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Fifty years after their debut, Roxy Music's eight studio albums have been reissued and the band is embarking on a tour. GRAMMY.com spoke with guitarist Phil Manzanera about the band's art rock origins and long tail of influence.

Roxy Music has always been a few steps ahead, and a few degrees to the side, of many of its contemporaries. Helmed by GRAMMY-nominated vocalist/songwriter Bryan Ferry along with Phil Manzanera, Andy Mackay and Paul Thompson (with Brian Eno as an early member), the British group is credited with birthing the art rock movement by infusing glam into rock '70s. This year marks the 50th anniversary of Roxy Music's eponymous debut album.

Inspired by film and fashion, painting and photography, Roxy Music’s output is an aural and visual amalgam that blurs the lines between musical styles. From the group's formation in 1970 to Avalon , its last studio album in 1982, Roxy Music has informed and influenced genres — from experimental prog and  glam rock, to new wave and electronic pop — and created an enduring impact.

This year, the group’s eight studio albums — Roxy Music , For Your Pleasure , Stranded , Country Life , Siren , Manifesto , Flesh + Blood and Avalon — have been reissued as special anniversary editions with a new half-speed cut, and revised artwork with lyrics., The Best of Roxy Music was released on vinyl for the first time on Sept. 2. The reissues arrive ahead of Roxy Music’s North American arena tour, which kicks off in Toronto on Sept. 7 at Scotiabank Arena. The last time Roxy Music toured was over a decade ago.

Still, the 2019 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductees have remained active, with and without Roxy Music. This year, Ferry has released a four-track EP of iconic love song covers, Love Letters , and published a book . Mackay , who plays oboe, saxophone and keyboards has released a number of solo albums, written a book on electronic music and studied theology. Drummer Thompson left Roxy Music 1980 and  joined an array of other bands, including Concrete Blonde, before returning to Roxy Music in 2011. Guitarist Phil Manzanera produced for  Pink Floyd, David Gilmour and John Cale, among others, is currently working on an album with Tim Finn of Crowded House and Split Enz.

From his home in the English countryside, Manzanera spoke with GRAMMY.com about his teenage dream of leaving his exotic world-trotting upbringing for a boarding school in England, where he could connect with fellow musicians. "Through music, you can meet people, you can have fun, you can have an adventure," he says. "I didn't want to learn too quickly. I wanted to spread it out over a whole lifetime. Touch wood, still here."

What was the musical landscape like at the time of Roxy Music’s formation?

In the UK, we were coming out of the period where the big guns, Led Zeppelin and all those bands were to the fore. It was the tail end of the hippie jamming period and the start of prog rock. The drugs had done a lot of those bands in; People were on heroin, so it was very gray and introverted. A bit drab really. The time was ripe for a new bunch to emerge.

By complete happenstance, Bowie and us came to the fore in 1972. On the same day that we released the first Roxy Music album, he released The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars . The next week, we were supporting him in a pub in Croydon [South London] called the Greyhound. There was only about 40-50 people there. Every time I used to meet David, we used to have a big banter about it because everyone claims they were there. He was incredibly nice to us. He loved what we were doing. He asked us to be at his support act at the Rainbow Theatre, which is a big deal. He couldn't quite believe that we'd just come out of nowhere, whereas he was [on] his fifth album.

The '70s were such a time of experimentation and new sounds.

We called ourselves inspired amateurs. A bunch of guys who didn't particularly want to be technically brilliant, but wanted to play interesting music. Some of the people in the band have been to art school, so there was this visual side to the whole thing. Music and image are explosive, which we all learn from the Beatles . New fashion designers and photographers were coming up to the age where they were going to be influencers, and they all had a similar aesthetic with the films they liked and visual art and bands that were influential on them. We stuck it all together and presented it in an attractive fashion.

What was the reception for Roxy Music like in the United States at the time?

We went to the U.S. in December '72. We were a bit early. People didn't understand the look of the band. When we got to Fresno, people threw water bombs at us and said, "Get off you faggots." But we were going to continue playing this music regardless of what you throw at us.

It took us a long, long time to have any kind of impact in the States. But what was great and cool was that in San Francisco or L.A. or New York, we attracted the freaks. We were supporting Ten Years After or J. Geils Band, totally not our audience, but all the freaks knew [we] were coming to town and they would be partying at our hotel after the gig. 

Roxy Music was very prolific, sometimes putting out two albums a year — originally all written by Bryan Ferry — but you started writing from the third album, Stranded ?

The way the band evolved, the first two albums that Eno was involved with were the first period. By the time it came to the third album, Eno had left, and, in no way can you do the same stuff again. There was a desire to do something different. We needed to expand our musical palette, and so me and Andy [Mackay] started contributing music. 

The way we write songs in Roxy was so different because we had no idea how to write a song. We did all the music first, which is really dangerous, and then Bryan [Ferry] would try and work out some lyrics. Sometimes it was fabulous. Sometimes it was rubbish. Out of the 80 songs of the Roxy catalog, I would say 70 percent hit the mark and perhaps 30 percent we won't talk about. It's a very different way of working, creating a musical texture and musical world behind this singer with a strange voice, but good looking, so we could get away with it. 

You had a whole host of musicians playing on later Roxy Music albums. How was that different for you as far as writing and recording and realizing musical ideas?

There's definitely a difference between the first five years and second five years of Roxy Music. We'd worked with so many other musicians in between, we wanted a bit of that flavor. Bryan, especially, had lived in L.A. for a bit and worked with a lot of American musicians. When we got back together for the second phase of Roxy, which is '77 to '83, by that time, I had my own recording studio and we were using that as our base. Technological innovations affect the way you work in a studio. If you're doing what we're doing, you can use the studio as an instrument. It happened organically because we had the means of production. 

But we were coming to New York, and working with Bob Clearmountain at Atlantic Records and at the Power Station, and having these amazing American bass players and drummers, because Paul [Thompson] had left toward the middle of that period. Bob would mix it and he would just get rid of all the s—. He would say, "I'm going to focus on this, and it's going to rock." Thank God for him, otherwise it would have been airy-fairy, and all over the place. He mixed Avalon in one week. Ten tracks, five days, two tracks a day, three hours a track. boom, boom, boom, boom. Done. He just knows what to do. He just had it.

The first half of Roxy Music was hinged on a strong artist/producer relationship with Chris Thomas in the producer’s seat.

