Jacqueline Coley (4:27)

So that means a half day, you know.

Jake Brennan (4:30)

Give it a try@mintmobile.com Switch upfront payment.

Jacqueline Coley (4:34)

Of $45 for three month plan equivalent to $15 per month required. New customer offer for first three months only. Speed slow after 35 gigabytes of network spizy. Taxes and fees extra.

Jake Brennan (4:39)

See mint mobile.com this episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is the story of a rock and roll myth. A rock and roll myth that is in need of busting. But it's also a Christmas story. A story about the King of Cool himself, Elvis Presley, in an obscure Memphis singer who Elvis himself thought was just about the coolest dude that he'd ever seen on stage. A singer by the name of Johnny Ace. A singer who died on Christmas Day in 1954. A singer whose violent death resulted in a cash windfall and a killer conspiracy. And a singer who made great music, unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Dead for the holidays MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Mr. Sandman by the Cordettes. And why would I play you that specific slice of Clock tower morphine cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on Christmas Day, 1954. And that was the day Johnny Ace died, setting into motion a rock and roll myth that persists to this day. On this episode, a special Christmas story. A cash windfall. A killer conspiracy. Elvis Presley and Johnny Ace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is the Scra Sam. It was Christmas morning at Graceland. Just before dawn, 1976, Memphis, Tennessee. Elvis Presley was sitting alone in the jungle room. He could smell the Christmas pine in the air, and he vibed on the lonesome mood thrown off by the dim lights from the tree. The presents were wrapped, the shopping was done, the meal was planned, and there was nothing left to worry about. But for Elvis, worrying wasn't the problem. For Elvis, there was the longing of the holiday season to contend with. He reclined in his chair, looked out the window into the night's fading blackness and thought about his beloved mother, gladys, gone now 18 years. He then thought of his twin brother Jesse, whom he never knew, dead at birth. And as the cold Memphis dawn turned into the cold Memphis morning, the King's memories hollowed out his bulging gut. Elvis's thoughts then turned toward a song, pledging My Love. Thinking of the ballad, it soothed Elvis. It was written by another Memphis boy. He, like Elvis's mother and brother, had also departed this mortal coil years earlier. His name was Johnny. Johnny Ace. Longing and loss are difficult emotions to process, even for kings. When Elvis was a kid, there was the pop music tradition of the tragedy song to help teenagers work their way through the pain of unexpected death. Your boyfriend dies in a motorcycle accident, There's a song for that. Leader of the Pack by the Shangri Las. Your boyfriend gets crushed by a tree in a lightning storm. There's a song for that. Jimmy Love by Kathy Carroll. Hell, your boyfriend gets attacked by a shark. There's a song for that, too. The Water Was Red by Johnny Cymbal. All of these songs attempted to do for teenagers what Elvis was trying to do for himself, which was to quell his grief with the thought of Johnny Ace's tune. But it wasn't working. Elvis thought back to an earlier, far less complicated time, to a time before stardom, before this all consuming grief. To Beale street, just down the road, a piece in Memphis, 1951. Riley B. King's electric guitar went dead and so did the band behind Riley, or B.B. as he was calling himself now. B.B. for Blues Boy. B.B. king's band, the Beale Streeters. Singer Bobby Blue Bland, tenor saxophonist Adolph Duncan and piano player Johnny Ace stood in silence. A woman from the front of the juke joint screamed bloody murder, and just then everyone else on the dance floor turned and flooded away from the stage toward the juke's single exit. Young Elvis, just 16 years old from his vantage point looking in from outside the juke joint's window, watched it all in horror. Blood was pouring out of the man's stomach. His arms were stretched ahead of him as he stumbled behind the fleeing crowd like the walking dead from one of those features they showed down at the Bristol on Saturday afternoons, White Zombie. The Ghost breakers or I Walked With a Zombie. Elvis was so scared he couldn't move. There on the suddenly vacated dance floor in front of the stage, a bloodied knife. The man had been stabbed. For what, Elvis didn't know. The band didn't know either, but they weren't surprised. Random acts of violence in Southern juke joints were as common as pigs feet and white lightning. The Beale Streeters were young, but they were pros. The hottest band in Memphis. Elvis knew it. That's why he was perched outside the window, watching. He couldn't get inside to see them being so young and so white. So he did what he had to because BB King could play like nobody's business, and Bobby Blue Bland had a special handle on whatever song bandleader Adolf Duncan called upon for him to sing. And that piano player Johnny Ace they called him. He didn't look that much older than Elvis, and that gave Elvis hope. Maybe someday it'd be him up there on that juke joint stage. But he'd never be as cool