elvis, to be the one speaker willing to toss a few irreverent barbs in everyone’s direction. Phillips is widely regarded as the man who unleashed rock ‘n’ roll with the release of “Rocket ’88′” by Jackie Brentson. In the early 1950s, Phillips had discovered a black singing group known as the Prisonaires incarcerated at the Tennessee State Penitentiary in Nashville. Impressed, Phillips began soliciting tapes of songs from other convicts, including one who sounded an awful lot like the Presley kid that had made acetate recordings 10 months earlier at Phillips’ Memphis Recording Service. Phillips was forced to give Presley a second listen, eventually hooking him up with guitarist Scotty Moore’s group, the Starlite Wranglers. Moore was initially impressed more with the singer’s name than voice because he thought the name “Elvis Presley” sounded like it came from a science fiction movie. Two years later, Phillips sold Presley’s contract to Colonel Tom Parker for $35,000.

Admitting that “anybody this damn old ought to be dead,” Phillips opened his address expressing admiration for the RCA microphone before him. He praised its aluminum strip and magnetic poles as he noted, “You make the performer feel like he owns that microphone,” the excitement rising in his voice. Admitting that he had more tolerance for Red than Red’s brother Sonny, Phillips praised West for being “exactly what Elvis needed in a bodyguard.” He said the brothers’ tell-all book wasn’t written to make money, but rather “to help Presley straighten his life out.” Phillips spoke in a stream of consciousness delivery that veered off on various tangents before suddenly returning to the topic at hand as he forgave West for writing the book.

Sam Phillips has claimed to have had no regrets about selling Elvis to the Colonel, whom he called “a fat boy with a long tongue and fat mouth.” But he can’t hide his disdain for the man who once had a carnival sideshow featuring dancing chickens on a plugged-in hot plate. “I’ll never say anything against Tom Parker . . . I wish he were still alive — then I would!” Phillips then turned his sarcasm towards Charlie Hodge: “It ain’t easy passin’ a glass of water to Elvis Presley. Forget the scarves.” He finally got around to exalting Presley, lauding him as a man of his word. “Elvis wouldn’t break a damn contract, even if it cost him his lower anatomy. He was the most important personality of the 20th and 21st centuries . . . I loved him because I wanted to kiss him and never got to.” As the audience laughed nervously at Phillips’ peculiar anecdotes, the legendary record producer concluded with a philosophical flurry of words that put a perspective on the two-day Memphis spectacle that few in the throng of 30,000 Graceland mourners would dare acknowledge. “We’re not talkin’ about no damn deities, and we don’t need another pope,” Phillips said quietly of the man who drew revelers from all corners of the globe on the 25th anniversary of his death. “No use in kidding ourselves. Elvis Presley got himself in the mess he made, and you know he did.” &

A Wizard’s Touch

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A Wizard’s Touch

By Ed Reynolds

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The most prolific and despised weed known to mankind is Toxicodendron radicans, or poison ivy, a member of the cashew family. The plant’s oily resin is absolutely malevolent, an evil essence legendary for driving humans to the edge of madness. The toxic ingredient is urushiol, an element so potent that a drop the size of a pinhead is enough to affect 50 people. Eighteen years ago, pharmacist Roland Nelson, owner of Reynolds Drugs on Green Springs Highway, decided he’d had enough. He began swapping ideas with other chemists to combat the dreaded menace and one day conjured up a potion revered for its remarkable powers to soothe the torturous itch of poison ivy. (without the aid of prescription ingredients). “This is just something that intrigues me,” Nelson explains about his fascination with blending medicinal compounds. “Compounding has always been one of my loves. Mixing drugs and putting things together.”

Nelson calls his concoction Medi-Summer Gel. His customers call it “goat juice” or “Roland’s magic poison ivy medicine.” Whatever the label, Nelson’s reputation as a wizard is not unfounded. “When I can do something like this and my patients come back to me and say this works, I get a real good feeling out of it,” Nelson confesses. The pharmacist brews a new batch weekly in a lengthy five-hour process.