We were so lucky to get Chris Thomas. He came on board from the second album. As you know, he assisted George Martin with the Beatles. The whole tradition of recording from Abbey Road was passed on to us via Chris Thomas.  Everything I've ever learned to do with production — and I've produced loads of people, was a mixture between what Chris Thomas taught me coming from George Martin and my experiences with Eno. Two totally different approaches.

You seem to get along very well with both Ferry and Eno.

After Eno left, when we were doing Stranded , we were up at Air Studios until 6 o'clock. And then I would go to work on Here Come the Warm Jets with Eno from 6 o’clock onwards. We continued for another three years. We had a band, 801, who played live and all sorts of things. But then he just disappeared.

Your guitar riff from the title track of your solo album K-Scope was sampled on the GRAMMY-winning " No Church in the Wild " by Jay-Z and Kanye West.

That's the only GRAMMY that I've ever been associated with, so cheers Jay-Z and Kanye, and 88-Keys, who was the person responsible for playing it to them.

Did your Rock & Roll Hall of Fame nomination, and induction, come as a surprise?

Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is not on British musicians’ radar too much. I didn’t realize how big a deal it was for us. We hadn't played together for six or seven years. We thought, we’ve got to have rehearsals. We rehearsed for a week because we want to do a good job and acquit ourselves well — especially in front of all those top musicians who are going to be watching us, particularly Fleetwood Mac and Def Leppard, the Zombies and Radiohead .

On the night, at the Brooklyn Center, when I saw 30,000 people, I realized, this is actually a big deal. I’m about to get scared now. We loved it. We had such a great time. When Bryan said, "Shall we do 'In Every Dream,'" which is about an inflatable doll, I thought, I don’t think that’s going to be shown on telly , and it didn’t make it, but it was really great fun to do. I had a great big guitar solo, which wasn’t shown, but I got to show off in front of Brian May and Fleetwood Mac.

How did this 50th anniversary tour come about?

I had done bits and pieces on Bryan’s new solo stuff. We were having a cup of tea at Christmas, and he just said, "Do you fancy doing some gigs?" I said, "Do you want to do them?" And he said, "Yeah." I said, "Well, in that case, I'm always up for the crack."

We don't have management. If we want to do something, we just ring each other up, and say, "You want to do it?" I also thought, these songs don't get an airing by us, the original people, very often. When we come to the U.S., it will have been 20 years. That's not exactly overdoing it. If there's ever a time to do it, it's at 50. 

What does the ongoing impact of Roxy Music feel like for you?

I don't think about it at all. We never thought we'd do this tour, but we’re doing it. We're really putting in the hours to make it as good as we possibly can. What I want to see when I look out into the audience is people glammed up. I want to see glam out there: heels and feathers — for men and women.

Living Legends: Zombies Singer Colin Blunstone Explains The Miraculous Second Life Of The Classic ‘60s Group

PHOTO: Michael Heeg/Courtesy of Devo

Devo's Mark Mothersbaugh and Jerry Casale discuss the evolution of devolution, and the video revolution they helped whip into reality: "We drew a line in the sand, and either you hated Devo or you loved Devo"

Presented by GRAMMY.com, Living Legends is an editorial series that honors icons in music and celebrates their inimitable legacies and ongoing impact on culture. This week, GRAMMY.com sat down with Mark Mothersbaugh and Jerry Casale, members of seminal new wave/post-punk band Devo, who challenged the status quo with irreverent, catchy songs.

The average music fan thinks of dome-shaped headpieces and whipping it good on the dance floor when they hear the name Devo , but for an entire generation of music lovers, the four-letter moniker means something much more. 

The Akron, Ohio art rock band formed in 1973 to spread a message about societal regression, driven by herd mentality and negative cultural influences (the name is short for "de-evolution"). The music they created was infectiously fun, with catchy choruses and a synth-driven futuristic energy that fit in perfectly with the new wave genre that was becoming popular in the early '80s. But behind the campy outfits and colorful videos, there was a nonconformist message — which the band managed to maintain even at the height of their popularity.    

From the science aesthetics of Q: Are We Not Men, A: We Are Devo! (1978) and Duty Now for the Future (1979), to the subversive empowerment of Freedom of Choice (1980) and

New Traditionalists (1981), Devo approached their output as a sardonic experiment. Their sometimes deceptive lyrical simplicity and sonic nuances created alchemy, and their charisma individually and as a unit made for a compelling blend of nerd rock meets post-punk. 

Devo’s dynamic videos always had a message driving the madcap imagery and ideas. Maybe even more than Sparks , who were touted as "your favorite band’s favorite band" in their recent hit bio-doc, Devo’s influence on music is substantial, with everyone from Talking Heads to David Bowie (who helped discover them) taking obvious cues over the years. If some thought Devo a novelty act, they proved otherwise a long time ago.

As Devo celebrates the 40th anniversary of their fifth album Oh No! It’s Devo this month  (as well as their third nomination for consideration into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame), they are also cementing their legacy as a band who call out the ills of the world in their music and actively work to change them, too. Throughout the month of April, Devo will donate all proceeds from their catalog to aid Ukraine. The band also have a top slot on the highly-anticipated Cruel World music festival in Los Angeles this May, which some have nicknamed "Gothchella" thanks to its darkly nostalgic, '80s-heavy lineup.

GRAMMY.com spoke with the band’s lead visionaries — Mark Mothersbaugh (vocals, keyboards) and Gerald “Jerry” Casale (vocals, bass) — via Zoom to discuss their formation and influential career.

The story of how Devo emerged as a force in music includes some very big names, including David Bowie and Iggy Pop. Can you share how they and others had a hand in your early success?

Jerry Casale: We popped up on the radar through many efforts that we made, and they finally succeeded in paying off, where Iggy became aware of us and we spoke with him in Cleveland, when he was playing on the Idiot tour and David Bowie was playing keyboards for him. We got him a demo cassette, and you would assume those things go in the wastebasket, because I know how that is when you're on tour…. He actually listened to it and Dean Stockwell and Toni Basil , who I had also gotten to, they talked to Iggy about it. He played it for David Bowie. 

So then David Bowie heard it, and told Iggy to put me in touch with David's lawyer Stan Diamond in L.A. and we started a dialogue. Then Toni and Dean played it for Neil Young in San Francisco about the same time. So then [Young] called up and wanted us to be in his film, Human Highway . And it all started snowballing. 

