From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

A touch of regret, a hint of disappointment.

All emotions flowed naturally, slowly immersing themselves in the silent atmosphere.

At this moment, it was Dallas himself, and also Sam Phillips—

He couldn't lie; this performance simply wasn't working.

This young man had come to his door, recommending himself with a sense of urgency and longing.

One could see his shyness and restraint; he was clearly not accustomed to such things, having mustered immense courage to take the first step, inquiring about Sun Records, cautiously revealing the yearning and pursuit of his dreams deep within his heart, exposing his vulnerabilities and softness.

That naiveté and simplicity made Sam see him in a different light.

Because Sam himself was the same, with only a dream and a studio, that was all.

He thought he should give him a chance because he could see passion and sincerity in those shy eyes.

He thought he should let him continue singing, at least for another measure, perhaps there would be a surprise later on.

However…

Sam couldn't hide his regret; he was even more disappointed and wistful than the young man before him, genuinely hoping to discover a treasure.

Alas, there was only one Elvis Presley, and Sun Records might not encounter a second genius.

Johnny didn't notice.

He was completely immersed in his performance, not even aware of his own nervousness, so how could he have the energy to observe Sam's reaction?

Johnny felt that he was getting into his stride.

Now, he needed to open his voice and release his emotions and sound together; after the groundwork of the verse, the chorus was the moment to showcase his talent.

“Everything is real, I want to shout it out loud…”

Johnny wasn't just yelling at the top of his lungs; instead, he infused his soul, his body swaying gently with the melody, trying to express the true emotions within the lyrics.

But in Sam's eyes—

Nothing new.

It was basically a cliché. Every singer thought they were “infusing their soul,” but the plain, straightforward vocals lacked any emotion, any soul whatsoever.

Moreover, all gospel singers were the same, heartfelt verses and passionate choruses, all cut from the same cloth.

Sam finally couldn't control himself, raising his right hand, trying to stop Johnny.

Johnny didn't notice; he even closed his eyes, looking completely engrossed, and Luther and Marshall were no exception, immersed in their own world.

That scene, that demeanor, made Sam's lips twitch slightly, revealing a somewhat absurd and bitter smile:

Perhaps they treated the recording studio as their own front porch, and after downing a bottle of beer with their guitars, humming along in the warm Memphis evening breeze, their wives and friends would cheer them on, and then they would think they could release a record.

“Ahem.”

Although very reluctant, Sam still cleared his throat, trying to interrupt the performance.

Unfortunately, he still didn't succeed; Johnny and his two companions continued to sing—

Unremarkably, lifelessly, trying their best to inject energy, but still without any spark.

“Hold on.”

“Hold on!”

Sam forced himself to speak, interrupting the performance.

Johnny froze, stunned and surprised, while Luther and Marshall, holding their instruments, finally woke up, but clearly, they didn't know what had happened.

Johnny's eyes began to dart wildly.

One moment in shock, their performance was entering its most exciting part, so why had it been interrupted?

The next moment in anxiety, was it all over? Had he ruined his only chance?

Conflicting emotions tugged haphazardly in his pupils, but before they could even develop, they disappeared, eventually turning into a blank stare, standing there dumbfounded.

However, Sam didn't notice, or rather, he didn't have time to notice.

If he had to feel guilty every time he rejected a singer who came to audition, he might as well not be in this business.

Despite the regret, despite the disappointment, Sam still had to be honest.

A little nervous, a little uneasy.

However, not the kind of shrinking back and fear, but the kind of feeling before tearing off a band-aid.

Dallas knew that he had to be quick and ruthless, a short pain is better than a long one.

Taking a breath, Sam avoided Johnny's gaze, looking at Luther, looking at Marshall, they both seemed at a loss, not even daring to look him in the eye.

Helplessly, Sam looked back at Johnny, gently exhaling the breath that had been stuck in his throat.

“Sorry, I can't sell gospel songs anymore.”

“Can't sell them anymore.”

The band-aid was torn off.

Sam began to pack things up; there was no need for this audition to continue.

The air remained quiet, with only the sound of paper rustling.

Finally, Johnny's soul caught up with the passage of time, returning to his body, his brain recognizing reality; amidst the shock and surprise, nervousness, anger, blankness, confusion, all kinds of emotions intertwined.

Johnny finally found his voice.

“So, that's it?”

Even those words were so light and powerless, like duckweed, unable to grasp a center of gravity, unable to find balance, drifting in the breeze.

Johnny could feel his vocal cords vibrating, as if transmitting in space—

Without air, sound cannot travel.

Therefore, there was only vibration, no sound; Johnny wasn't sure if the other person had heard his words, nor did he know how to express himself.

All he could do was look directly at Sam, trying to convey his meaning with his eyes.

Without blinking, with full attention.

Sam felt the warmth of the gaze, and stopped the action of packing things, raising his head slightly helplessly, and suddenly collided with Johnny's eyes:

Stubborn. Persistent. Naive. Childish.

At this moment, Sam was sitting on a high stool, Johnny remained standing; his spine, which had been stiff and slightly hunched due to nervousness, was now completely straightened, his upright posture, unrestrained temperament, and handsome face, like a green pine, standing tall and upright, looking down at him.

From below, Sam could clearly see the expression in those eyes, carrying a pureness that had not been tempered by society.

Sam thought for a moment, and slightly raised his chin, although still at a disadvantage, he quietly reversed the situation, firmly grasping the initiative.

What should he say?

“I don't record things that won't sell, Mr. Cash.”

No turning back, a fatal blow.

“Gospel songs like this, they won't sell.”

Although plain, the straightforward words were so sharp and so powerful, instantly shattering all of Johnny's self-esteem and pride.