Vol. 82, January 9th, 2024 Published a day early online
Happy Birthday, Elvis
Remembering The King on his 89th Birthday
It was dark. It was cold. But finally, on January 8th, 1935, Elvis was in the building.
His arrival was mingled with sorrow. His twin brother, born shortly before, was stillborn. But Elvis was okay. Little did his young parents know that their one healthy son would one day reign as the king of Rock ‘n Roll–a style of music that didn’t exist yet.
His father, Vernon, had built the shotgun shack when he learned that Elvis was on the way. Vernon would lose the house a few years later, sending the family into a chaotic period of moving, separation, and finally, reunion in the public housing projects of Memphis.
Their shy boy would eventually wander in to the Sun studios to make an amateur recording for Gladys’ birthday. In time, that birthday present would gift the world with a sound as modern, classic, enduring, and iconic as there ever would be.
It’s a long way from that humble dwelling that Vernon built, but the songs seem to get stronger with time. Blue Suede Shoes remain off limits. Mail keeps getting returned. Women continue to drive men crazy. The King’s voice says this, and will never die.
Happy Birthday, Elvis.
The Royals
A two-year-old Elvis Presley looks at the camera, flanked by his parents Gladys and Vernon in 1937.
Song of the Week: “That’s Alright”
(Elvis Presley)
A fledgling Presley, about to bomb out of his one shot at music, grabs a guitar and sings this song in desperation. Sun Records’ Sam Phillips leans out of the booth, intrigued. “Why don’t you guys take it from the top?” The song would propel Elvis to immortality.
Quote of the Week
“If you’re not doing something different, you’re not doing anything”
–Sam Phillips, Sun Records
When Did You First Hear Elvis?
Do you remember where you where? What song it was? Did you like it? Send us the story: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA, 24588
Happy Birthday “Dear Abby”
Abigail Van Buren’s 1st advice column is printed today, 1956.
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #168)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal: Late Night Radio “A Long Winter’s Nap”
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! I hope your winter has been tolerable so far. Some folks dig the season, chasing powder and doing “gnarly flips” on their snowboards...or something.
It’s hard to get the athletic vocabulary right when you’re as clumsy as I am. Even the level floor requires great concentration should I need to say hello to a pretty lady while I’m walking. “Houston, we’re holding steady, but make no promises. Keep a close eye out for thresholds and door stops. Godspeed on the walkie-talkie maneuver. Over.”
So I don’t ski or snowboard.
I like winter, but sometimes it can get rather glum. The razzle dazzle of the holidays has faded, and the cold settles in. There’s something about the leaden gray of a winter sky that seems to last forever. But, I stumbled upon a nifty thought years ago that always makes my winters better. I hope it at least makes you chuckle.
Maybe the fog that blanketed the fields got into my ear that day, and set off my overactive imagination. The stretch of the road to Richmond was lonely that January morning. Man, it’s like the earth is dreaming.
I couldn’t un-see it. I felt like a mouse in a midnight kitchen, the only living creature awake, scuttling along in the quiet. I told a fellow radio DJ, and he spun a tune on the air as I drove away. “This one goes out to Josh Urban, as he drives through the dreaming world.” (I swear we only had coffee in the studio. We’re naturally imaginative.)
I drove to Richmond again this week, through a crisp and bright dream. The frost lay glittering in the shadows, and the sun, barely peeking above the mountain, cast the pines in a bronze glow, like they were statues of some forgotten war heroes, guarding the hay fields. The sky copied the ground, awash with blue and white and gray and gold. King Green was in exile, with only a few shivering cedars flying his flag in the cold wind.
Passing a giant oak roadside, I admired its patience. It’s waited for a hundred and fifty winters, never losing faith, snoozing quietly in the gray and blue until the green returns.
So if you’re tired of the winter, put on your imagination hat, and picture the world asleep, dreaming of spring. It’ll be here soon.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
Send letters or cheese to this midnight mouse at P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or online @RealJoshUrban