The night Elvis died I was in a converted church hall in South London with Larry Wallis. We had been writing the song “Half Price Drinks” but a massive thunderstorm had broken out, complete with thunder, lightning, and the beating of torrential rain on a tin roof. A Sony TV was playing something unwatched, and then a still picture of Elvis flashed up. Oh shit! I though, he’s dead. (This is recounted at greater length in the book Give The Anarchist A Cigarette.)
CRYPTIQUE – I shoulda been given the chair of Elvis Presley studies at Princeton, Charlie.