Otis Blackwell

The King Behind the Kings

Before the pompadours, before the hip swivels, before the legions of teenagers screamed their lungs out under the fluorescent haze of a new American beat, there was Otis Blackwell—tucked behind a battered piano in some backroom, his fingers conjuring the sound that would set the world on fire.

While white America crowned Elvis Presley "The King of Rock 'n' Roll," it was Otis Blackwell who forged the crown. A Black man from Brooklyn, New York, with a streetwise strut and a heart full of blues, Blackwell translated the rhythm and spirit of the Black experience into something palatable and irresistible to a nation teetering on the edge of cultural upheaval. His music was the engine under the hood of the youth revolution—and the King of Rock 'n' Roll? That was just the driver.

Otis Blackwell didn’t just write songs—he wrote identity. "Don’t Be Cruel," "All Shook Up," "Return to Sender"—they weren’t just hits; they were national anthems for a new teenage state of mind—a world that wanted rebellion but in a pressed shirt and saddle shoes. And there was Elvis, drawling Blackwell’s phrases like they were the gospel, hips twitching with each syllable. But Elvis never wrote a note of it. Otis did.

Blackwell got his start as a rhythm and blues singer in the early 1950s, cutting sides like “Daddy Rolling Stone” that were soaked in sweat, swing, and sorrow. But his genius burned brightest as a behind-the-scenes architect. Working out of New York’s Brill Building scene, he cranked out one hit after another, dictating his lyrics into a tape recorder in a half-sung, half-whispered croon that studio singers and white interpreters would mimic, water down, and skyrocket to fame with. But the heart of those records—the swagger, the smirk, the spiritual ache—was always Otis.

“Great Balls of Fire” didn’t come from Jerry Lee Lewis’s Southern Pentecostal fire. It came from Blackwell’s smouldering understanding of desire. “Fever,” immortalized by Peggy Lee, began its slow burn in the fingertips of Blackwell and Little Willie John. “Handyman,” resurrected by Del Shannon and then sweetened up by James Taylor, was another Blackwell original—his sense of melody always a step ahead of the times.

Blackwell was more than prolific. He was elemental. His work helped bridge the racial sound barrier in American music. He gave white artists the groove of Black soul without requiring the public to face the origins. He was the invisible man of the hit parade, cashing checks while others cashed in on his soul.

And let’s be clear—Otis Blackwell didn’t need Presley, Lewis, or Shannon to justify his greatness. They needed him. Without Blackwell, Elvis is a baritone with a good jawline. Jerry Lee is just another mad preacher behind a keyboard. James Taylor is still tuning his guitar.

As the years rolled on, Blackwell’s name often remained in small print, or worse, left out entirely. While others were inducted into halls of fame, immortalized in movies and monuments, Otis Blackwell sat quietly on the edges of fame, his legacy carried not in headlines but in the bloodstream of the American sound.

He passed in 2002, nearly blind and mostly forgotten by the industry he shaped. But listen closely. You can hear him in every hip snap, every breakbeat, every harmony that tilts toward trouble. Otis Blackwell didn’t just influence rock ‘n’ roll. He invented its language, laced its shoes, and pushed it out onto the dance floor.

So when they talk about the "King," remember who lit the fuse. Otis Blackwell wasn’t just the man behind the music. He was the music.

We spoke in 1987

Bill King: You've been in the studio working on some new projects. What type of sounds are you recording?

Otis Blackwell: Actually, I've been finishing up three albums. I'd been in Nashville recording, and a fellow in Baltimore is helping me start a tiny record label. How is it up there?

B.K: Warm and rainy.

O.B.: It's been raining like crazy here.

B.K.: It can be a problem year after year in southern Kentucky and northern Tennessee. After the drought of '88, this must come as a surprise.

O.B.: It's a wet one.

B.K.: I first met you at a club in the early '80s, when I played with Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks. I managed to get one of your promotional leaflets and was astonished at the number of hit rock 'n' roll songs you have written. Where did all this music come from?

O.B.: I don't know. When I was young, I just sat down and started playing Chopsticks at the piano. I got so far and then lost interest. Eventually, I regained it and started writing songs.

B.K.: Was there music you heard when you were young that helped you develop a style of writing?

O.B.: I didn't play much early on. What I liked were cowboy movies. I was a big cowboy fan and liked western music. You couldn't get that stuff where I lived, so I hung out at a bit of theatre that played Gene Autry and Tex Ritter movies. Tex Ritter is still my favourite singer.

B.K.: Did you listen to a lot of radio?

O.B.: Yeah, but I didn't get to listen to country music. When the radio was turned on in my house, you had spirituals, the news or Chuck Willis and Larry Darnell.

B.K.: Was it challenging to get people interested in your songs?

O.B.: When I started writing, it was hard getting people to do my stuff. They say they couldn't do my style. I decided to open an office at 1650 The Brill Building, which is supposedly where all the great music writers have theirs. I opened it, and down the hall was a business school. Students would pass by my door, and, eventually, some came in. They looked around and asked, " Are you a songwriter?" I said, "Yeah." " You wrote such and such. Yeah, I did." On my wall, I had people like Elvis Presley, Peggy Lee, James Taylor, and six or seven other white artists. The kids said, "How come you don't have any black artists on your wall?" I told them. "That's my gold wall, and they're the ones who sold millions. I've never had a black artist do that with my songs.