as Johnny. That was impossible. There was something about him. You could hear it in the way he played and he could see it in the way he walked. Like a Cadillac. The Cadillac walk, Elvis thought. That's how Johnny rolled through. Like a Cadillac. Didn't matter if it was down Beale street on a busy afternoon or past a crime scene in empty juke joint. Johnny Ace, Elvis thought. There was no one, no one cooler than Johnny Ace. Johnny Ace screamed as he slammed his snub nose 22 down on the backstage table. It was all adrenaline. The accompanying laughter quieted while the men in the room laughed nervously and shuffled out. Johnny was drunk and playing with his gun again, a dangerous combo. Out front in the Coliseum, Johnny Otis Band warmed up the crowd for Johnny Ace and B.B. king. But Johnny Ace and B.B. king weren't performing together tonight. No, the Beale Streeters had long since disbanded. Johnny and Bebe were now both stars of their own solo making. And Bobby Blue Bland was off on his own as well. And even that funny looking white boy used to hang around the jukebox joints back in the day. Elvis. He was making a name for himself as of late too, touring out on the Louisiana Hayride. It was Christmas Day 1954. Then the song on the backstage radio cut to commercial. Shit, there he was. The kid. Johnny slammed his gun down on the table again and told everyone in the dressing room to shut the fuck up and to listen. So they did. In the dressing room, with the muffled sounds of the Johnny Otis Band pulsing through the walls, the small radio pumped in a ridiculous sounding jingle, a tune promoting Southern Made Donuts. The small crowd around Johnny suppressed their laughter as they leaned in to listen, which only made the tune they were listening to even funnier. This is him. That kid. The white boy. One Elvis Presley on the radio hit the tagline in the commercial's jingle. You can get em pipin hot. After 4pm you can get em piping hot. Southern Made Donuts hit the spot. You can get em pipin hot. When they heard that, that absurdity, the cheesiness, it sent Johnny and his backstage guests into hysterics. You believe this bullshit? Johnny asked to no one in particular. His friend Willie Mae Thornton, Big Mama Thornton to the black record buying public answered, I bet he getting paid though. When Johnny's girlfriend Olivia chimed in that maybe if Johnny got Himself a commercial. He could afford a Cadillac like BB King instead of that rickety old station wagon that Johnny drove. Johnny went wild eyed, grabbed his.22 off the table and started waving it around the dressing room. Olivia told Johnny she didn't mean anything by the comment, and she was just playing. Just playing. Just playing. She wanted to play. Well, then Johnny had a game for her. He slammed the gun down on the table again. Johnny pulled from his jug of vodka and then said, I got a game we can play. Olivia and Big Mama sat stone silent. Johnny stared into Big Mama Thornton's eyes, and he then lifted the revolver, popped the chamber, spun it fast like a cowboy on one of those old Westerns he loved so much, and then, without breaking eye contact, pressed the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger. Johnny screamed. The girl screamed. The girls screamed some more. Johnny's scream turned into a maniacal laugh. He spun the chamber again. Your turn, he said to Big Mama and handed her the revolver. No way. Johnny taunted her. Uh, there was no way. Big Mama Thornton was playing Russian roulette, and neither was Olivia. Her eyes said it all. Johnny was disappointed Olivia never could bring it when it counted. Johnny quickly spun the chamber again, pressed the barrel to the side of his head, and pulled the trigger again. Johnny let out a demon exorcising scream and slammed the gun down on the table one more time. Big Mama picked the gun up, popped the chamber and extracted the bullet. She then snapped the chamber shut and slid the gun back across the table to Johnny, who was now laughing uncontrollably. Big Mama and Olivia shook their heads in disbelief. Johnny's laugh tapered off. He pulled again from his jug of vodka and let the tension fall out of the dank dressing room air until there was silence. And then. Boo. Johnny startled Olivia and Big Mama, and he fell out all over again in laughter. He then picked up the gun, and both women got up from the table, having had it with Johnny's bullshit, but nonplussed by the empty threat from the empty chamber. As both women began to split, Johnny called out, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. I'm just playing. Stay. Stay. It's all good. I won't play no more. Both women stopped, looked down at Johnny, exhaled, and prepared to sit. But Johnny Ace couldn't help himself. He needed one more laugh. Across from Johnny, Big Mama took her seat, and then Olivia sat on Johnny's lap. When she did, Johnny Ace put his gun to his temple and pulled the trigger one last time. That's when Big Mama Thornton saw Johnny Ace's brains blast through his skull and rocket the hairs on his head across the backstage dressing room of the Houston City Auditorium on Christmas Day, 1954. Kraft Mac and Cheese is the Best Thing Ever. It's even better than pop music. You look just as natural enjoying us at age 13 as you do 55. Kraft Mac and Cheese best thing ever.

