Elvis walked into the guitar shop as the employee was playing. The kid looked up, saw a customer, and said.

“Sorry, we’re about to close. Can I help you find something?” He didn’t recognize Elvis.

Presley. Elvis smiled and said, “Yeah, can you show me how you did that riff you were just playing?” The kid’s face, when he finally realized who he was talking to, shocked the whole street.

It was a Thursday evening in June 1966 at Carter’s Music Shop on Union Avenue in Memphis. The shop had been open since 1948 and was one of the best places in the city to find quality guitars, both new and used. Musicians knew about Carter. If you were serious about your instrument, you went to Carter. Danny Mitchell worked at Carter.

He was 22 years old, had been working there for 3 years, and loved every minute of it. During the day, he helped customers, gave advice on instruments, and occasionally gave informal lessons to kids who came in with their parents. But the best time was right before closing when the shop got quiet and he could take down a guitar and practice.

Tonight, Dany was alone in the shop. His boss, Mr. Carter, had left an hour earlier to go to his daughter’s school event, trusting Dany to close up. It was 6:15 p.m. The shop officially closed at 6:30, but they rarely had customers in the last half hour. Dany figured he’d lock the door at 6:20 and use the last 10 minutes to practice.

He took down a beautiful Fender Stratacastaster that had come in on trade that morning. It was a 1964 model, sunburst finish in pristine condition. Dany had been thinking about this guitar all day, wanting to try it out. He plugged it into a small amplifier and started playing. Dany was self-taught mostly. He’d learned from records, from watching other players, from experimenting on his own.

He’d gotten pretty good over the years, good enough that Mr. Carter sometimes asked him to demonstrate guitars for serious customers. But Dany didn’t consider himself a real musician. He was just a guy who worked in a guitar shop and loved to play. He started with a blues progression, then shifted into something more rock and roll. He was working on a riff he’d been developing, a combination of blues and early rock that had an interesting sound.

He got lost in it, his fingers moving across the fretboard, finding the notes he wanted, creating something that felt right. He didn’t hear the door open. Elvis had been driving around Memphis, no particular destination in mind. He did that sometimes when he needed to think, when Graceland felt too big and too empty.

He had ended up on Union Avenue and noticed Carter’s music shop. He remembered the place from years ago before he was famous when he used to come in just to look at guitars he couldn’t afford. On a whim, he pulled over and parked. Through the window, he could see someone inside playing guitar. The shop looked like it was closing, but the door was still unlocked.

Elvis tried the handle and it opened. The sound hit him immediately. Whoever was playing had talent, real talent. The riff was complex, but clean, blues-based, but with rock energy. Elvis recognized the technique of someone who’d learned by ear, by feel, not from formal lessons. That was how Elvis had learned, too. He stepped inside quietly and closed the door.

The employee had his back to him, completely absorbed in what he was playing. Elvis just stood there and listened. After about 30 seconds, the kid finished the riff and started it again, slightly different this time, experimenting with variations. That’s when he turned slightly and saw Elvis standing near the door. He stopped playing immediately and turned around fully.

“Oh, sorry,” Dany said, thinking this was just a late customer. “We’re about to close. Can I help you find something?” Elvis smiled. The kid had no idea who he was talking to. In the dim light of the shop, wearing casual clothes, Elvis was just another customer. “Yeah,” Elvis said. “Can you show me how you did that riff you were just playing?” “Danny bl” blinked.

“Customers usually wanted to see guitars, not learn how to play them.” “Um, sure. Which part?” “All of it,” Elvis said, walking closer. “The whole thing? That was really good.” Dany felt a little embarrassed. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just something I’ve been messing around with. Are you looking to buy a guitar?” “Maybe,” Elvis said, now standing about 10 ft away.

“But first, show me that riff. I’m trying to learn some new techniques.” Dany shrugged and started playing the progression again, slower this time, so the customer could see his finger placement. As he played, he glanced at the man watching him. Something about him looked familiar, but Dany couldn’t place it.

Maybe he’d been in the shop before. “That’s really clean,” Elvis said when Dany finished. “How long have you been playing?” “About 10 years,” Dany said, self-taught mostly. “I work here, so I get to practice a lot with different guitars.” He finally really looked at the customer’s face, and his brain stopped working. That wasn’t just any customer.