Back in the early ’60s, I worked with many of the popular singers, helping them come up with song titles. At the time, Elvis was going through a lean patch. He went a whole year without a hit. He needed new material. And when he heard what I’d done for Tom Jones, he summoned me to Graceland.
(I’ve told the Jones story before in these pages but I think it bears repetition. It began with Charlie Watts, drummer for The Rolling Stones. Charlie had a soft spot for animals and he’d just acquired a new kitten when the Stones decided to go on tour. I agreed to kitten-sit. Shortly afterwards Tom came round for one of our regular brain-storming sessions and was surprised to see the beast curled up fast asleep on his usual chair. He looked askance at me. "Watts’ new pussycat," I explained.)
Elvis had a nut allergy. The slightest trace of nuts and he blew up like, well, like the later Elvis. Back in those days there was no labelling on packets and there were only a couple of foods that Elvis trusted not to contain traces of nuts.
One was the fat-drenched burgers from a particular proprietary chain in Tennessee. He ate those burgers night and day. And in the brief gaps between burgers he kept his jaws busy with a pocketful of chews. Lurid things they were, all sugar and artificial flavourings.
Progress on his diet came only when I pointed out to Elvis, who was as vain as every other star I worked with, that he was putting on weight and ruining his teeth.
Gradually I managed to persuade him to replace every second burger with a simple slice of bread and butter. And though I was unable to induce him to give up his chews, he agreed to be rationed to only eight ounces a day.
His health quickly improved. We were both pleased and I felt we were on the cusp of coming up with some new songs when disaster struck.
After nibbling on a slice of bread and butter one afternoon, Elvis went into anaphylactic shock. He swelled up, went blue, and was saved from asphyxia only by a convenient syringe of adrenaline.
I had the bread tested and it came back negative for nuts. The butter, however, did not. It transpired that the churning machine had previously been used to mix praline. The hint of residue had been enough to set Elvis off. This was when I decided to take full control of Elvis’ nutritional intake.
He had a wealth of hangers-on. I assumed command and divided them into two teams whom I called reds and blues.
I put the blues in charge of portion control. It was dull work but essential. They were the ones who kept a check on burger numbers and weighed out the daily eight-ounce bags of chews.
The reds meanwhile were charged with devising schemes to protect Elvis from any repeat episode of anaphylaxis.
One of their first acts was to acquire a puppy which they trained to sniff out nut residues. Its mission was to cast a nostril over every future pat of butter.
Once Elvis had recovered from his brush with death, I was keen to reassure him that it couldn’t happen again. I explained about the two teams that I’d established and would he like to know what they’d already done?
"Go on," said Elvis, a tad grudgingly.
"Well," I said, "the blues weighed chews, and rather more interestingly the reds ... "
"Say that again," said Elvis.
"Blues weighed chews," I said.
Elvis gawped. "Brilliant," he said. It seemed an over-reaction to me. I chose to continue.
"And this," I said, as the red team brought out the puppy, "may look like any old mutt to you, but it’s the world’s first nut-in-butter hound dog."
For a moment Elvis just stared. Then, "Joe," he said, "you’re a genius."
Now do you believe me?
• Joe Bennett is a Lyttelton writer. He possibly also worked with Carl Perkins, and Big Mama Thornton, as well.
