When people talk about Elvis Presley, they often speak of the glittering jumpsuits, the screaming fans, and the iconic hip-swinging moves that changed music forever. But B.B. King, the legendary bluesman from Mississippi, saw something deeper.

It was the 1950s, and segregation still clung to America like a shadow. One night, at an all-Black event in Memphis, the unexpected happened: a young white man walked in. Tall, charismatic, and unmistakably Elvis Presley. “For a white guy to walk into a room like that, back then?” B.B. King once said, shaking his head. “That took courage.”

B.B. could see it immediately—Elvis wasn’t there to gawk or make a show. He was there because the music called to him, and he respected its roots. “He was proud of where he came from,” King recalled. “And he gave credit to Memphis, to Beale Street, to people like me.”

After the show, Elvis didn’t rush off or hide behind bodyguards. Instead, he stayed. Took pictures. Talked music. Treated B.B. like an equal—a gesture that meant the world in those times. “He told people I was one of his influences,” B.B. said with a modest smile. “I don’t know if that’s true. But I liked that he said it.”

Years later, in 1972, Elvis’s kindness would extend even further. B.B. was trying to land a steady gig. Elvis, then performing to sold-out crowds in the main room at the Las Vegas Hilton, made a call. Before long, B.B. was headlining the hotel’s lounge, playing night after night to packed, diverse audiences. “Elvis fans came from all walks of life,” he said. “And they always treated me right.”

Most nights, after the spotlight dimmed and the crowds went home, B.B. would head upstairs. Elvis’s suite became a second stage—a quieter one. There, the two legends would sit, guitars in hand, trading licks and swapping blues tunes deep into the night. “He knew more blues songs than most musicians do,” B.B. remembered fondly. “Some nights, it felt like we sang them all.”

And while the world saw Elvis as the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, B.B. King saw the man behind the legend—a student of the blues, a fellow musician with a deep love for the roots of American music. “Even in the ’70s,” B.B. said, “he never lost his manners, never lost his love for music, and never stopped showing respect.”

They may have come from different worlds, but in those quiet late-night jam sessions, they were just two men, two friends, bound by six strings and a shared reverence for the blues.