rich scott
   R. Stevie Moore - born Richard Scotty Moore, Memphis, Tennessee 1/18/52.  Son of famed Elvis sideman, Scotty Moore and nephew of TV icon, Mary Tyler Moore, R. Stevie (a name he adopted from one of his musical heroes, Stevie Nicks in order not to trade on, nor besmirch the name of his famous father) Moore has gone on to be known as the Father of DIY, the Inventor of Home-made Mail-Order Music (through his RSM Cassette Club), The Father of Invention, and the Grandfather of little Ricky S. Moore of Jackson, Tennessee (infant son of Moore's 15 year-old daughter, Katrina, and a guy named Ray).  Some of his earliest memories are of piggy back rides given him by his crazy Uncle Elvis as a boy in Memphis.  R. Stevie (the family still calls him Little Scotty) also remembers the "funny backrubs" Old Uncle E would try to give him from time to time.  But most of all, around the Moore household, R. Stevie remembers the smell of fried bologna, English Leather,  and rockabilly music. . . 

  Tyrone Brown, Drummer with early RSM combo, The Fourth Reich recalls;
My earliest recollections of RSM (Scottie, Scotty....whatever) are of his early days as a child prodigy.  I'll never forget his short stint as a T.V. evangelist.  He brought many to God in the name of Jesus.  His revivals were a thing of beauty and something to stir the soul.  The Spidels and Exotics always opened with their rendition of "old Rugged Cross" sung to the tune of "my Ding a Ling".  Then of course  the brethren would pass the hat and this is where RSM came into his vast fortune.  My Aunt Lucy still has one of the paper fans given away at the tents that has printed on the front..."Give Your Heart to Jesus, and your Money to RSM". Like all things in RSM's life, this short period proved only to be a preparation for the more artistic and intriguing year of his life.  Also there was some rumor of an IRS investigation.  I heard that he was so heart broken to lose his ministry that he spent the next couple of years selling bongos, fly swatters and used cars.

  Willy Andermon, keyboard player, longtime Moore crony writes:
my earliest recollections of stevie are of him borrowing his dad's e-type jaguar and me borrowing my dad's maserati and us racing down hall's lane to madison high school. once there, we'd hold cheerleader auditions whilst technicians readied our digital workstations. stevie, being class king, gave the morning benediction each day, over the shure vocal miester p.a., before heading off to coach rugby. during this seminal documentary phase of r.scottie's history much groundwork was laid in preparation of his career as an actor and still photographer.

  "Tarbaby" Whip-your-ship, mentor of R. Scotty and the one who showed Scotty how to avoid acne, shares the following:
R. Scotty came to my house, the smallest one in Madison (250 sq ft total) when he was 3 months old, having been left there by his dad with a note, "Take care of him, he's not mine, I swear".  My mother, not  wishing to upset familial equilibrium, put him under my brother Charles' bed, who was 2 yrs 3 months old at the time.  My dad did not discover R. Scotty under Charles' bed until R. Scotty's mom came 4 years later, demanding her son.  During the 4 years R Scotty spent at my house, he discovered my Dad's Martin guitar, which I Tarbaby showed him how to play.  I Tarbaby also taught R Scotty the alphabet as well as how to write anything worth reading. R. Scotty was again deposited on my doorstep at age 12, this time with a note from his mom saying "take care of him, he's not mine, I swear".  I, Tarbaby, took this old chap in again and taught him three additional things: 1) how to pick up 12 year old chicks, and 2) how to pick up mothers of friends and 3) how to sing and pick guitar simultaneously. These are little known facts of R. Scotty which to this day, he will deny. BEWARE!

  Raj Freguson, longtime RSM "pal" and confidante recollects:
  Scott (I've always called him Scott since 1966, though for a time in '89 he asked everyone to call him Dick) and I met at local teen dances around Memphis.  He was playing bass with The 4th Reich and I was an aspiring bassman.  We both worshipped Fang of Paul Revere and the Raiders, possibly the best Caucasian-American bass player of the last half-century.  We attended the same high school, wore the same size shoes, dug Bossa Nova, chicks, and Reader's Digest's humorous features.  Needless to say, we became fast friends and remain so to this very day.

  Scott was always different.  In school, you knew that he wasn't just another guy.  The long capes he wore set him apart from the crowd.  He must have had two dozen of them because it seemed as though he rarely wore one twice, but wear them with elan he did.  This was several years before The King (we always called him The King) himself incorporated capes into his wardrobe although he never gave Scott proper credit.  Chicks (we always called them chicks) would giggle and whisper as Scott virtually floated down the halls between classes, always taking care to look straight ahead while carrying a large cloth bag filled with his art supplies, transistor radio, gum, a well-worn copy of Dale Carnagie's "How To Win Friends and influence People," and his prized notebooks filled with his seminal musings.  Some of the guys, especially the jocks (we always called them jocks) would try to give him a hard time because of the capes and they would tease him about being "Elvis's Boy."  Scott would usually just laugh and use his quick wit to quickly win them over with a little anecdote from "Humor in Uniform" or "All In A Day's Work."  A lot of people thought that he might eventually become a comic.  However, some of us knew better...

Miss Chrissy Jo Oldchevy, off and on Moore paramour for many years, muses:
I remember him. He would meet me at the water tower in Petticoat Junction and we'd go skinnydippin' in the moonlight. He'd serenade me with the future classics, "Who You Gonna Do-Do On Today" and "Love Graph" and I had all I could do to stop myself from marryin' him right chair on the spot.
Sometimes he wouldn't call but that was because it was tough climbing up that telephone pole in the rain.
His Paw was the County Sheriff and mighty strict. He looked down on me cause I was from Mt. Juliet and he thought I was a "fun-girl." But we were real serious for 12 year olds.
Later on, in the 8th grade, I was on the girls basketball team and Stevie Lee would come to the games and cheer me on. Even if I was jes sitting on the bench. One time though, he said something kinda strange. He said he wanted to try out for the team hisself. Something about the locker room showers. I still don't understand what he meant.
Some of my girlfriends used ta tell me that Stevie Lee was T-R-O-U-B-L-E with a capital T. But I didn't pay 'em no mind. He was all mine and we was in love L-U-V.
I never heard from him after he dropped out of the 9th grade but somebody told me that he had a song on the jukeboxes that was about me. Something called "The Rhetoric of the Ladies." I finally heard it in the truck stop diner I was working in called the Greaseball. Tears came down my face and into the apple pie with vanilla ice cream I was servin'. The customer complained and I ran out onto the Interstate. Got hit by a 18-wheeler and I'm now bed-ridden.
Doctors say I'll get better soon. I spend my days listening to that song over and over again hopin' that someday, Stevie Lee will come back and be my knight in shining karma.
That's the story. Now git.

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