The blend is really not so mysterious. “It’s mostly over-the-counter,” Nelson says, revealing the secrets of his homemade tonic: “We put diphenhydramine in, and we put promazine in it for the itching. We put hydrocortisone in it and put it in a base. And when it dries, it forms a film over the poison ivy so it kind of protects it a little and keeps it from draining. And we put a little menthol and camphor in it to help stop the itching and to give it a cooling effect.” Nelson doesn’t hesitate to brag about the potency of his mystical ointment, though he envisions no pot of gold at the end of the alchemy rainbow. “It has worked really well. It’s not something that I go out and advertise in the magazines and all that. Basically, I do it for my customers.”

Council Reaches for Piece of Lodging Tax

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Council Reaches for Piece of Lodging Tax

Is the Birmingham City Council gearing up for another showdown with Mayor Bernard Kincaid? The mayor has voiced support for appropriating the entire three percent of a council-endorsed hotel lodging tax toward expansion of the Birmingham-Jefferson Convention Complex (BJCC). Councilors, however, wanted to earmark a third of lodging tax revenues for the Greater Birmingham Convention and Visitors Bureau for marketing purposes.

At the suggestion of Council President Pro Tem Carole Smitherman, the council is now considering a third option: a three-way split that would direct $1 million of the expected $3 million lodging tax windfall to the council for city projects. The council could later redirect its one-third portion back to BJCC expansion once funding is fully secured.

Councilor Joel Montgomery remains the lone council member adamantly opposed to using tax dollars to expand the BJCC to a multi-purpose facility. Montgomery prefers that the city focus its spending on cleaning up the city, which he believes will attract business and boost the city’s population. “It’s where you want to put your priorities,” said the councilor at the July 30 council meeting. “Why can’t we do the same thing to clean up our neighborhoods and improve schools?” Montgomery asked. “It’s not rocket science.” Montgomery said that he had recently immersed himself in domed stadium feasibility studies, including a report from Harvard University, and had found no justification for any such construction. Montgomery says that he can’t believe that a Harvard professor would agree with “somebody as dumb as me.” He added that there are not enough conventions to go around to justify the $440 million expansion plan.

Insisting that the lodging tax will “rev up our economy,” Councilor Smitherman calls expansion of the BJCC “a revenue-raising venture which helps us fund education.” Smitherman said that the city’s location in a valley limits the type of business the city can bring in due to ozone problems. “The lodging tax gives us a new Birmingham,” she said. “So be it if the city of Birmingham is the entertainment district for the region. So be it if we are the banking facility for the state of Alabama and the Southwest [sic]. The more we promote where we live to other places, [the more] people want to come to our valley to see what we’re doing and how we live. We have a special place here and it’s up to us to promote it.” Smitherman added that a million dollars is not much to spend on promotion.

“We have to spend money to make money,” said Councilor Bert Miller “Sometimes we outsmart ourselves. Let’s start using common sense. It’s so simple for our city. Birmingham is just a great big city waiting to explode around the nation. Once we build this thing people are gonna come from everywhere.” Miller urged “city-bashers” to move elsewhere and even offered to pay for a “Ryder truck” to help local malcontents relocate. For the record, approximately 20,000 residents have left Birmingham since 1990. &

Elvis Summer Heats Up

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Elvis Summer Heats Up

By Ed Reynolds

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As the 25th anniversary of Elvis Presley’s August 16 death approaches, the late singer currently has a number one hit in Europe with “A Little Less Conversation.” The chart-topper fulfills Colonel Tom Parker’s prophecy that Presley would be worth more to the manager dead than alive. His 1977 passing also opened the door for a new form of entertainment — the Elvis impersonator.

No one is more shocked by his chosen profession than impersonator David Lee. “It’s beyond my belief,” Lee observes about life portraying the greatest American icon of all time. “I don’t think anybody sets out to make a career being an Elvis impersonator.” The singer is revered as one of the top Elvis performers in North America, currently holding the champion’s title after having won the Canadian Elvis Fest 2001. He also placed third in the number one Elvis contest in the world, Images of the King 2001, which is held each August in Memphis in observance of Presley’s 1977 death.

Lee didn’t start out as an Elvis fan. “My best friend had Elvis playing all the time, and I thought, ‘Man, this guy’s a little strange.’” But he soon became a convert, and began impersonating Presley in 1995 after being told he sounded a lot like him. “Deep down, I’m just a big Elvis fan, but I took it to another level.” He presently owns nine Elvis jumpsuits, including the American Eagle costume (from Presley’s legendary 1973 “Aloha from Hawaii” concert), the Peacock outfit, and the white fringe suit. Lee focuses on the more obscure Presley tunes. “You go to the contests and you hear ‘Suspicious Minds’ and ‘Jailhouse Rock’ 3,000 times. I try to look for songs that people don’t do.

