The young man sensed his moment slipping past. He had already recorded several current ballads, the results marked more by perspiration than inspiration. During a break, perhaps to release tension, he began goofing on a recent R&B single — not even a hit. The studio musicians fell in, the producer took note, and a new god emerged.
The singles released during the ensuing months erupted over an unsuspecting world, redefining the landscape of popular music and popular culture; their reverberations created sprawling land masses and gaping chasms. The young man had stumbled upon a Pandora’s box, unloosing a multitude of staggering new contradictions and redefining countless existing ones — rural and urban, sexual and spiritual, youth and aged, black and white…
Forgive the momentary lapse into Greil Marcus-style myth-making, but over the past 40 years, this is how we’ve come to remember, if not define, Presley’s Sun sessions. For many, the music seems almost secondary; the birth of rock ‘n’ roll and, by extension, the modern era — how could a handful of scratchy 45s live up to such expectations?
I admit that when I first heard the music as a young philistine, nearly twenty years ago, it seemed slight, tame, even quaint. Certainly, Elvis’ Golden Records, which collected sides recorded for RCA a year or two later, sounded more like rock ‘n’ roll — aggressive, loud, horny. But soon after, I learned rock ‘n’ roll also encompassed innocence, fun and spontaneity — qualities Presley’s Sun sides pack in spades.
The bulk of the Sun legend rests upon five singles (the first ten tracks on Sunrise) released over a fourteen-month period. Their impact is difficult to describe; the songs, ripe with freedom and joyful release, continue to surprise long after the first rush. Riding the simple, sprightly accompaniment of Scotty Moore and Bill Black (musical framing as unassuming as it is prophetic) and full of confidence and humor, Presley seems both amazed and delighted by his newfound abilities. Even when the singer flirts with menace (“Milkcow Blues Boogie”) or unchecked desire (“Baby Let’s Play House”), he undercuts the tension with a nudge and a wink — the aside, “Let’s milk it,” in the former, a hiccuped chorus in the latter.
But if the Sun singles seem less calculated than their RCA siblings, it’s not for lack of studio sophistication or attention to detail. Presley and producer Sam Phillips worked the material until they captured a particular feel, a sound at once more spontaneous and better crafted than that displayed on the numerous available alternates.
While creating something new under the sun, the team was nonetheless cognizant of the materials critical to their alchemy. The 45s could almost pass for concept singles, the A sides featuring reworked R&B hits, the B sides hillbilly favorites. And though rarely noted, the Sun sessions also highlight the superior tastes of the young man and his producer; Hip-O’s The King’s Record Collection, assembling the original versions of Presley’s early singles, is a suitable and illuminating companion-piece.
The remaining Sun masters, five of which appeared on Presley’s first RCA album, fill out the rest of disc one. More ballad-oriented than the singles, these cuts reflect Presley’s affection for the pop of the day. But though the songs anticipate his movie-music nadir, they display moments of genuine innocence, longing and, at times, agape — emotions sadly absent from all but his greatest later work.
On occasion, the performances even approach the humor (“Just Because”) and passion (“Trying To Get To You”) so abundant on the original 45s. The disc closes with “When It Rains It Really Pours”, two minutes of session tape followed by two minutes of raw, unfettered dirty blues; intentionally or not, the track serves as a signpost marking the transition from known pleasures to imminent frustrations.
The second disc collects stiff alternates, distracting work tape and muffled, lo-fi live recordings — valuable as history, perhaps, but hardly pleasurable. Yes, the collection does include Presley’s first acetates, purportedly recorded for his mother’s birthday (that myth again), but the results are hardly revelatory. Only “My Happiness” hints at the singer’s tremendous range and command, and even liner notes scribe Peter Guralnick can’t muster much enthusiasm for the remaining three cuts. Of course, it could be argued that exploring and contextualizing a significant historical moment provides its own pleasures, but that discussion is best left to musicologists.
From a consumer standpoint, the new collection, which replaces 1987’s single-disc The Sun Sessions, poses an all too familiar CD-era dilemma: Upgraded audio is definitely a plus (a brighter mix, more prominent vocals), but catalog churning, especially at double-disc prices, is hard to justify. Despite the obvious care and effort invested in the Sunrise project, it’s difficult to ignore the label’s economic motivation to generate additional revenue from previously released material.
To muddy the waters further, the set’s producer recently noted in an interview with industry newsletter ICE that “It was never our intention to make [Sunrise] ‘The Complete Sun Recordings,’ as in all outtakes and dialogue. Maybe one day.” My recommendation: Follow your heart — but also remember the prescient title of John Myhre’s scabrous late-’70s short, He May Be Dead, But He’s Still Elvis. Long after DVD and MP3 are mere memories, RCA or some other multi-global will still be selling off Presley’s remains, a pound of flesh at a time.
