Songs from Massilia: Vol. 2

Written By Evan Hammonds

The King of Massilia

Everyone had called Jon “Elvis” since he was young. His resemblance to the rock-and-roll icon was so striking that people in Massilia—where he’d lived for years—along with his ex-wife and even strangers on the street, naturally took to calling him by that name. By 1981, even though the real Elvis Presley had been dead for four years, it didn’t stop folks from coming up to Jon to shake his hand, ask for a photograph, or give a knowing nod.

Some approached with reverence, opening up with stories about how Elvis’s music had shaped their lives. One woman Jon met in Holly Springs, while working a landscaping job, teared up as she told him how “How Great Thou Art” had been sung at her father’s funeral. Jon often felt uncomfortable in these moments, but he was always patient and courteous, quietly listening until the story was done.

Whether those encounters, piled up over the years, were what led Jon to join the Mississippi Chapter of the Elvis Presley Impersonators Society is hard to say—but join he did.

He first saw the advertisement for EPIS in the back pages of The Clarion-Ledger. After mulling it over, he finally called for details.

A woman named Eunice Moultrie picked up on the third ring. Her husky, cigarette-tinged voice suggested the kind of person who would wear coral lipstick no matter the occasion.

She explained that the union’s primary function was to act as a booking agency for Elvis appearances and performance gigs across Mississippi. Members could officially adopt the King of Rock & Roll’s persona and perform at everything from county fairs to family reunions—even the occasional church service. Eunice emphasized that anybody could slap on sideburns, sunglasses, and a rhinestone jacket while strumming “Hound Dog,” but unless you were a union man, you weren’t legitimate.

She proudly noted that the group had more than thirty members, including one Black performer named Marv who specialized in Elvis’s early gospel work.

The advantage of the organization, she said, was that there was no need to hustle door-to-door like in the old days. The union handled marketing and promotion, and performers got a share of the booking fees. Membership dues were $275 annually, or $250 if you supplied your own costumes rather than renting.

As Eunice spoke, Jon jotted notes in the margin of the newspaper.

Of course, she added, there was an audition process. Candidates would be evaluated by the union’s founder and chairman, Mr. John Arthur Ruggles Jr., along with the society’s most well-known impersonator, Mr. Andy Dufracus. The audition would measure vocal talent, knowledge of the catalog, and something Eunice called “Elvis charisma,” which she didn’t bother to define. If it all went well, Jon would receive a laminated union card within weeks and could join the circuit immediately.

Jon’s stomach turned slightly at the thought of an audition.

Sensing his hesitation, Eunice tried to reassure him. Just by his voice on the phone, she said, she could tell he had a good tone. “Are you from Mississippi?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jon replied.

“I can tell. The accent’s unmistakable. That’s ideal. Did you know Elvis was from Mississippi?”

The auditions were held on the first Saturday morning of every month at a middle school auditorium in Tupelo—about a thirty-minute drive from Massilia. Before leaving, Jon studied himself in the mirror. Tilting his head left and right, pursing his lips, he searched for an angle that satisfied him. The buzzing fluorescent light above cast a pale glare that only made his mid-40s face look puffier. His sideburns, though natural, seemed crooked, and he reached for his old pocket comb. Years of use had worn it to stumps, and with pomade it did little to tame his once-jet-black hair.

He slipped into a white jacket with stars stitched along the sleeves and an ornate eagle across the chest. It had grown snug since he’d bought it in the ’70s, and he was forced to unzip it halfway down—more for comfort than style.

In a low growl he muttered, “Thank ya, thank ya very much,” then coughed to clear his throat. It was time to hit the road.

On the drive, he cycled through Elvis’s greatest hits on his 8-track player, brushing up on lyrics that had grown fuzzy. Eunice had told him one song was enough, but Jon wanted to be ready with backups just in case.

When he arrived, only a few cars dotted the parking lot. The overcast Mississippi sky pelted him with a few heavy raindrops as he headed inside.

He expected Eunice to greet him, but instead found a handwritten sign propped on a table: Elvis Audition’s—unnecessary apostrophe and all—with an arrow pointing left.

Jon followed it into a medium-sized auditorium. From the back, he spotted two men seated midway down the rows. The older one, whom Jon assumed was Mr. Ruggles, called out a polite hello. The other didn’t even look up.

Jon climbed the stairs to the stage and introduced himself.

Mr. Ruggles nodded, then launched into his own introduction. He was a retired Vice President of RCA Records who claimed to have known Colonel Tom Parker, Elvis’s famed manager, personally. In his sixties, gray at the temples, with droopy eyes behind round tortoiseshell glasses, he looked like a basset hound forced into academia. He had founded the union three years earlier, spotting a business opportunity.

“And this here,” Mr. Ruggles continued, “is Andy Dufracus, our most successful and longest-tenured member. The King of Kings, as he likes to say.”

Andy, still doodling in a journal, finally looked up. His tone, when he spoke, was intentionally bored.

The Dufracus family was well known to people from these parts—including Jon—and they had made their fortune through government contracts installing metal guardrails alongside roads and small bridges across Mississippi. Despite an unimpressive high school record, Andy got into Ole Miss’s musical theatre program after his parents donated generously to the underfunded football stadium. At school, he fronted several bluegrass groups, but after seeing Elvis on The Milton Berle Show in 1956, his curiosity bloomed into obsession—and eventually, a career of sorts.

By forty, after his parents’ deaths, Andy inherited enough to make him one of the hundred wealthiest men in Mississippi. He married the daughter of the region’s largest garment factory owner, and while gossip claimed they slept in separate rooms, she supported him wholeheartedly—hand-sewing his elaborate Elvis costumes to his precise specifications.

Jon waited politely until Andy’s long résumé ran out of steam.

Mr. Ruggles stepped in. “Eunice noted you’d be auditioning with ‘Suspicious Minds.’ That right?”

“Yes,” Jon said.

“A fine choice. Do you need us to pipe in a backing track?”

Jon hesitated, then shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll sing a cappella.”

He thought he caught Andy roll his eyes.

“Alright then,” said Ruggles. “Off you go.”

Jon cleared his throat, gripped the microphone, and began:

We’re caught in a trap / I can’t walk out / Because I love you too much, baby…

He shuffled rhythmically, eyes closed, voice swelling with unexpected power.

We can’t go on together / With suspicious minds…

Spinning in one move, he prowled the stage like a tiger.

Why can’t you see / What you’re doing to me / When you don’t believe a word I say?

When the song ended, Jon nailed the final line and the auditorium grew momentarily silent.

Mr. Ruggles rose to his feet, applauding. “Marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”

Andy, arms crossed, muttered, “It was fine, I suppose.”

Mr. Ruggles turned sharply. “Hey Andy, are you goofing on Elvis? Are you losing touch?”

Andy looked at Ruggles, unbothered. “I just mean, anybody can mimic the moves. Doesn’t make you Elvis.”

Mr. Ruggles waved the tension away. “I’m telling you, Andy. That’s the real Elvis as sure as I’m standing here.”

For the first time in years, Jon felt like himself again.

Evan Hammonds
Next

Songs from Massilia: Vol. 1