“I try to give the people an accurate account of what it might be like to see Elvis,” Lee says. “Of course, there was only one Elvis . . . So if you can give ‘em just a touch of it, you’ve done your job.”

David Lee will perform at the BJCC Theatre August 9 with the Promised Land band. Showtime is 8 p.m. He will also be at the Birmingham International Raceway August 10 with the Muddy King Orchestra. For tickets or information, call 205-266-3030 or visit www.elvis4u.com.

The Big Squeeze

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The Big Squeeze

By Ed Reynolds

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	Joe Zasa entertains at a family Christmas party in 1941.

Accordionist Joe Zasa winks at a pair of women diners as the romantic, ominous strains of The Godfather theme recast Chez Lulu from funky Paris bistro to a 1960s Sicilian cafe. Zasa, who bears an uncanny resemblance to a grandfatherly Robert De Niro, uses his big hands to press accordion buttons and scurry across the white keys as he roams from table to table to take requests and chat with patrons. One of the women asks for “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” while the other wants to hear “Mack the Knife,” inspiring Zasa to acknowledge, “Yeah, that’s good stuff, ya know?” A flurry of movie themes soon follows as “Climb Every Mountain,” “I Could Have Danced All Night,” and “As Time Goes By” transport the dinner crowd to another place and time.

“Some of this modern music is crap, ya know that?” observes the 82-year-old musician as he sips Sangria and tosses another cigarette butt into the street. Between sets at Chez Lulu’s Sunday night “Monster Accordion Pull,” Zasa sits at a sidewalk table in the sweltering summer heat, complaining that his accordion weighs 40 pounds and recalling how much he despised the instrument when his father forced him to learn to play it at age 15. But it didn’t take long for Zasa to change his mind. Soon he was playing side gigs — something he would continue throughout his career as an electrical engineer. He’s currently the president of the Alabama Accordionists Association, a group of approximately 80 accordion enthusiasts that meets quarterly to share their fondness for the instrument. Association members arrange themselves into ensembles ranging from 3 to 30 accordions, performing everything from Beethoven to the “Beer Barrel Polka.” And while Zasa admits that the accordion is seldom considered among the more cultured of instruments, he is quick to defend his serious study of it. “When people see me play with no sheet music, they say, ‘Oh, you play by ear.’ But I can read music, so I’ve got a trained ear, and I’ve got it all memorized. I know more than 2,000 songs.”

The accordion swells of “It Had to Be You” add a dash of elegance to Chez Lulu’s quaint ambience before Zasa rips into the Mickey Mouse theme while a couple of children giggle uncontrollably.

The Monster Accordion Pull takes place at Chez Lulu on Sundays, from 7:30 to 9:30 p.m. For more information, call 870-7011.

Immaculate Deception

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Immaculate Deception

By Ed Reynolds

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	An Elvis impersonator sings “G.I. Blues” to adoring fans.

Decades after Elvis Presley’s twin brother Jesse died at birth, and years before scientists began work on human cloning, an odd strain of human known as the “Elvis impersonator” karate-chopped its way into the belly of 20th century world culture. Long live the King.

Twenty Elvis impersonators invaded Birmingham June 15 and 16 for the second Annual Elvis in Dixieland contest. Memphis-native William Styles, who vomited on Presley as an infant (his parents were pals of Elvis), was crowned champ after his mighty fine version of Elvis’ rendition of “Walk a Mile in My Shoes.” Styles, who bears an alarming resemblance to Kurt Russell’s Hollywood portrayal of Elvis, won $1,000 and the opportunity to compete in the world-wide “Images of the King” contest in Memphis in August during the 25th anniversary vigil of Elvis’ death.

David Lee, billed as “Birmingham’s Favorite Elvis Entertainer,” served as master of ceremonies. The reigning Canadian Grand Champion Elvis impersonator, Lee placed third during last year’s Memphis celebration. He introduced an assortment of contenders that aped every Elvis move imaginable — karate kicks, fists punching the air, and hips quivering uncontrollably. Grown women squealed like teenagers as they rushed the stage for kisses and scarves from performers in between endless versions of “Suspicious Minds” and the proverbial Elvis catch-phrase: “Thank you, thank you very much.”

