1973. To say that Elvis Presley had one great love would be to say that the Sun revolved around the Earth: it just wasn’t true. Yes, he loved his ex-wife Priscilla, was no denying that fact. But the fame of his music and movies had long gone to his head, and with that came an onslaught of affairs and one-night stands. It wasn’t healthy. It was part of the reason their marriage dissolved. See, Priscilla had been Elvis’ rock, someone he knew he could always count on. And now she was gone, his daughter Lisa Marie was gone, and he was left alone with nothing but his fame and fortune.

Elvis, after weeks of grief at the loss of a great—albeit unstable and potentially unhealthy—relationship, he picked himself up and decided to start over again. Just a couple years past when ‘starting over’ was socially acceptable. He was nearing forty, and his age was starting to show. He had a bad hip, and his joints cracked and creaked in the early hours of the day. Though he tried everything in his power to hide it, he had developed crows feet.

He comes to the conclusion that he needs to go back to his routes of Memphis, Tennessee. He’d let himself live for a bit; not be Elvis Presley, King of Rock and Roll (he hated the nickname). Elvis takes his least-expensive car, a suitcase of clothes, and speeds down to Memphis. He parks his car in front of the local jazz club on Beale Street and gets out. He puts a pair of shades on and looks around.

His tall, lanky frame is adorned with a silk, patterned blouse unbuttoned at the top, the simplest belt he could find hanging on his narrow waist, and pinstripe slacks covering his long legs. He wears cowboy boots with a bit of a heel, and his fingers drip in heavy rings. He’d long-since stopped putting gel in his hair, and instead it sat atop his head, thick and black. He had heavy sideburns and still wore a bit of makeup.