We did everything we could, and that was a do it yourself aesthetic. Back then, there was no internet…. We sent packages to Saturday Night Live over and over too, with the videos and the songs because we loved that program and we wanted to be selected to play on it. Of course there was no chance in reality that Devo was going to be able to do that then. That took having a manager and a label. We got on Saturday Night Live in October of 1978. 

It’s been over 40 years since Devo became hitmakers and you are still getting recognition for your work. In a general sense, what do awards and honors mean to you at this point in your career?

Mark Mothersbaugh: You know, it's nice to be recognized. We're in a business where there's always somebody younger, somebody cuter, somebody who got there faster, somebody who's getting paid more, somebody who had a bigger hit —  there's all these things that figure into people wondering, Where am I? How am I doing? Did anybody pay attention? So it's kind of really nice. 

Casale: I think that any artist would have to be a bit dishonest if they said they didn't like the fact that they are being recognized by some official organization or outside body of self-proclaimed gatekeepers. Yeah. It does mean something. I mean, my God, when you're a performer, you get up in front of people. Think of the nerve it takes to get up in front of people, like, why should people watch you? You were looking for approval, right? From the time you're a kid, you're looking for approval. 

In 1985, Devo was nominated for a GRAMMY for your video work, which was always such a big aspect of what the band was about.

Casale: Yeah, it sure was. I directed all those videos, and from the beginning, was kind of spearheading the visual aspect of Devo. We had agreed that it was going to be a multimedia kind of experimental art collective. So from the beginning that was very intentional. 

For those of us who belong to "Generation X," Devo are a very significant band, especially the album Freedom of Choice and the releases that came after. Do you hear a lot from fans of different ages about how formative you were to them?

Mothersbaugh: I have two daughters and I watch them and what things help them figure out what's going on in the world. Music plays a big part of that. I do get those letters and I meet those people at our shows, and, yeah, I like that. That's kind of sweet. For me, it was the Beatles and the Rolling Stones . And, you know, for them, it's Devo and that tickles me. 

Casale: We were very polarizing without even wanting to be, but we just were. Because of the way we looked, the way we sounded, the way we acted and what we said. We drew a line in the sand and either you hated Devo or you loved Devo. So a lot of young fans would all tell us the same story about how they got harassed or beat up or made fun of in school because they liked Devo. We inspired a lot of people to start bands, and a lot of bands that came after us that we respect have cited us as an influence. So we were an artist’s artist. That's heartening.

How did you two come together?

Mothersbaugh: When I met Jerry at Kent State University, he was a grad student and I was a sophomore. We collaborated early on on visual things. He had come up to me and said "Are you the guy that's sticking up pictures of art and astronauts holding potatoes standing on the moon?" And I go, "Yeah, what of it?" He goes, "What does a potato mean to you?" I really liked that for an opening conversation. 

Before there was a word for posting up art or graffiti, before there was Shepard Fairey, I was a teen who was posting artwork around school at Kent State. I don't know why I did it, but I had to do it for some reason. So that's how we met.  We were visual artists, and we collaborated on visual projects. He liked that I was making these decals that stuck on things, and he liked that I liked potatoes. So I made these potato decals for him for his senior graduation class project… that he hung all over photos he’d blown up from his high school yearbook of different kids he didn't like.

What is the significance of the potato?

Mothersbaugh: We were trying to figure out, who are we? And how do we fit into the world? We were both the kids of working class parents, and we decided we weren't asparagus people or part of the elite or the rich, we were like potatoes. We were like spuds. We were like asymmetrical, not very good looking vegetables that came from underground. But they were a staple of everybody's diet in the USA. 

The interesting thing about potatoes for us, it's like, potatoes have eyes all around, so they see everything. So we called ourselves spuds, and we used that term in exchange for comrades or mates.

In terms of presentation and imagery, including costume, your most iconic has to be the red dome hats. How did the idea for those come about?

Casale: The inspiration for the design came from an Art Deco 1930’s ceiling fixture. So imagine a milk glass-like fixture that looked like a dome hanging from three chains on the ceiling with a bowl. But upside down, right? I used to just stare at that when I was a kid in my grade school and I always thought it was such a cool image. 

And so years later, when we were talking about Devo wearing some kind of headgear, I kept thinking of that. Making them red and making them plastic and wearing them became a thing. Then we could make multiples and we could sell them to people because people wanted them. In fact, people were stealing them. So we started selling them. 

Devo had chart-topping success but the project was always sort of out of the box and different, even weird to some. Now bands like yours seem to finally be getting the recognition they deserve.

Mothersbaugh: Because Devo had content. A lot of the bands that were out at the same time as Devo, you could just kind of group them together. We had a concept that was unique, not just only for the time period we were in, but actually, for a much bigger time period of rock and roll. 

Just even questioning man's central glory on the planet. We kind of pose the question that maybe humans, we're not the best species on the planet; maybe we’re the only insane species. We might be the only organisms out of touch with nature and destructive, as opposed to being a symbiotic part of everything. And you know, that didn't win friends and a lot of people took offense to that. They're usually the people that should take offense to it, because we were probably talking about them. 

So we had a pretty unique concept, and it was what we wrote our music about. I think there are a lot of artists out there that respect that or understand that. 

Casale: The test of time proved that those bands weren't so weird after all. I mean, look in the '60s, '70s and '80s: Those three decades, there was an explosion of diversity — of creativity, of technology, of new ideas, new sounds, and groups who performed a body of work well. If you bought a record because you liked one song on that record, you probably ended up liking five or six songs on that record, because it was a piece and all connected. 

I think that's what kids today miss. They miss that reality. There were real groups, and real artists that did something with a whole body of work that mattered. And it was exciting. The packaging mattered and what the artist said mattered. We had MTV playing the videos. So [the '80s were] like the last decade where this explosion of Western culture was exciting, at the top of its game. That was the end, then it started to devolve and decline.

In addition to its statement- minded subtext, your early stuff was so atmospheric and that seems to have led you both down cinematic paths later in your careers, Mark with your scoring of shows like "Pee-Wee’s Playhouse" and "Rugrats," and appearance on the kids show "Yo Gabba Gabba," and Jerry with your directorial work.

Casale: Devo was kind of put on ice in the '90s and Mark wasn't interested in doing anything except scoring and composing for TV. Because I had directed like 20 Devo videos, [I started] directing videos for other bands. 