B.K.: Were black artists recording your songs?

O.B.: No, I was getting various covers, but either they weren't getting out or weren't clicking. I think the one that happened was Fever with Little Willie John. But it only went so far because Peggy Lee jumped on it.

B.K.: Was there more interest from black producers and artists after your first successes?

O.B.: There were two gentlemen. One was Henry Glover; he dug what I did. I got a bunch of records through him. The other fellow, Calvin Carter, was from Vee-Jay Records, and he recorded a lot of my material. Other than those two, I didn't get much interest.

B.K.: How were you able to get your songs to Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and Peggy?

O.B.: A writer named Leroy Kirkland took me to a publishing house called Shalamar Music. A fellow named Al Stanton was a friend of another fellow named Paul Cates, who was with the Elvis Presley people. He got my songs through. After Moe Gail, the owner of Shalamar Music, passed away, I transitioned to another publishing company.

B.K.: Did they treat you right?

O.B.: Oh, you better believe it. It was slow at first. You had a lot of late hours, but that's all part of it. Now, you don't have to wait to record. You can spend five to eight dollars on a cassette, and they don't even listen to it. I'd hate to be a songwriter starting a career today. So many independent publishers, and they're all important. They've done a lot of wrong things, but some good as well.

B.K.: When the movie 'Breathless' came out, did things begin to turn around again?

O.B.: Oh yeah, I've noticed it usually turns around every nine or ten years.

Years ago, I met Don Covey, Tommy Tucker and Johnny Nash in a New York studio called A-1 Sounds. They were all selling songs to the owner, Herb Abramson, who held the publishing on 'High Heel Sneakers.' It seemed every few years his fortune would increase when Elvis or Jose Feliciano would record the tune.

O.B.: I talk to Herb every time I go to California. We hung out a lot and had many a good time. He's still driving, but he can't see right; he drives that car like he's crazy.

B.K.: He's the first producer I met in New York when I was there in 1967. I was down and out, had a couple of songs, and he bought them.

O.B.: He was the original partner and founder of Atlantic with Jerry Wexler and Ahmet Ertegun. They all started it together.

B.K.: I always wondered why Herb and the others parted ways.

O.B.: I think he went into the service and, by the time he got out, things had changed. I like doing that old stuff, and he's got a good ear for that. That's the way he wants to record. His thing is rhythm 'n' blues.

B.K.: His door was always open to black artists.

O.B.: He understood the music. We're all in it to make money, but he loved it. He talks about it all the time.

B.K.: How did Peggy Lee get hold of 'Fever'?

O.B.: I used to be with a publishing house called Roosevelt Music. A gentleman there told me he had seen Peggy Lee perform Fever in Las Vegas, and I found out later she wanted to record it.

B.K.: Did you ever meet her?

O.B.: No, I didn't meet her but came close about three years ago - it was too crowded. I met her after the show, but I didn't want to hang around and deal with the crowd.

B.K.: Did you ever attempt to talk to any of the artists who had considerable success with your songs?

O.B.: I never really wanted to meet them because there's the problem of getting between the artist and the manager. It can get kind of funny at times. I always figured it was best to write my songs, take them to my publisher and just lie back. There used to be so many things going on - getting to the artist, getting to the publishers - you know, politics. I didn't want to get mixed up in all of that.

B.K.: Did you ever do anything with Sun Records?

O.B.: I met what's his name.

B.K.: Sam Phillips?

O.B.: Yeah, I met him a couple of times when I went down to Memphis. That's as far as it goes. I used to go down every year for the remembrance of Elvis' birthday. Memphis State College invited me to sit in the auditorium and speak to the people for one of those Elvis days.

B.K.: When are they going to have an Otis Blackwell Day?

O.B.: I don't know - it might be nice. I'm very low-key. There have been many times when I've been asked to appear. I'd say to myself, "What am I going to talk about?' Early on, when I did interviews, I'd tell everyone, "Don't ask me about dates. I don't even remember what I did yesterday."

B.K.: How did you come up with those beautiful bass lines at the core of the music?

O.B.: I started as one of those two-fingered players, then graduated to three and four fingers and, eventually, five. I played a little boogie-woogie and the shuffle, so I wrote over that. Then the Beatles came over and knocked that out.

B.K. Where did you grow up?

O.B.: I was born in Brooklyn and still live right around the corner from where I was born. Everybody used to tell me to go to Nashville, and I'd say, "OK, where is it?" I started coming here years ago to hang out, and now I love it.

B.K.: Any plans?

O.B.: I've decided to run back and forth between Brooklyn and Nashville. I like this town; it's great. They've put me in the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame. This town is about music. It's about the kind of music I like. I've also started a small record label, so I've done an album. People always talk about what I've done, but this is what I'm doing now. I got behind that pencil, and nothing happened for many years, but since they put me in the Songwriters Hall of Fame, I've turned around. I took a good look at myself and said, " I think it's time to get back to work."

B.K.: How has your writing changed?

O.B.: You know my thing was always about ‘I Love You – Your Feet Are Too Big’ and that kind of stuff, so I figured I'd sit down and write something different. One of the new songs deals with guns, and another one deals with the homeless. I've got two or three rock 'n' roll tunes. It's the best stuff I've done in a long time. I've taken my time and worked on them for a couple of years.