I was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, in a two-room house built by my father’s hands. Poverty was all we knew, but so was love—especially from my mother, Gladys. She sang to me, prayed for me, told me I was special. When we moved to Memphis, I found another kind of church: Beale Street, where the blues poured from every doorway and the air hummed with rhythm. I didn’t fit in—too quiet, too dreamy, too fascinated by music they said was ‘not for white boys.’

Then I picked up a guitar.

That first note changed everything. At Sun Records, Sam Phillips told me, ‘You don’t sound like nobody.’ And when I sang ‘That’s All Right,’ something primal broke loose. People stared. Some cheered. Others sneered.

One man saw gold.

Colonel Tom Parker stepped out of the shadows with a smile and a plan. ‘You’re gonna be bigger than Elvis Presley,’ he said. I laughed. ‘That’s my name.’

Now he’s offering me a tour. A real shot. But something in his eyes—calculating, hungry—makes me hesitate.

Do I trust him?

Or do I risk it all and find my own way?