So I had a whole music video career as a director for bands like Rush , Soundgarden and Foo Fighters — the first video they ever made. They were anti-video because all the grunge bands were anti-video, but Dave Grohl said, "You know what, if we have to do one, let's get that guy from Devo because I can trust him because he's been in my position as a band member on stage, so he won't make us do foolish things." That led me to commercials. So then I had this whole directing career doing TV commercials up until about 2005, when it kind of trickled out as the business changed a lot and the money went away.

Mothersbaugh: I can tell how old somebody is when they say, "Oh, I really like your music," and they're talking about they're talking about "Rugrats" or "Pee Wee's Playhouse." And if they're talking about Devo, they probably have gray hair. Except for kids, because the internet is this amazing place. They’ve got the whole world right there in their hands.

So yeah, now we get people of all ages, asking about Devo, who are knowledgeable about it. So that's kind of interesting. In the early days we sounded like some sort of outer space version of Captain Beefheart mixed with Sun Ra or something like that. Jerry and I always thought about sound and vision.

One of the things we learned at Kent State was protesting isn't the way to change things in this country, because when they get tired of you, and when the government finally is irritated enough, they just shoot you. Like they did at my school. So we thought, who's changing things…and we were looking around and we thought… Madison Avenue, that's who changes the world. They get you to buy stupid cars, eat food that's not good for you, buy clothes you don't need and you're happy at the end of it. 

We just thought well, what if we use those techniques in reverse, and figured out a way to talk to people about reverse evolution, talk to people about how to change the trajectory of the planet. We looked for ways to add hooks into our songs but our whole idea was just to get people to come in, find out what we were. If they liked the song, they’d buy the album, and then they'd listen to the album and hear “Jocko Homo” and or they'd hear “Too Much Paranoia,” or they'd hear the last line in a “Beautiful World " : " It's a beautiful world for you, for you, but not for me. " And the videos were made to show that. 

Your devolution message has sadly never been more relevant.

Mothersbaugh: I agree that the world has devolved. It's even more complicated than ever to find out the truth about things. Jerry likes to call Devo, "the band playing on the Titanic while it goes down." 

I'm the eternal optimist. I keep wanting to think that between technology and just people becoming aware of where we are, you know, that they can figure out ways to turn things around. So I like that our music is being listened to and I hope it has a positive effect on people.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Living Legends: Nils Lofgren On His Guitar Philosophy, Staying Sober & Meshing With Iconoclasts Bruce Springsteen and Neil Young

Living Legends is a series that spotlights icons in music still going strong today. This week, GRAMMY.com sat down with Dave Davies, who changed rock music forever as a founding guitarist of the Kinks and made exquisite recordings as a solo artist.

Presented by GRAMMY.com, Living Legends is an editorial series that honors icons in music and celebrates their inimitable legacies and ongoing impact on culture. In the inaugural edition, GRAMMY.com caught up with Dave Davies, the pioneering lead guitarist of British rockers the Kinks.

Dave Davies may have planted his flag as the lead guitarist and co-songwriter of the Kinks, but he has a less-known honorific to his name. The rebel of all rebels, John Lennon — who once poured a pint over a wedding pianist's head and would go on to be kicked out of the Troubadour for drunkenly heckling the Smothers Brothers, among other infractions — once called Davies, to his face, "one of the most obnoxious people I've ever met."

It was sometime in the front half of the 1960s, and the two British Invasion stars were at the Scotch of St. James, an extant watering hole (and musician's hangout) near Piccadilly Circus. (It wasn't rare for Lennon and Davies to insult each other in jest; Davies shot right back.)

Granted, Davies was, in his word, an "impetuous" young man. After all, in the Kinks, he was the hotshot guitarist beside his brother Ray, slugging out masterpieces like The Village Green Preservation Society, Arthur and Lola Versus Powerman amid fraternal spats and a career-changing ban from the U.S. So it's arresting to commune with the 74-year-old in his current form: dreamy, philosophical, borderline beatific.

This mellowing-out wasn't just the natural result of age. Like waves against a stone, turbulent life events smoothed him out with time. It wasn't just his up-and-down relationship with Ray, who once stamped on his 50th birthday cake. In 2004, Davies suffered a stroke that left him temporarily, partly paralyzed — a pivotal event that compelled him to stop smoking and drinking hard alcohol, which softened his demeanor in the ways you might expect. (A yoga and meditation enthusiast, he only indulges in gluten-free beer these days.)

After recovering with help from his other favorite pastime, painting, Davies is happy, healthy and productive in the 2020s. Three years ago, he released Decade, a luminous collection of solo recordings from the '70s. He's hard at work on a tell-all memoir, Living on a Thin Line, developed alongside biographer Philip Clark and due out in July. And — in case you're wondering — he and his brother are getting along great, with no dessert-related altercations to speak of.

GRAMMY.com caught up with Davies about his hard-won lessons about music and life, the awe-inspiring secrets of cats and how his freewheeling approach to Twitter recently landed him in semi-hot water.

This interview has been edited for clarity.

We should probably start by addressing the recent "mingegate" controversy on Twitter.

It was so weird because I was really just musing with it, and it wasn't anything to speak of. I just like to muse and ideate and ponder, thinking back on my life and the '60s. People always have questions about the '60s, and I talk about everything. When you get older, there's more questions about everything from every decade. This idea came into my head about meeting models. You know what that is. I don't know if you want me to elaborate on it. 

I thought it was fairly innocuous, but it was entertaining to see the prudes lose their minds.

I just did it as a bit of fun, and everyone went crazy about it. I felt, "Is it rude, or is it just odd?" Maybe it was a little bit of both.

I've noticed a phenomenon on social media where people inform you of incorrect facts about your own life.

What's weird about it is you become very — not paralyzed, but it's weird. People seem to know more about you than you do. You have to be really careful what you say. There are a lot of fanatics out there about all kinds of things — about gender and gender-bending, everything. Everything and anything you could think of. That one can be hard. 

But it was only meant as a bit of fun. That's what it was for. There's not a lot of humor. We need to get humor back or else we'll go crazy!

Back in the '60s, when there was a lot of rancor about Vietnam and sexual politics, were people this entrenched in their views?

It's interesting thinking about it. Yes and no. 

No, in the way that all of a sudden, there's so many people entrenched in whatever view they've got. It seems like everything has something to say about something. Which is good, on one hand, but on the other hand, is it really informed information? You know what I mean? Or is it just written without attention to anything? That's what bothers me. 