Jacqueline Coley (17:46)

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Jake Brennan (18:01)

It flagged that message as a scam.

Jacqueline Coley (18:03)

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Jake Brennan (18:46)

Big Mama Thornton sat under the intense bright light in the interrogation room, recounting to Houston PD what had happened. Johnny was crazy. Johnny was. Johnny played with his gun all the time. Johnny was upset. Johnny was drunk. All the Johnny should have been making more money than he was. As successful as he was, Johnny thought he was getting ripped off by his record lab. That's why Johnny drank. No, Johnny didn't kill himself. No, she didn't kill John. Of course she didn't. Why would she? Could she have a glass of water? How long was this going to take? She sang Hound Dog. No, she didn't write the song. Yes, a white man? What did that have to do with anything? How many questions did she have to answer? And yes, finally, of course she knew who Don Roby was. Of course Elvis Presley knew who Don Roby was as well. Elvis sat back in his chair in the jungle room and thought about how he had made Don Roby rich. Or how he had made Don Roby richer than he already was. Don Roby owned Peacock Records, the record label that sold Big Mama Thornton's records, Hound Dog included. The 1953 single was written by Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller and recorded and released by Elvis Presley on July 13, 1956. The song went to number one on the R and B and country and western charts. Hit 1 on the Billboard Top 100 pop chart and sold a colossal amount of records. It was a monstrous hit, a culture shifting hit. Hound Dog transcended generations. Elvis appeared on the Steve Allen show where he sang the Big Mama Thornton hit to an actual Hound Dog. It was a performance on a show meant to appeal to kids and their parents. The song not only transcended generations, it transcended race. It was written by a white songwriting team for a black artist who had a hit with it on the black charts. And then it was covered by a white artist who brought the song to the white mainstream. Elvis's cover version of Hound Dog, it should be noted, was derided by its white songwriters as sounding inane and too white compared to the version first sung by Big Mama Thornton, for whom they wrote the song Song. And they weren't wrong. But fuck those songwriters, fuck Jerry Lieber and fuck Mike Stoller. Elvis thought the more that record sold, 7 million, 8 million. White sounding or not, no doubt that record started to sound a lot better to Lieber and Stoller, who were raking in the royalties. Elvis's thoughts returned to Johnny Ace. He knew Johnny Ace loved Hound Dog because he knew Johnny was a fan and. And a friend of Big Mama Thornton's. It may be part of, Elvis thought that if he did well with that song, he'd have done well in Johnny's eyes. And that perhaps would have made Elvis just a little bit cooler with the cool kids down on Beale street from back in the day. Johnny was dead and gone by the time Elvis recorded the tune, but that didn't matter. Elvis could always do it a little more cool. Whatever his motivation, the song worked. It was the exact type of crossover success, a black song climbing high up the white charts that Don Roby meant to have for Johnny Ace. Don Roby was a big man, and when he lumbered down the Houston sidewalk, people moved out of his way. Black or white, it didn't matter. Don was part Jew, part black, and all gangster music was his part business. Power was his birthright then. Violence was the mechanism by which he controlled his mini empire. This Saturday morning walk was his ritual after a busy night at his club, the Bronze Peacock. The money he made had to be deposited into his account at the local bank. And there was no one tough enough for Don Roby to trust with his money. So Don Robey stuffed a burlap sack with his cash, flung it over his shoulder, loaded his shotgun with two shells, slung that over his other shoulder and strolled on down to the bank, daring anyone dumb enough to fuck with him. The shotgun, the giant cigar that lived rent free between his lips, the massive diamonds that adorned the rings on his fingers, the constant stream of cusses. It