strong young songwriters that included Mark James (“Hooked on a Feeling”) and Johnny Christopher (“Always on My Mind”)— Moman was now free to follow his musical instincts. “Chips had a knack for making hits,” says Dickinson, whose first gig as a pianist came via Moman. “And he figured out he could do that by merging pop, soul, and country. No one else mixed genres like him. There were no limits to his sound.” Moman’s musical versatility—given distinct rendering by his band’s unusual two-keyboards, one-guitar setup—gave American a commercial advantage over Memphis’s oth- er studios. “We could change our sound to fit any artist,” says Mike Leech. “I’m sure the guys at Stax or Hi could’ve done that too, but they focused on soul. We were able to mix it all together.” Whether it was Dionne Warwick’s sophisticated adult pop, Wilson Pickett’s searing soul, or Neil Diamond’s ritzy folk-rock, Moman could take that sound and build a hit. “Chips never had to go dig up people to work with,” says Dickinson. “He knew that if he had the right songs and the right sound—which his band could provide—the tal- ent would come to him.” Elvis had made up his mind. The Nashville plans were dropped, and ten days of sessions were booked at American Studios begin- ning on January 13, five days after the singer’s birthday, at a cost of $25,000. The resulting album would eventually be called From Elvis in Memphis . The Colonel would stay at home. This latter fact was not in itself unusual—the Colonel typically kept a low profile at recording dates, trusting Jarvis to heed his one unchanging musical edict and make Elvis’s voice louder—but because the singer would be recording under a novel set of circumstances with a well-known hardhead for a producer, the Colonel ensured he had a set of eyes at American. Tom Diskin, the Colonel’s Guy Friday, would make the trip to Thomas Street along with Freddy Bienstock from Hill and Range, the publishing company with whom the Colonel had partnered. With the two of them peddling the proper material, El- vis’s business interests would still be satisfied. Recording at American might be new, but the Colonel was determined to have some things remain the same. The Colonel wasn’t alone in his skepticism regarding Elvis’s im- pending arrival at American. Moman’s musicians weren’t sure which Elvis would show up at American, the one that hollered “Hound Dog” through the tinny speakers of their transistor radios and changed their teenage lives, or the one that had been half-assing it on record and frolicking on film with Ann-Margret. “I didn’t much care for what Elvis had been doing before he got to American,” says Spreen. “The stuff he was making didn’t deserve a lot of respect.” Or, as trumpeter Wayne Jackson, a frequent guest musician at American puts it: “Neil Diamond was making heavier music back then.” At approximately 7:00 PM on January 13, 1969, the back door to American flew open. Elvis swaggered in, fit and smiling, trailed by Diskin, Bienstock, and a carload of Memphis Mafia. The singer couldn’t have been impressed with what he saw; the studio’s egg-car- ton baffling and burlap-heavy aesthetic made Graceland’s poodle- print wallpaper and faux leopard-skin upholstery seem downright tasteful. “Right after Elvis came in,” remembers Leech, “he took a look around and said, ‘What a funky, funky studio you got here.’ ” Reggie Young remembers worrying that a rat might fall from the ceiling and land on the singer’s jet-black pompadour.
begin recording. Recording might also be threatened by the owner of the barbershop next door, who’d place a loud radio in the build- ing’s shared ceiling when the noise was too much for him to bear, forcing the musicians to stop until they could remove the offending hardware. In addition to rancorous radios, the ceiling was home to a small army of rats, lured to the building by the adjoining Ranch House restaurant, frequented by the musicians for its meat-and- three-sides combo. It was here, in this dirty, dingy space, that Chips Moman built his pop-music powerhouse. Lincoln Wayne Moman was born in La Grange, Georgia, in 1936, with a chip on his shoulder and a song in his heart. At just fourteen years old, Moman, whose thin lips, broad nose, and almond-shaped eyes lend him a vaguely Asian countenance, hitchhiked to Mem- phis to take a job with his cousin’s painting business. But he quickly traded in his paintbrush for a guitar. He was barely into his twen- ties when his stinging guitar work earned him spots in the traveling bands of rockabilly stars Johnny Burnette and Gene Vincent. Like so many millions of dreamers before him, Moman followed work to California, where he took a stint as a session guitarist before return- ing to Memphis and catching on as a producer for Jim Stewart’s Satellite Records (later to become Stax) as the ’50s gave way to the ’60s. At each stop, Moman brought more than just his musical tal- ents along with him. “There’s a reason Chips got his name,” explains Spreen. “He was a handful. He dealt cards, he gambled, and he sure didn’t take it lightly if he thought you’d done him wrong.” Moman’s gift for a grievance helped him acquire his own studio. A dispute with Stewart over the usual things (credit, cash, control) led to Moman filing suit against his (soon to be former) boss. A $3000 settlement in his favor provided Moman—who rarely grants interviews—with the money he needed to buy a cheap but service- able space on Thomas Street. Initially, American failed to rise above its shabby appearance—there was a period when the studio was kept afloat only through the largesse of a sympathetic Arkansas peanut farmer. But stability finally arrived in 1965, when Moman recorded the million-selling “Keep on Dancing” by local Beach Boys soun- dalikes the Gentrys. With a hit record tucked in his back pocket, Moman set about putting together his own band, one that would free him from the grind of hustling for talent. “Chips’ band at American was the greatest Southern studio band of all time,” says producer, pianist, and all-around Memphis music macher Jim Dickinson. “They were a perfect unit: a collection of jazz players. If you took any one of them away, the whole thing would have fallen apart.” Essentially a collection of players from other suc- cessful studio bands, Moman’s unit came with impressive pedigree. “Chips basically merged the rhythm sections from Hi and Sun Studios,” explains guitarist Reggie Young, who played guitar at Hi before signing on with Moman. Young’s Hi colleague Bobby Em- mons followed him to American and settled in behind the organ. Bassist Tommy Cogbill and drummer Gene Chrisman brought their supple rhythms with them from Sam Phillips’s Sun Studio. In time, free agents pianist Bobby Wood and arranger Glen Spreen were also asked to come aboard. Bassist Mike Leech joined up after Cogbill assumed added production duties. This low-key group of White Southerners, more likely to be found at the golf course than the juke joint, formed the core of the American Sound Studios band. With a simpatico band at his disposal—as well as a stable of
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Chips Moman, circa 1970.
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