Dee Dee Phelps

Our record company, Liberty Records, sent us out to perform on stage for a radio station promotion. We arrived in the Montgomery, Alabama airport on a sunny November morning in 1962. The general manager of the radio station met our plane. No matter how many times I told him my name was Dee Dee, he kept referring to us as Dick and Dee Bee.

     “Yep, Dee Bee, it shore is nice you folks could drop in on us. Ya’ll must be find, wonderful folks.”

I assured him that we tried to be.

We arrived at the large arena in time to catch Roy Orbison’s rehearsal with the band. He was leading them through the charts to his hit record, “Crying.” Roy stood poised on stage, his body still, eyes closed. A blue filter colored his hair, like a black river reflecting the dark blue sky at midnight.

     “I was alright for awhile, I could smile for awhile.”

Suddenly the band hit a wrong chord and Roy’s eyes opened. Blinking at the musicians through thick glasses, his quiet voice drawled, “Let’s take it again.” As the song started, his high tenor voice cut through the atmosphere like a warm knife through butter. His high notes were pure magic.

As Roy hit the last note of the song and held it, the entire auditorium (crew, promoters, disc jockeys, and other singers) broke into applause. Roy nodded, embarrassed, said a few final works to the band and left the stage.

Later, Dick and I were waiting in the dressing room for our rehearsal when Roy entered.

     “Roy, this is Dick and Dee Bee,” the general manger shouted.

     I said, “It’s Dee Dee. D…E…E…D…E…E…”

     “Pleasure to meet you,” Roy replied.

Dick wasn’t paying attention. Something triggered a strong desire in Dick. I recognized the signs. He was almost salivating. What was he after? I followed the direction of Dick’s eyes as they swept the dirty dressing room floor, finally resting on Roy’s shoes.

I’d never seen anything like them. Made out of the softest black leather, the shoes had no laces. Instead, the ankle boots sported strips of elastic on either side to facilitate pulling them on and off.

 Two years later the Beatles would wear similar shoes on their first American tour, forever redefining footwear for thousands of American men. But in 1962, only Roy Orbison owned a pair of what would be known as Beatle boots.

Dick could contain himself no longer. He moaned, “Oh, man, I really dig those shoes!”

Roy smiled and looked down, as if noticing the shoes for the first time.  “Yeah. I just got them.”

     “Where did you buy them?” Dick asked. “I’d give anything for a pair of shoes like that.”

     Roy smiled at Dick’s child like fascination. “I got them in England. You can try them on if you like.”

 Roy bent over, slipped off the shoes and handed them to Dick, who slid them on his feet with gusto. He rocked back and forth like Dorothy wearing the emerald slippers.

     “They’re so cool,” Dick muttered.

     “They fit you perfectly. Take them. They’re yours.” Roy smiled broadly.

     Dick looked shocked. “No, I can’t take your shoes.”

     “I’ve got another pair just like them. Go ahead. Take them. They look great on you.”

Dick pumped Roy’s hand up and down, and then stared down at his feet encased in the new shoes. When we went out of stage for the rehearsal, Dick kept his eyes on the floor. He didn’t even react when the disc jockey introduced us to the band as Dick and Dee Bee.

We never worked with Roy Orbison again, but Dick wore Roy’s shoes for many years, always telling anyone who would listen about Roy’s generosity.