Do you actually know what you're talking about, or do you think you do? That's the question! "Oh, I read it in the New York Times or something and it's true!"

The Kinks in 1965 (Dave Davies, top). Photo: Hulton-Deutsch Collection/Corbis via Getty Images​

Do you think people are smarter today for having pocket-sized supercomputers?

I think it's made people easier to fool. People hear a half-truth and they're like, "I know everything!" We might need to study the information we get. The brain can only handle so much information, and they might pass judgements about things without it being the right judgment. 

Somehow, people have gotten taken by what their ears like — judgements based on some kind of reality, whether it's just an emotion in the moment. People are crazy because the world is getting crazier by the minute. It's hard for everybody, so you have to try to be informed about subjects and topics and try to have a balanced view of everything. It's not easy.

"People are crazy because the world is getting crazier by the minute. It's hard for everybody, so you have to try to be informed about subjects and topics and try to have a balanced view of everything."

I think we need to act with more compassion now than we did before the 2020s and Instagram and whatever. Everybody's very quick to judge. We're very quick to judge. When you think of it, we all perceive things slightly differently anyway. So, we need to brace ourselves with a lot of compassion before we make any choices.

A world where everybody thinks exactly the same sounds like my idea of hell.

Hell's a good place for that. You can't be right about everything. 

Somehow, we have to be very compassionate about other people's views. Because they change. I might like blue today, but if I only saw my favorite color — tomorrow, I might like green with a tinge of brown. That's where humor and compassion comes in. Nobody knows everything. 

I need humor. It can help us understand information better. Otherwise, everybody's right and everybody's wrong, all at the same time. Common sense! Has anybody bloody heard of common sense? There used to be a lot of it about years ago, when I was a kid. But not so much of it now, these days, unfortunately.

I think humor would hopefully help human beings in this weird age of COVID and Twitter and people being weirded out by all kinds of things. We don't even know if we're thinking the way we should, because there's so much information. When do we take time to consider what we're thinking, or what we're gaining? It's coming a bit too quick, everything. We like to think we know stuff, but do we really?

The Kinks performing on "Thank Your Lucky Stars" in 1965. Photo: David Redfern/Redferns​ via Getty Images

To me, one of the greatest thinkers through the lens of humor was John Lennon. I know you met him back in the Beatlemania days.

A couple of times. He was difficult, but he was funny in a kind of caustic, off-the-wall kind of way. But I liked that about him. I liked that he was different. He was looking at things differently. 

He paid me a weird compliment. He said, "I think you're one of the most obnoxious people I've ever met." And I laughed and said I thought he was. 

I've thought about that ever since. I don't even know what he meant! But I looked it up in the dictionary and I thought, "Hey, that's great! Unusual, different, irritating. Good!"

A big, big loss to humanity there. Lennon would be really useful now. His smart conceptions of people.

What are you interested in lately, whether it be music or non-music? What are you reading or studying?

I'm interested in so many different things. As I was saying, we should consider things before we make a judgment, which is true. But it's hard, because when we've got a queue, a list of questions that we want to ask ourselves before we make up our mind, the list gets longer and longer.

That's where meditation comes around. We can't think of everything at the same time. So, meditation helps you to clear the detritus for a while and not really think of anything. And that's hard. Believe me, I know that. It's really hard.

I don't know what I thought I knew until I take time to consider what's happening before we charge. That's where music comes in handy, because music's so aligned to the heart. You can know something's good or right by the way it makes you feel.

Dave Davies in 1970. Photo: GAB Archive/Redferns via Getty Images

Music is a lot more tuned in with nature than people's bad ideas — good ideas, not all bad. Music has always helped me — even when I was a kid — and it helps me now, to make choices. That's why music's so important. Because if it makes you feel good, there's no harm in it, really.

Who knows? Our heart will tell us if something is wrong, but everyone's different. Feelings always connect me to what may be the truth or may be lies.

"That's where music comes in handy, because music's so aligned to the heart. You can know something's good or right by the way it makes you feel."

While working on Living on a Thin Line, have you found that your memories of the distant past remain sharp? What's it like to survey decades and decades of information?

Actually, it's interesting. A lot of it depends on the quality and type of memory. We've been able to remember things as a musical link or connotation. It's just the way I'm wired — to remember things that are connected to musical or song events. 

I've always had quite a visual imagination. Imagination isn't always positive information. It can be quite a scary place. I tend to ponder a memory and think, "What was I listening to? Oh, yeah! I really enjoyed that!" It makes you feel a certain way. That's why imagination and memory work closely together.

Even just meeting people and having a conversation with someone, I'm sure that I'm perceiving and thinking and talking differently with you than I would be to anybody else. That's why we need each other, because we help and hinder and aid and encourage each other just by communicating. There's a lot in there — in meeting people.

When looking back at the span of your career and all the music you've made, what are you most proud of at this point?

Oh, man. Too much stuff! I'm really proud of the renewed interest in my composition "Strangers" — which was covered by the Black Pumas — and all my other solo work.

I'm proud of being an important part of the Kinks' music and Ray's impressive writing. I feel really happy that I'm connected to all that. But me, as a person, there's something different. I'm always trying to think of something new — and what is new? A different way of saying things is new to me.

Apart from the fact there's so much information out there and [Points to brain] in here, it's a difficult time for people — for young people as much as old people my age. It's difficult to assess what the hell's really going on. So, memory's a good way of connecting to the truth — or the truth how you saw it at the time.

You've never struck me as someone content to rest on something you did 50 years ago. Rather, you remain a restless spirit.

Yeah. Good or bad, that's the way I am. It's also trying to realize that other people might actually be right, even though they piss us off. What's making you angry? Try and talk about what's making you angry! 

How do we get to a point where we have hostile-ish conversation without blowing out completely? We're capable of it! Anger may be just as simple as something that's boiling inside we haven't dealt with, but it happens all the time.

A helpful tool when dealing with someone's misdirected rage is remembering "Oh, it's not about me. Something else is going on in their life."

I believe that. We're just the vehicle for the information they have, or the emotion. We do it to each other.

I remember in the very early days — when we first started out — I wasn't very good with conversation, because I was always an impulsive kid. If it felt right, I'd do it. It took me a while to realize that when you're having a conversation, the other person or persons in the room have just as much right to say what they want to say as you do. I was very impetuous and would say, "Oh, no — I'm right; you're wrong!" "Oh, stop it!" "Oh, shut up!" 