was all part of Don Roby's way. Don Roby was not a man to be messed with. Business at the Bronze Peacock, his club was good. The Giant was jumping. Louis Jordan, T Bone Walker, Gate Mouth Brown, Ike Turner, they all packed him in. And most of those artists and more, Little Richard, Wynoni Harris, Big Joe Turner, all had Don Roby booking their shows from Houston to Memphis and beyond in dance halls and juke joints on what would come to be known as the chitlin circuit. But live music wasn't Roby's only business. Robey had a record label too, Peacock Records. And Robey relied on scouts in other cities to find talent, which is in part how he found out about Johnny Ace, way off in Memphis. Roby knew Johnny was a star the moment he heard his first recording, a lazy ballad, simply sung, which went to number one on the R and B charts. It was called My Song. Johnny wasn't the greatest singer from Robey's or anyone's estimation, but he had that certain extra something, that cool, that Cadillac walk, that thing that takes an ordinary singer and makes him a star. Johnny was that type of musician, the type that could make it on both the black R and B charts and on the white pop charts. And Don Robey was just the guy to make it happen for Johnny. But Roby needed more than muscle. He needed a white man. A white man with white radio connections. He found this man in a bleeding heart named Dave Mattis. Mattis business was less a business and more of a public service he offered to the black musicians he loved. Mattis goal was to help elevate black musicians in the public consciousness through the power of radio promotion. And Mattis was a perfect mark for Don Roby. So Roby struck up a partnership. His Peacock Records became. Became Duke Peacock Records in collaboration with Dave Mattis. And the partnership paid off. Sort of. Johnny Ace's next two singles, Cross My Heart and the Clock, were also both hits on the R B charts. The Clock went to number one, where it stayed for a total of five weeks. Johnny Ace was making hits, but Johnny Ace wasn't making money. Don Roby was still. For Robyn, it was not enough. Johnny was charting, but not on the pop charts. So that big payday Roby craved continued to elude him. Plus the terms of his partnership dictated that he share his profits with his new business partner, Dave Mattis. So Roby figured it was time he paid his partner a visit. Dave Mattis didn't see it coming. He felt it, though. Sure as shit, that was a pistol whipping across his face forehead. He went down quickly, knocking the carefully arranged papers on his desk onto the floor. Along the way, Don Robi stood above him, foaming at the mouth, screaming nonsense about how Mattis wasn't earning his fair share of the take, how the partnership had run its course, how Johnny Ace needed more, how Johnny Ace was a star, how two number ones on the black R and B chart wasn't diddly squat compared to one hit on the white pop chart. Mattis tried to stand to speak. Roby kicked him in the ribs, sending him flailing back onto the floor, and Mattis screamed and Robbie then brought his boot to his partner's head, stomping on him mercilessly. When Mattis screaming ceased, Roby bent over and pulled the record promoter up by his bloodied lapels and plopped him into his desk chair. He then put a pen in Mattis hand and made him sign a contract ending their partnership for a reported $10,000 buyout. Pennies compared to the value of Johnny Ace's overall record sales. But Robey didn't care. Don Roby now had what he wanted. Sole control of Johnny Ace, and all that mattered now was making sure Johnny Ace wound up on the pop charts. We'll be right back after this.

Jacqueline Coley (26:44)

Word, word, word. Hey, what's up, y'? All? Kelly Clarkson with Wayfair. My favorite thing about the holidays? Decking out my whole house. It's not a competition. If it was, well, I'd win the season with Wayfair Outdoor Inflatable Santa. Got it on Wayfair. Trees, lights and ornaments. Wayfair hosting must haves like dining sets, beds, sheets and towels. Wayfair for everything in your style, delivered with fast and free shipping. Visit Wayfair.com or the Wayfair app to win the season. But again, it's not a competition. Wayfair Every style, every home.