Impersonator Michael Ratcliffe, a member of Virginia’s “Touched By Elvis” fan club, struggled to stay on pitch, but that didn’t stop him from belting out an emotional, off-key version of “My Way.” Danny Dale, an overweight Las Vegas Elvis from Louisville, Kentucky, mingled in the hallway with other contestants after his performance, sweat glistening off his chest as he explained his motivation for imitating the King. “It’s like doing aerobics. I try to mimic [his] moves. I started like most of the impersonators did, doing karaoke. Eventually, I rented a suit and started doing parties.” Beside him stood his 18-year-old son, “Little D,” who waited his turn to present a 1950s Elvis act.

“This is for my country and my Savior,” said a Presley imitator in a sparkling rhinestone-studded blue jumpsuit as he introduced “Dixie.” A gospel Elvis said he got his start impersonating the King at “rodeos, churches, and nursing homes.” Bragging that his Church of God rearing was every bit as religious as Presley’s youth, he opened his set by announcing, “I’d like to put in a plug for the two kings — King Jesus and King Elvis.”

Rev ‘Em Up

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Rev ‘Em Up

By Ed Reynolds

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	Stock car racing starts up in Phenix City.

The East Alabama Motor Speedway, near Phenix City, once again offers a roaring summer of spills, thrills, and all-around high-speed mayhem every Saturday night at 8 p.m. The 3/8-mile, high-banked clay raceway features the finest in Southern-style automobile racing with late-model, pony stock, enduro, super street, road warrior, and cruiser classifications. This year, the 6,000-seat track celebrates its 30th racing season, and will be giving away six-foot tall trophies to all Summer Sizzler Seven Series champions.

Late-model racing is the fastest, but the most fun is the cruiser class, also known as hog racing. Any car with race-worthy safety specifications (roll bars and doors welded shut) is allowed on the track to compete in a 10-lap shoot-out. There’s nothing more exciting than the sight of a massive Cadillac DeVille slamming into a 1972 Lincoln Continental as the pair slide through a dirt turn, kicking up clouds of dust. All a driver needs is a helmet, a fearless nature, and little regard for his automobile. A couple of stiff drinks probably wouldn’t hurt either. For more information, call 334-297-2594.

Just Like a Woman

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Just Like a Woman

By Ed Reynolds

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	Loretta Lynn is coming to Birmingham to sign copies of her new autobiography, Still Woman Enough, an entertaining but brutally honest account of Lynn’s life as one of America’s greatest country music performers.

An afternoon telephone conversation with country legend Loretta Lynn reveals a woman completely unaffected by notoriety. Lynn sounds as though she were still a Butcher Holler farm girl, speaking in a rural dialect that contradicts her stardom. The singer doesn’t pull any punches. Hit her once and she’ll hit back twice. Her husband Doolittle’s (Doo) philandering and chronic alcoholism provoked more than a few violent episodes during their 48-year marriage. She knocked two of his front teeth out one night, pleased as she could be that his cheating was put to rest until he could get new teeth. Their marriage is tumultuously detailed in her second autobiography Still Woman Enough, an entertaining but brutally honest account of Lynn’s fascinating life as one of America’s greatest country music performers.

Loretta Lynn literally defines country. The names of her children read like a hillbilly sitcom: Betty Sue, Ernest Ray, Patsy, Cissie, Jack Benny. Married at age 13 in Kentucky coal-mining country, Lynn and her husband moved to Washington State a year later so Doo could pan for gold and Loretta could pick strawberries. Though noting that there were anecdotes in her autobiography that she couldn’t have written if her husband were still alive, Lynn is unwavering in her devotion to the man directly responsible for her success. Doo convinced Loretta to sing in Northwest honky tonks despite her severe stage fright. Lynn began to build a following in Canada but noticed that her most loyal fans were suddenly absent for a couple of months. When she finally confronted them about where they’d been, they explained that they had given up Loretta for Lent. The singer said the only “Lent” she was familiar with was the kind that gets on your clothes. Doo later chauffeured her on a blitz tour of radio stations around the country to convince disc jockeys to play her first single “I’m a Honky Tonk Girl.” And it was her husband who got her on the Grand Ole Opry after her first record entered the charts, by convincing Opry officials to let his wife audition. She was invited to sing on the Opry for the next 17 weeks, receiving $18 per night (with three additional bucks if she sang an extra song).