It took me a long time to realize that conversation isn't just about me [Laughs.] It's about us! And we're not the only species on the planet — and tell me if you think I'm wrong — that can have conversations that have outcomes, where you're heading somewhere with it. 

Maybe animals do it. I'm sure that cats communicate at a higher level. They know everything, and they don't even speak. They know everything: "You fools!" They're such special creatures.

Do you subscribe to the notion that everyone's a teacher of sorts, even if they're flat-out wrong? Or do you disagree with them?

Yeah, I do. When I was young, by having children, having kids around — often, they teach you more than you thought you taught them. With animals and children, you have to be very receptive about what the process is: what you want to gain from this meeting, from minds and concepts and thoughts and feelings. 

I very much appreciate the value of considering other people's views, even when you feel uncomfortable. Growing up in Western society, people are so adamant about getting it right and making choices so quickly. Whereas I think animals — especially cats — have a higher way, I think, of considering things.

I think maybe now, we can learn more from our children than we ever did, because a lot of kids have to become very smart very quickly.

It seems like music is one of the ultimate ways to bridge misunderstandings and divides.

Music can teach us ways to get on better. When you paint, you're not killing someone — although you may wish you were! But you're just expressing feelings and stuff, and that's what makes it healthy. It's a means of exploring feelings you've got inside.

I can't remember which philosopher said this — Yogananda or someone — or was it Joseph Campbell? You know Joseph Campbell?

Sure. The Hero With A Thousand Faces.

A great teacher. It was something like "Before you make up your mind about something, run it by your heart. What would your heart say?" A lot of ideas we might have could benefit by being connected to the heart. The heart considers things in a different way. 

That's important, especially if you're a writer or an artist. All of sudden, you'll get a feeling — "That would work OK!" or "I like that!" — and you don't always know why. Maybe it's not necessary to always know why you do things.

Dave Davies performing in Westbury, New York, in 2019. Photo: Al Pereira/Getty Images

My job is partly about trying to get people to care enough about something to read about it. So, I agree that we must lead with the heart at times.

A musician that really influenced me was a guy named Chet Baker. I'd never played trumpet, and when I learned it, I thought I sounded terrible! [Laughs.] That's because it's you playing it. 

But I always liked Chet Baker for some reason. I was fortunate to come across an interview he did on the radio a long time ago. He was being interviewed by a musicologist — some prissy guy with all the right words. At the beginning of the interview, Chet said, "Before you start, I know absolutely nothing about music. I've learned everything from what I'm feeling."

That really helped me, because that's how I learned to play. Not that I learned to play like Chet Baker, but the principle of the way he applied himself. Music was more important to him than music itself, if you know what I mean.

Also, coming up with a Biblical reference that I use sometimes: there's a story about Jesus. He went into the desert for 40 days and nights. I've come to believe it's a kind of training for a yogi or a priest or whatever. He looked at the horizon before him and he saw all these conversations and people.

All of a sudden, an intelligent being or person appeared and said to Jesus — as the story goes — "All this land can be yours to command." But Jesus was quite a smart guy. He realized that the person who presented themselves to him was really the conscious ego. The ego is saying to his soul, "I've developed my inner powers so I can control them, him, her — control everything." He said to this person, "Get thee behind me, Satan." 

The point is, a lot of the things we find within ourselves are not very nice things, like controlling people. We're caught up in all this information, and it takes a long time to figure out!

I've never interpreted that account through that psychological lens before.

I hadn't thought of it that way until two or three years ago!

How do you want to continue developing as a human being in your next phase of life?

I take it as it comes. But the trouble with growing older is that I'm worrying a lot more than I did 20 or 30 years ago. That's an achievement for me: to accept the body and the mind as human beings change. 

That's a big lesson for me, especially growing up from being a fairly impetuous, wanting-it-now, everything-now kind of person. I worry about everything! I'm worrying about having chocolate milk with what I'm eating. [Laughs.] "Oh, I only have coconut milk!" There are things you have to consider before you even get out the front door.

It's a weird world, Morgan. But thank God I'm in it, as opposed to not being in it! Bob Dylan's Latest Box Set Proves He Remained Stellar In The '80s. These '60s Classic Rock Artists Did, Too.

Photo: Steve Granitz/Getty Images

In addition to this year's induction as a solo artist, Nicks was previously inducted in 1998 for her work in Fleetwood Mac

On Dec. 13 the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame announced their 2019 inductees to be honored on March 29, 2019, at the 34th annual induction ceremony. The final selection includes the Cure, Def Leppard, Janet Jackson, Stevie Nicks, Radiohead, Roxy Music including Brian Eno, and the Zombies. It was the first time on the ballot for Def Leppard, Stevie Nicks and Roxy Music, and Nicks' win as a solo artist makes her the first woman to ever be inducted twice into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame previously inducted Nicks in 1998 for her work in Fleetwood Mac. Earlier this year, Fleetwood Mac became the first band to receive the MusiCares Person of the Year award for their philanthropy, and their albums Fleetwood Mac (1975) and Rumours (1977) have been inducted into the GRAMMY Hall Of Fame.

I have a lot to say about this~ but I will save those words for later. For now I will just say, I have been in a band since 1968. To be recognized for my solo work makes me take a deep breath and smile. It's a glorious feeling. @rockhall pic.twitter.com/aNofFoG6eC— Stevie Nicks (@StevieNicks) December 13, 2018

I have a lot to say about this~ but I will save those words for later. For now I will just say, I have been in a band since 1968. To be recognized for my solo work makes me take a deep breath and smile. It's a glorious feeling. @rockhall pic.twitter.com/aNofFoG6eC

As for the other inductees, Pitchfork recapped Radiohead's divergent reactions last year when they made the previous final ballot. Jonny Greenwood's response was, "I don't care," but Colin Greenwood said he'd be grateful. They didn't make it on the 33rd round but now they're among the 34th confirmed inductees.

The Zombies are @rockhall inductees! “This time to turn the corner and get inducted, feels fantastic … I’m just so delighted.” - Rod "This is a career-defining [and] life-defining moment." - Colin pic.twitter.com/Rl50JlHbEh— The Zombies (@TheZombiesMusic) December 13, 2018

The Zombies are @rockhall inductees! “This time to turn the corner and get inducted, feels fantastic … I’m just so delighted.” - Rod "This is a career-defining [and] life-defining moment." - Colin pic.twitter.com/Rl50JlHbEh

Rolling Stone caught up with Def Leppard's Joe Elliott right after he heard the news. "We finally find out we're in," he said. "Now we can stop holding our breath and go, 'Great! How wonderful to be in the same club as the Rolling Stones and the Beatles and the Who and Queen and etc., etc.' It's nice. It's a good club to be in."

