I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. I’m working on getting set up in Nashville, teaching Creative Writing at Vanderbilt in the eighth year of what was supposed to be a one-year appointment.
But in terms of the writing I’m working on, I finished a complete draft (for me, writing on the computer there is no longer any such thing as a first draft, because there’s so much everyday rewriting) of my Sam Phillips biography – which has turned out, against all my disbelieved promises to you, Alexandra, and others, to be about as long as the Sam Cooke biography.
As soon as I get straightened away here, I’m going to start rewriting from the beginning – in which, for surprising reasons, Sam’s mother gives him the middle name of the doctor who was supposed to deliver him (“You take my ass dying when I was born, and you take a drunk doctor showing up – man, he didn’t even make it till I was born – and my mama being so kind she got up out of bed and put him to bed until he sobered up, and then the midwife comes and Mama feels so sorry for Dr. Cornelius she named me after him!”)
And then I guess I’ll just keep on going, with the hope (but not necessarily the promise) of finishing by the end of the year.
PG.com: Why did you decide to write this book?
Sam was as great an inspiration as I’ve ever encountered in my life. My father. My grandfather. Howlin’ Wolf. J.W. Alexander. Solomon Burke. Doc Pomus. A few more. But Sam – the music had always inspired me. But meeting him in 1979 was like having every fantasy I had ever constructed (in terms of philosophy, world view, idealistic purpose, and conscious intent) come true. Here’s a passage from the end of the book that sort of explains it.
Once in a while I dream about Sam, but none of the dreams has left as lasting an impression as the one I had not long after his death. It seemed to center on the first time Elvis was in the studio for his recording “audition” with Scotty and Bill. “I am nothing if not an idealist,” Sam proclaimed, whether to Elvis or me I’m not sure. Then: “I am anything but an idealist,” he declared. “The boy cannot fully understand.”
For all I know, by “the boy,” he could just as easily be referring to me as to Elvis – because I cannot altogether understand. But then I don’t really want to. Like Sam, I, too, am anxious to take leave of my senses. Sam found the vehicle through music. I found the same vehicle in much the same way – but in large part, like so many people, it was through Sam, it was because of Sam.
PG.com: How will it be different than your previous books?
The difference, I guess, is apparent in the passage that I’ve quoted. The book is much more “personal” than any of my other books – I mean all of them are personal. All of them are intensely personal, because they represent what I care about and deeply believe. But here – in the book about Sam – I take on a personal role, because I was there for much of the last 25 years. I was there for many of the events. And I was there not strictly as a reporter (I’m never there strictly as a reporter) but in some other, less definable role. I suppose I would adopt much the same approach if I were to write a biography of Solomon Burke. Which, sadly, I never will. As Solomon said to me the last few times I saw him, “You know, your book about Sam [Cooke] is really great. But when are we going to do The Book?” I tried to get him to start it, I suggested that, just to get us going, he could tell a few of the stories about his grandmother and his days as a Wonder Boy Preacher to his daughter Victoria and send me the tapes - but he never did. And from my point of view (and I think from Solomon’s, too), it had to be a first-person narration. So that book will never be written. But, just as with Sam Phillips, I’ll do my best to continue to sing (as “Pete the Writer,” as Solomon dubbed me early on) Solomon’s song.