Being an Opry star didn’t change Lynn much. She continued to slaughter her barnyard chickens for dinner and shop for material at the Salvation Army thrift store to make her own stage outfits. She was once chastised by a ranking Opry official who saw her coming out of the store. He told her it “cast a bad light on the Opry when local folks saw the show’s singers acting like poor people.” She didn’t know how to use a credit card until Conway Twitty instructed her in the late 1970s.

Influenced by nothing more than Saturday night Grand Ole Opry broadcasts and her delight in rhyming words with siblings as a child, Lynn displayed a remarkable ability for writing songs. “Doo got me a book that showed how you wrote ‘em. It was called Country Roundup, I think. I just looked at the songs and I said, ‘Anybody can do this.’ The first spanking Doo ever give me was because I rhymed a word. And it rhymed with door — you know what it was — and I didn’t know what it meant. It was raining and cold and he let the door open and I said, ‘Shut the door you little. . . .’ And I got a whippin’ for that. And he’d promised Daddy he’d never put a hand on me. And that was the next day after he’d married me. He throwed me over his knee and busted my butt.”

In 1963, the singer was asked by childhood idol Ernest Tubb to record a series of duets. “I never dreamed I’d ever sing with him, ’cause when Daddy had that little radio, we’d listen to the Grand Ole Opry on Saturday night and the news, ’cause the war was goin’ on. But I’d start to cry when Ernest Tubb started to sing. And Mama would say, ‘I’m gonna turn the radio off if you don’t quit cryin.’” Tubb was instrumental in establishing Lynn as a country institution. “When I come to Nashville, MCA Records, which was Decca at the time, they asked Ernest to record with a girl. And he said he wanted to record with me. He did so much for me. The last time I sang with him, it was like standin’ up by a big monument. I even went to Billy Bob’s [famed Fort Worth bar, the largest honky tonk in the world] and did a show for him to buy medicine with, ’cause he had run out of money. He helped everybody in Nashville but no one would go help him.”

But it was her series of duets with Conway Twitty that placed Lynn on the same “classic duo” pedestal occupied by George Jones and Tammy Wynette. “Yeah, I loved Conway. He was like a brother, and he would give me advice. If he thought I wasn’t doing things right, he’d tell me, ‘This is how you do it,’ and I’d say, ‘No, that’s how you do it. This is how I’d do it,’” she laughs. Their string of soap-opera-style hits included “Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man,” “You’re the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly,” and “Backstreet Affair.” In a strange twist of fate, Conway Twitty unexpectedly died with Lynn at his bedside in a Missouri hospital in 1991 after Twitty was overcome with a stomach aneurysm while touring the Midwest. He was rushed to the nearest hospital, where Lynn was waiting as Doo recovered from open-heart surgery. She thought that Twitty had decided to drop by to visit her husband. “I watched Conway’s bus come off the exit. I run downstairs to let him know what room Doo was in, and they come draggin’ him in. Blood’s comin’ out of his mouth and his eyes was tryin’ to focus on me and he couldn’t. I almost fell out right there. The chaplain came in and told me that Conway would not live through the night, so he told me if I wanted to see him I should go on back there. I went in his room and patted him on the arm and said, ‘Conway, you love to sing, honey, don’t you leave me.’”

Staunchly defiant, Lynn was a fly in the conservative ointment of the Nashville music industry. She was the first to write and sing about women’s issues. “The Pill” was the first of several of her songs to be banned, but Lynn was smart enough to recognize a marketing opportunity as women flocked to her side. “It’s all because I’d get down and talk to the women. All of ‘em were taking the pill and they weren’t wearin’ bras [pronounced 'braws']. Everybody was taking the pill, why not talk about it. Everybody was havin’ kids just like I was, why not say, ‘One’s on the way.’ I couldn’t understand why the public was worried about my songs. And when ‘Rated X’ come out, just the title of it, they started banning the record. And they didn’t listen to it. It was about a divorced woman. Nothin’ in it was bad. When ‘Don’t Come Home a-Drinkin” come out, the big 50-watt [sic] station in Chicago didn’t play it, ’cause they thought it was dirty. It went number one, they started playin’ it.”