Jake Brennan (27:17)

Tis the season to cozy up with all your favorite holiday movies and shows. You coming where to? The North Pole, of course. Like a very Jonas Christmas movie. And Home Alone on Disney. Did I burn down the joy?

Jacqueline Coley (27:30)

I don't think so.

Jake Brennan (27:31)

Then snuggle up with the Polar Express and National Lampoon's Christmas vacation with Hulu on Disney. I think we're all in for a very big Christmas treat this season. There's something for everyone with Hulu on Disney Bundle subscription required terms apply. Visit disneyplus.com hulu for details.

Jacqueline Coley (27:47)

This week on Seen on the Screen, Hugh Jackman, obviously Oscar nominated actress.

Jake Brennan (27:53)

And as much as people love to see blades coming out of his knuckles and tearing people up like he he loves to sing and dance.

Jacqueline Coley (28:00)

Yeah, he's a showman.

Jake Brennan (28:02)

He really is. Some have called him the greatest showman girl.

Jacqueline Coley (28:06)

Join me, Jacqueline Coley, as I meet the filmmakers, actors and industry insiders influencing entertainment. Each episode, guests share their journeys and inspirations and answer trivia about the movies that shape them. My next guest is Craig Brewer, writer, director and producer of Song Sung Blue To Listen, simply search seen on the screen wherever you listen to podcasts.

Jake Brennan (28:38)