The 34th Rock & Roll Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony will be held on March 29, 2019, at Barclays Center in Brooklyn, New York. It will be shown on HBO and heard on SiriusXM. Ticket availability will be announced in January. The 2019 inductees' exhibit at the Hall's museum in Cleveland, Ohio will be unveiled the same night.

Bon Jovi, Dire Straits Among Rock & Roll Hall Of Fame 2018 Inductees

Photo courtesy of Jerry Schilling

Jerry Schilling's tender friendship with the King is a core component of his identity, but his story wouldn't mean much if he wasn't a fascinating character in his own right. In this interview, he goes deep on how Elvis Presley irrevocably shaped him.

Living Legends is a series that spotlights icons in music still going strong today. This week, GRAMMY.com spoke with Jerry Schilling, who enjoyed a decades-long friendship and business relationship with Elvis Presley — and has worked as a manager of other pillars of American music, like the Beach Boys and Jerry Lee Lewis.

Jerry Schilling holds a rare distinction in the music business, and in the human race writ large: he's possibly the one living person closest to Elvis Presley without being bonded by blood.

But as compelling as that story is — as Schilling lovingly detailed in his 2006 memoir, Me and a Guy Named Elvis — it's just as fascinating to wonder what Schilling would be doing had he never met the King, or if Elvis had never existed.

By the time he was quarterbacked by Presley at a 1954 touch-football game, Schilling had been throttled by circumstance. His mother died when he was a baby. A succession of illnesses stymied him at school. But he got physically and educationally back on track, with dreams of being a football coach and a history teacher.

All the while, the sounds of rhythm and blues inspired and galvanized him, charting the course for a life in music that would provide deliverance from his circumstances.

In other words, Schilling was made of stern stuff — which the perceptive Presley arguably picked up on early. That quality is partly what made Schilling a compelling character in his own right, rising from very little to work so closely with a foundational American figure. And after Elvis passed in 1977, he continued to carve out his unique place in music history.

Schilling went on to have fruitful business relationships with Jerry Lee Lewis , the Beach Boys  and Lisa Marie Presley, and was depicted by Luke Bracey in Baz Luhrmann's 2022 film Elvis . (Note: this interview took place prior to the film's release.) But if you're curious about what it was really like to be around the King at pivotal points in his career, pick up Me and a Guy Named Elvis , which provides an exquisite glimpse into the King at his most human and vulnerable.

For a crystallized version of that story, read on for an interview with Schilling about his hard-knock origins, what it felt like to meet Presley and how he continues to carry the King around in his heart and mind.

This interview was edited for clarity.

Meeting Elvis was a fundamental pivot point in your life. But I'm curious: if you'd never met him, or if he never existed, where do you think your life would have gone?

My early childhood was so bad. Not having a mother, being sick all the time, missing so much school in the first grade that I had to repeat it, which was embarrassing. My grandparents were poor, just very poor — lower class, white, but just wonderful human beings.

I met Elvis about the time that my older brother had kind of forced me into football. I was playing grade-school football and I made the team in the fourth grade — fourth to eighth grade. And I don't know what's the chicken or the egg, but it's about the same time as when I met Elvis.

All of this is when I was 12 years old, between getting into sports, getting healthy, and becoming a friend of Elvis, before he was Elvis . Which, I guess, gave me a lot of confidence, too. That this guy took off immediately — the week that we met was the same week he recorded his first record.

So, if I hadn't met Elvis, to answer your question, I think because I became good at football through school, my scholastic [career got] better. I was president of the class for all four years of high school. I always wanted to go work for Elvis back in the '50s, but I was in grade school and high school. He went on the road and we kept a relationship.

When he came back to Memphis, we'd hang at the movie theater at night. When he bought Graceland, I was always welcome at Graceland at nighttime. I kind of went on with my own life. Forgot about working for Elvis. I got a football scholarship at Arkansas State University and majored in history. I was planning to be — hopefully — a football coach and history teacher.

You know, nothing wrong with that life either.

No, no, but I think I made the right choice. I got hurt in my junior year playing football, so I came back to Memphis and went to the University of Memphis for about a year and a half to finish my education.

I was chosen to practice teaching. They take one student out of education, and you practice teaching the last semester, a grade-school class. So, I was chosen to do that. I was loading trucks at night. I worked at the airport at the ticket counter in the daytime because my family didn't have money to send me to college.

So, when I would go home from the trucking company — which was 9:00 at night, or whenever — I would pass by the Memphian Theater. If Elvis and the guys were in town, I would go to a service station, change [out of] my trucking clothes, and act like I just showed up for the movie.

One night, Elvis was at the screening. He just looked really tired. He was down in front of the screen — these private showings at night. I walked in and thought, "You know what? I'll see them tomorrow. I'll come back tomorrow night." I didn't want to bother him.

One of the guys that worked for him said, "Jerry, do you want to go back to the film exchange with me, and then we'll have an early breakfast?" Elvis had access to the mid-South film exchange, and he could pick movies. 

We got to the film exchange, and Elvis called Richard and said, "You know where I can find Jerry?" He says, "Well, he's here with me." He said, "Would you ask him if he'd come out to the house?" We never called it Graceland. It was always "the house." I go out there; Rich is living at Graceland. He goes to bed, and Elvis and his father walk down from upstairs.

His father leaves, and Elvis and I are out on the front porch. He said, "I need you to come work for me."

Elvis Presley and Jerry Schilling. Photo courtesy of Jerry Schilling.

Yeah. I said, "When?" He said, "Well, now." I thought for about 10 seconds, and said, "Well, can I go home and get some clothes?" He said, "Sure."

The next day, I had to quit two jobs. I had to tell the university that I wasn't going to practice to teach. I had to tell my father, respectfully, and he was so proud that I worked my way through college — because he only got through grade school.

He said, "Well, I've always trusted your judgment. You sure this is what you want to do? What are you going to do with them?" I said, "I don't know."