Loretta Lynn’s music was a stark contrast to Tammy Wynette’s songs about sticking with men, regardless. Ironically, Wynette went through five husbands, while Lynn’s only husband was Doo. “Tammy Wynette was outspoken about standing by her man, and I’d done hit mine over the head with a rollin’ pin,” Lynn laughs. “Tammy said, ‘I’d be afraid to sing that, afraid they wouldn’t play my record.’ But it didn’t hurt me. They’d ban ‘em and they’d go number one.” Lynn took Wynette under her wing when she arrived in Nashville, just as Patsy Cline had done for her when Lynn first moved to town as an unknown. “Oh, Tammy was my best girlfriend. First girlfriend I had, except Patsy. I never did get that close to all the artists. All of ‘em have their own way of doin’ things, and I think they kinda stayed away from me because of the songs I wrote. They shoulda liked ‘em, they might’ve rubbed off on ‘em. They could’ve wrote their own.”

Lynn also didn’t think twice about crossing racial divides. “When Charlie Pride won Singer of the Year, I was the one that was supposed to give the award. So they said, ‘Loretta, if Charlie wins, step back one foot and don’t touch him.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearin’ ’cause I’d been livin’ on the West Coast for 13 or 14 years,” Lynn remembers, still appalled. “Charlie is just another singer to me. When it comes to color, I’m colorblind, ’cause I’m part Cherokee. So when Charlie won, I stepped up and hugged him and kissed him. They got a little upset about it. I thought, ‘Well, Charlie shouldn’t even sing for ‘em if that’s the way they feel about him.’”

One of her champions in Nashville was the Carter Family, who at one time asked her to join the group. Lynn refused because she felt she couldn’t sing their harmonies properly. She remembers trying to get a sulking Johnny Cash on stage. “Poor little ol’ Johnny. They couldn’t get him out on stage. Johnny Cash has always been good to me. He was the first one that took me out of Nashville on a tour. Him and the Carter Family, we went to Toronto and Ontario [sic]. He was not having too good a night. Mother Maybelle, June . . . they were all mad at him. I said, ‘Come on, baby, it’s time for you to go on.’ He jerked his coat down and there was a bottle of pills — a hundred-aspirin bottle of pills, but it wasn’t aspirin. I didn’t know what they was ’cause I’d never seen a diet pill in my life. And they went all over the floor and they was all different colors. And Johnny said, ‘Don’t leave any,’ and I sat down on that floor and picked up every pill and put them back.”

Refusing to sway from her convictions, Loretta Lynn has remained her own woman. Her forthright honesty provoked a showdown with Frank Sinatra, who invited Lynn to duet on what had been his first hit, “All or Nothing at All.” She told Sinatra it was the worst song she’d ever heard and suggested they sing “Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man.” Sinatra told her when she had her own television show she could sing whatever she wanted.

Her simple approach to life and refusal to bow to showbiz expectations also left a lasting impression on Dean Martin. Martin had been so taken with the Carter Family’s performance on his show that he asked them to recommend another Nashville artist. They suggested Lynn, who refused to sit in Martin’s lap, as was customary when he sang duets with female performers. Instead of being offended, Martin decided her spunk was the perfect ingredient to spice up the Dean Martin’s Celebrity Roast featuring Jack Lemmon. Lynn picks up the story in her autobiography: “Well, I’d never heard of a ‘roast.’ I thought Dean Martin was inviting me to dinner with his Hollywood friends. So I dressed up real nice. They made a special dress for me out of material flown from Paris, France. I couldn’t understand why they wanted me to eat in that fancy dress. They made me read from a Teleprompter and I told Dean I was scared to death and didn’t read so good. But I didn’t have a choice. I was stuck. Making me feel worse, I started in saying the most awful things about Jack Lemmon. I didn’t know they was jokes. So each time I said something, I turned to Jack and said, ‘I didn’t mean that, honey. I don’t even know you. I’m just saying what’s on that there card.’” &

Loretta Lynn will be signing copies of her latest autobiography Still Woman Enough at Books & Company on Tuesday, June 25, at 6 p.m. Call 870-0212 for details.

She will also be performing at Looney’s Tavern on Saturday, July 13, in Double Springs. Tickets are $17-$30 for the 7:30 p.m. show. Call 205-489-5000 for details.