The Hound Dog 45 lay flat on Elvis Presley's State of the art stereo console. Elvis used it to group his pills as he organized them. It was Big Mama Thornton's version of the song, not Elvis's. It was 1976, after all. Elvis couldn't listen to his version of the song anymore. His version was basically regarded as a novelty tune these days. And Elvis wasn't interested in novelty tunes. Elvis was interested in breaking through, not for fame. He had fame. He wanted critical acclaim. It had been years since since the critics wrote anything positive about him. Sure, there were the sycophants in the press that would say something positive every time he released anything. But Elvis wanted to win over the real rock critics who'd long since abandoned him. First for the Beatles, then for the Stones, Dylan and Hendrix, and now Bowie and Zeppelin. Elvis was searching for a song to break through. He needed a song that would be a true expression of how he felt felt at the moment. A song that would express the loneliness and grief that consumed him. At least that's what he was searching for that Christmas morning, breaking through for fame. Back when he was coming up, he had many tools at his disposal. First of all, there was his talent. Then there were his good looks and his willingness to go there on stage to do things other white boys wouldn't do. And before all that, there were the pills. Not these pills, but his mama's pills. He'd use a prescription to hit up the pharmacy and procure pills for the older musicians down at Sun Studios. And they'd in turn let Elvis, in his pre fame days, hang around while they worked, annoying little shit that he was. And that was back in the early 1950s, years ago, right around the time Elvis first heard Big Mama Thornton's version of Hound Dog. And Big Mama Thornton was on the come up just like her record label mate and Elvis fellow Memphian, Johnny Ace. Back in 1953, Don Roby stood in the kitchen of the Bronze Peacock and busied himself by scaling a freshly caught fish. He steadily slid his Bowie knife up and down the fish's side, flecking off its skin. The work took concentration, but the singer standing next to Roby was pleading his case. It broke Roby's concentration, much to his annoyance. So Roby was forced to put his knife down and direct his focus at the young singer. This singer was different, different than Johnny Ace and different than Big Mama Thornton, both of whom were on the road together at the moment playing Robie's Circuit, each promoting their respective Duke Peacock hits. Big Mama's Hound Dog Would was beginning to fall from its peak number one R&B chart position. And Johnny Ace's the Clock, which was a hit on the R and B charts like Hound Dog, but also like Hound Dog, hadn't broken through on the pop chart. Johnny Ace's inability to break through on the pop charts was a disappointment to Don Roby. And Johnny Ace wasn't working out as Don Roby had hoped. Nevertheless, for some reason, for Don Roby, hope was contagious. In 1953. This singer here in front of Robey had hope in spades. And why wouldn't he? He was getting paid at least a little bit to sing. But Roby knew that this singer didn't have the work ethic to make it. The singer explained that sure he wanted to be a star, but he just couldn't go on the road. Next week he had another job he needed to tend to at the Fish Fry. The Road didn't pay enough, but if Robey would give him a bigger cut of the performance fee, well then he wouldn't need the second job and he'd be free to go out on the road and work. You have to understand what Don Roby understood. Back in the early 50s, not only were jobs for blacks few and far between, but a job like being a musician, a singer, a job that provided work you loved to do for a black person. Again, back in the early 50s, these types of jobs were nearly non existent. To be able to go out onto the road and into the recording studio and play music and get paid for it was was a dream. Don Roby knew this and despite being black himself, he exploited this dynamic with the black musicians he employed. He knew they were just happy to be doing what they were doing, even if they knew he was ripping them off. Roby nodded along as the singer continued arguing his plight, feigning empathy, this singer intrigued him. The more he spoke, the more worked up he got, the more feminine his voice and affectations became. And then the singer brought up Johnny Ace. Johnny was unhappy, the singer said. Johnny felt his hit song should have been generating more cash. Johnny was tired of rolling around the countryside playing shows for Don Roby with Big Mama Thornton in a beat up station wagon. Johnny wanted a Cadillac, the singer said. He could do better than Johnny, the singer said he could write and record bigger hits, but he needed to be unburdened of his second job. He needed a higher percentage of pay than what Roby was currently compensating him with. The anger hit Don Roby with a sustained piercing sound to the side of his head. It was almost as if the knife he was holding somehow started stabbing him in his temple by its own volition. The room froze just before Don Rovi felt himself explode in violence. He clutched the frail singer by the neck and with one arm, Don Rovi rocketed him across the kitchen's industrial counter into a stack of pots and pans. He then grabbed the singer by the hair and tossed him onto the greasy kitchen floor. The singer let out a high pitched scream. He hollered like a woman, Roby thought as he pummeled him with his foot, kicking him repeatedly in the gut. Next, he dragged the singer to his feet, clutched him again by the throat and pinned him back first up against the wall. As the story goes, Rob, or at least the story that Elvis heard. Don Roby then grabbed the fish he was scaling and used it to knock the hope out of the singer, using it as he did his pistol with Dave Mattis, repeatedly whipping the singer across his pretty face. That singer, Elvis knew, was Little Richard, the co composer of the song Tutti Frutti, which Elvis recorded and released in 1956 and watched Race up the pop charts to a position Little Richard and Johnny Ace could only have dreamed of. Rock and roll was a strange, strange occupation. How, Elvis wondered, had it all worked out? This. Christmas Day, 1954, Houston Coliseum. On the bill that night, B.B. king, the Johnny Otis Band, Big Mama Thornton and Johnny Ace, the local kids, mostly black, some white, shuffled through the venue's big open doors into the lobby where BB King's brand new two tone Cadillac was on display for all to see. BB's fans marveled at the automotive beauty. BB had really done it, made