An unmarked, massive wooden black door creaks open, quietly beckoning us inside the green room at Marathon Music Works. We tentatively leave the backstage darkness and creep inside to the brightly lit, exposed brick space. Wanda Jackson peacefully sits on a black leather couch as her backing band, Heath Haynes and the Hi-Dollars, relaxes before the show. She smiles to greet us as we bend down, and takes both of our hands in hers. “You must forgive me,” she earnestly says. “I haven’t quite changed into my stage top yet.”

Impeccably turned out in a silver sweater and metallic scarf, she waves her ruby fingertips in the direction of her garment bag and laughs as one of the Hi-Dollars notes that the fuchsia pocket squares of their suit jackets won’t match her current outfit. “No, no. That is what I’ll be wearing.” Her aquamarine eyes glimmer distinctively against her dark features as she describes her trademark fringed, pink stage outfit while others trickle in and out, heels muted against the brushed concrete floors.

“Fifteen minutes until we go on,” Heath Haynes announces to the room. On cue, a few of the Hi-Dollars don their jackets and grin at us—the stage-ready group is spotlessly coiffed, dressed, and geared up to perform, yet the ambiance backstage is almost absurdly, alarmingly serene. Wanda’s husband, Wendell Goodman, sits adjacent to her, supervising as a few well-wishers prattle admiration towards the rockabilly legend, who politely nods and speaks with all of them.

The Hi-Dollars disappear to embark the stage, warming up the crowd in preparation for Wanda’s arrival. After a few minutes, Wanda and her husband emerge from the green room, walking arm-in-arm up the concrete ramp to wait in the wings. With his left hand, Wendell protectively grasps the curtains to the stage tightly closed; with his right, he touches the small of Wanda’s back, steadying her. Eyes closed, inches away from the curtains, she dances in place, tassels swaying, until her final cue.

She then points to the curtains, and Wendell releases them. For a split-second, Wanda pauses at the threshold, taking in the lights, the band—her dancing, rollicking crowd illuminated. She then emerges from the shadows, immediately welcomed by fervent screams. She greets the crowd, proclaiming, “No place I’d rather be tonight!” The crowd roars. Finally, the queen of rockabilly has arrived.

Photos by: Heidi Jewell

Interview by: Anna Arata

Wearing his signature kerchief knotted around his neck, dressed in black, Manuel appears from the back of his studio. He is a portrait of white teeth and impeccable posture; a shock of white hair juxtaposed against skin the color of aged, light russet leather.

“What do you want to do with me?” Manuel asks us, grinning.

A man of inimitable style and talent, Manuel Cuevas embodies a rare dichotomy of humility and genius. Tremendously famous for creating fashion history— responsible for dressing Johnny Cash in black suits, and Elvis in gold lamé—he is immediately unaffected, warm, and hysterically funny. We’re soon swept behind red curtains and guided by Manuel upstairs, breathing in literal decades of history marked by fabric scraps, sequins, and dust.

In his shop, Manuel’s spirit is seemingly boundless. He is spryly showing us up two flights of stairs, around dressing and sewing rooms; he is nimbly flicking the lights on and off with a steel measuring stick taller than all of us combined. He is telling us dirty jokes and singing in Spanish as he walks, then cursing at a set of Venetian blinds he’s trying to raise, soon wrapping their cord around his own, likely priceless, embroidered curtains. Everything is spoken in charming, lightly accented English. We are smitten within the first five minutes.

Though responsible for such iconic pop art as the Grateful Dead’s insignia of a skull and roses, as well as cementing the Rolling Stones’ logo of a mouth and lips, Manuel is overwhelmingly modest. He never name-drops; when prompted about his favorite design, he answers smiling vaguely,  “Maybe a pair of Levi’s.” He then laughs.

“To meet a prostitute, a beggar, the president—they are all the same to me. Most of my clients are good friends of mine; there’s no other way.”

Artifacts line the white walls and dark oak floors of Manuel’s studio—mostly gifts from past clients and photographs of his couture, gathered over the twenty-three years he’s inhabited the studio on Broadway. A guitar here, a painting there, celebrity notes and portraiture abound, though Manuel references none of them. “Sometimes the most humble settings are the most rewarding, and that has always been the embodiment of my career.”

Referencing the city outside his Midtown windows, he notes, “Nashville is surprisingly artistic. It’s becoming beautifully mixed, but retains its laid-back quality.” He pauses for a moment, gesturing outside with his hands. “Fashion here—women here—are much more beautiful. In the big cities you see a sway of the hips, a promiscuity. Here you see beauty. And people here adore beautiful clothes.”

Manuel claps his hands, speaking with infectious, effortless charisma about his past. Designing from a young age, he cites fate, not fame, as what drew him into the industry. “When I was seven, I sewed my first pair of pants. It was sweet serendipity, getting into fashion, more than anything else.”

His voice lowers slightly. “I’ve never had a sad day in my life working here. I love it.” Manuel says, eyes twinkling. “It was never a struggle. Do you believe that?”

We pause, taking in all of the collective manifestations of his life sitting with us in the studio. The suits, the celebrities—the totality of his handiwork, his history. We look at each other. Nod. “Yes,” we say. And we know it’s true.

Photos by: Heidi Jewell

Interview by: Anna Arata