That night, I rush back to Graceland. Everybody's sleeping all day because they're very nocturnal — and what's now called the Jungle Room was a screened-in porch. I stood out there all day, and then people started loading up this little bus that Elvis drove. A Winnebago, believe it or not. And we set out for the 2,000-mile journey from Memphis to L.A.

That pretty much changed my life. We stopped at truck stops at nighttime. And when there were lights, Elvis would throw football passes to me, and we slept at the motels in the daytime. I went from the poor section of Memphis, and when we got to L.A., I was living in Bel-Air.

I couldn't go to sleep when we got there. There was a pool in the backyard There was this indirect lighting, and stuff I'd never seen in my life — not even at Graceland. That was the start.

And to flash back to that first football game, it seems like Elvis's personality and drive were immediately on display. The guy you would know for the rest of his life was right there.

Absolutely. I was unconsciously looking for a role model. I was a big fan of James Dean and [Marlon] Brando. When I went to the park by myself on a Sunday afternoon, the park was nothing but dirt, a little wading pool, and horses. A very poor part of Memphis.

I was there by myself, and one of the older guys, Red West, I knew was a big high-school football player. He said, "Hey, Jerry, do you want to play?' They only had five guys and needed a sixth player. They were all six or seven years older than me. So, I said "Yeah." It was three-on-three, go into the huddle.

Jerry Schilling and Elvis Presley. Photo courtesy of Jerry Schilling.

I had been listening to Dewey [Phillips'] "Red, Hot and Blue" since I was 10 years old, because he played rhythm and blues records — which was exciting. It was dangerous in the '50s, in the South, [and this was] Black music.

That night, before this day, Dewey played this record from a boy from Humes High, where my cousins went and my mother had gone. From my grade school, you could physically see Humes High, and vice versa. Dewey said "A boy from Humes High" when he played the record, to distinguish that Elvis wasn't Black.

The record kept getting requested, so Dewey got in touch with Sam Phillips, and they made a connection with the Presley family. Elvis knew they were playing the record that night. He was very nervous, so he went to this little movie theater in north Memphis. When this fellow went to interview him — that people liked his record — he just kind of stuttered, which was cool.

When I went into the huddle — me, Red and Elvis — I went, "Wow, that's the boy from Humes High. He had the rebel-ness of James Dean. If I remember correctly, he was in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. There weren't the rhinestones or anything. He didn't have a hit record.

Elvis didn't even have a hit record in Memphis. But he was somebody that I went, "Wow, I want to be like that guy." He would laugh if he heard me say that today. He had Dean, Brando, and a quiet little smile that was on the warm side, so you could like him. "OK, I know you're the young kid. Can you catch the ball?"

He made me feel comfortable. That was my first impression, and over the years, I got to meet, work with, be friends with a lot of well-known entertainers and actors and whatever. Elvis was the only one without credentials.

(L-R) Richard Nixon, Sonny West, Jerry Schilling, Elvis Presley. Photo: Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

As a figure, Elvis has been unfortunately been flattened with time, but I think that's changing. Can you talk about how he was an absorber and fuser of disparate styles?

He was so eclectic. He got stuff from everybody, and then he made it his own. He was the most eclectic human being I ever met in my life.

He could see somebody walking and go, "Hey, Jerry, look at that guy!" It might have been on a movie set. Now, I'm remembering this specifically. He said, "I'm getting ready to do the '68 special. I'm going to use that guy's walk." It was a good actor named Billy Murphy, who was quite a character. 

By the way, Elvis loved characters to be around sometimes. You can think of a person that would get something from a famous person, right? But, a person that gets something from somebody that's not famous and puts it into his whole makeup? That was Elvis.

What about him would you like to correct? What do we get wrong about him today?

I think, most importantly, his genius in music. He was a very smart guy. I think what he didn't get were the opportunities to fully be the entertainer and actor he could have been.I've said this before — and I don't like to say the same thing twice — but I think I lost my friend at an early age because of creative disappointments.

I'm not blaming Colonel Parker. Being a manager is a big part of my career. If somebody can come in and make a deal with your artist, you're not going to be a manager for very long.

[Elvis] wasn't in good shape before the '68 special. Nobody would know that, but with that special, he went into training like Muhammad Ali and he looked great. Lost 25 pounds, got a suntan. Obviously, there were other problems, but they were caused by his embarrassment by some of the stuff he was doing.

He was 19 years old when all of this started to happen. By the time he was 21, he was the biggest star in the world. When he came back from the army and wanted to do meaningful stuff, the machinery was set up. He really didn't have an attorney; the attorney was controlled by the Colonel. The film companies, RCA, and the publishing companies were all controlled by the Colonel, who was doing what he thought was best.

The Colonel's going to get trashed, and has been. He was controlling, he was manipulative, but he was honest and hardworking and he had a lot of polish. No doubt about it.

Jerry Schilling in 1981. Photo: George Rose/Getty Images

Colonel Parker gets painted as the source of these disappointments and angst, but the more I read, I realize he was a genius who had the lion's share of the responsibility for all this success in the first place.

You're one of the few people that get that, Morgan, and you're right on it. I'm hoping everybody's going to get that at some point. I hope Peter Guralnick can do a book on the Colonel someday, since he got to know the Colonel quite well.

The Colonel's wife said that I was the closest person to him for the last 20 years of his life. The Colonel felt he could talk to me because I was the manager later on. Yeah, I miss the old guy very much.

You're reading my book, and it was one of the things that I'm so glad somewhat worked out. Loanne, his wife, had a problem with the book. I flew to Vegas just to meet with her, and she was a really good, smart lady. She said, "Jerry, I love your book, but when you talk about the creative disappointments, the fans will tend to think that the Colonel killed him." I said, "That was not my intent. That's not how I want it. We spent a whole day, and that was a really rough one."

I've spent a lot of time more recently with Tom Hanks, who played the Colonel. [The film] explains the other side of the Colonel. He was a good friend. If it was your birthday, he'd call and sing "Happy Birthday." Remember the answering-machine days? It was the Colonel singing "Happy Birthday" to you.

I was a loan-out to the Colonel one day a week, which I used to dread. It was just so different from my life with Elvis. He got up early and there were meetings. But every time I did that, I realized I really enjoyed it. It was really interesting.

I probably got a lot of who I am from Elvis, and from the Colonel — and a little bit from Sam Phillips, as well, who was the original genius.

5 Ways Elvis Presley Forever Changed The Music Industry, From Vegas Residencies To Cultural Fusion

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