something of himself by doing what he loved. The speakers from the Cadillac pumped in a local radio station alternately spinning Christmas Songs with hits from the day White Christmas gave way to Hank Williams. I'll Never get out of this world Alive. Somewhere, Don Roby smiled. Hank Williams was a drunk who didn't know where he was half the time. But he had done one thing right. He died at the best time possible. And in so doing, pushed his latest single to number one on the charts. Once Ol Hank died, the public couldn't get enough of the last song he released, I'll Never get out of this world Alive. That song sold and sold and sold and sold. It was not only a number one hit on the country charts, it was a hit that wouldn't die. And there's no doubt about it, Hank's death made Hank's song a smash. Johnny Ace needed a smash. His newly released single released that day, in fact, on Christmas 1954, pledging My Love. Don Rovi was credited as one of the songwriters on that song, even though the likelihood that he actually had a hand in writing it was slim, to say the least. It's far more likely that his co writer, Ferdinand Washington, actually wrote the song and that Rovi muscled his way into a credit so that he could capture a greater share of the song's royalties. This was a common practice among dubious businessmen from the early days of rock and roll. The real point, however, is that Don Roby knew that Pledging My Love had the makings of a hit. But a hit on the R and B charts wasn't going to be enough. Robey's investment, Johnny Ace, had proven unable to cross over to the white pop chart. So the next best thing was would be a hit that wouldn't die. Another of Roby's artists, Big Mama Thornton, was also in need of a hit. But for her, there was no next hound dog in the chamber. Big Mama was slipping. And without a hit, all she had was a bullet from a.22. Don Roby had given it to her. His instructions were clear. Put the bullet in the chamber of Johnny Aces 22 when he wasn't looking. Big Mama had no choice. As head of a record label, as her agent and promoter, Don Roby controlled her. And if Big Mama wanted to continue to have a career in music, she had only one choice. Do what the man said. Back in the dressing room before the show, as Johnny Ace let out his demon exercising scream and flipped his gun to the table, Big Mama Thornton picked it up, ostensibly to remove the lone bullet from the chamber of the.22. But that's not what happened. Instead, in the chaos of the moment, Big Mama Thornton Added another bullet into the chamber on orders from her boss, Don Roby, Thus increasing the chances that Johnny Ace would shoot himself in the head while playing this deadly game of chicken with his gun. The murder weapon was set. The operation opportunity had arrived. The motive was clear. When news of Johnny Ace's death on Christmas Day 1954 spread. This was the story that those who knew Don Rovi best told themselves in hushed tones that Don Roby had forced Big Mama Thornton to help him kill Johnny Ace so that Johnny Ace would achieve massive posthumous success. Just as Hank Williams had when he died a year earlier on New Year's Day. Except this story isn't true. Big Mama Thornton did not help her boss, Don Roby, kill her friend Johnny Ace. This story is a myth. Instead, what happened was that another myth took root. And to this day, this myth is believed to be the cause of Johnny Ace's death. This myth states that Johnny Ace died playing a reckless game of Russian roulette backstage at the Houston Coliseum on Christmas Day 1954. This story isn't true either. You need more than one person to play Russian roulette. And Big Mama Thornton and Johnny's girlfriend Olivia were not in on the game with the young singer. So that didn't happen either. But that story, the Russian roulette story, was in easy explanation. It allowed Houston PD to put the case to bed quickly. The local headline screamed bandleader killed playing gun roulette. This version of the story had another benefit as well. It was tragic. Got a friend who dies from playing Russian roulette. There's a song for that. Except this one is real. It's called Pledging My Love by Johnny Ace. When word spread that Johnny Ace died tragically from playing Russian roulette, copies of his latest single, just like Hank Williams posthumous single sold and sold and sold and sold. It wasn't exactly what Don Roby wanted. It wasn't a hit on the white pop charts. But it was a hit that wouldn't die. So who was Don Roby to correct the press? Who was Don Roby to set the record buying public straight by telling him how Johnny Ace really died, drunk and careless, messing around with his.22 backstage on Christmas Day in 1954? Elvis knew all of this. He knew it then when it happened back in 54. And he knew it now in 1976, as he sat alone on Christmas morning pondering his creative future. He also knew that the tragedy of Johnny Ace was a gift. Just like those tragedy songs from his youth. Johnny's story and Johnny's song Pledging My Love inspired the King. So Elvis set out to record Johnny Ace's last single, which he did right there in the jungle room. Elvis Presley's version of Johnny Ace's Pledging My Love was released on Elvis's last album, Moody Blue, in June of 1977, two months before the King himself would die. Neither the song nor the album were hits. Consensus from the rock press was that Elvis Presley's last record was, in a word, uninspired. But upon Elvis's death, just months after the record was released, that album sold and sold and sold and sold. It went gold, and then it went platinum. Elvis's last record was a commercial smash, and the songwriting royalties, the windfall of cash generated from Elvis's recording of Johnny Ace is Pledging My Love. That money went to Don Roby's estate, and that's a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. All right. Merry Christmas everybody. Ho ho ho. I hope you dug this episode. I love the rock and roll myths. Frankly, I can't get enough of them. So the question of the week what is your favorite or most interesting rock and roll or music related myth? Hit me up. Let me know. 617-906-6638 Leave me a voicemail, send me a text, let me know. You can also reach me at this gracelandpod as well on Instagram, Axe and Fit Facebook. Leave a review for the show on Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Win some free merch. Okay, here comes some credits. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening, as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland Ad Free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook, Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man.