Eating Chips While Elvis Died

1977 (12 YEARS OLD)1 year ago

1977 (12 Years Old)

Things never begin at a specific time; there are always a bunch of interwoven threads that lead up to that moment. But, for sanity’s sake, we always point to a precise time that something started.

Such was the case for my undying love for music. It started on August 17th, 1977.

The day after Elvis died.

On August 16^th, my family were having one of our mini breaks. The main holiday my mum, dad, and I took, as per usual, was to Italy. But on these mini breaks, we would be joined by my sister, Bev, her husband, Pete, my nephew, and my grandparents. It was to Blackpool, which made sense, as it was a short drive from Manchester, where my sister and grandparents lived.

To be fair, Blackpool back then wasn’t as grim as fuck as it is nowadays. But it also wasn’t some charming jewel on the Adriatic. It was England, and there was always the chance of rain.

So we sat in two cars, the rain belting down, eating fish and chips.

I was in my dad’s car, a “yank tank” that was just a little bit smaller than our house. We were listening to dreary 70s news, as even the faintest hint of music would send my grandad off on a diatribe about “drug wallahs.” My mum was chastising my dad for eating too many chips, and my nana was, probably, sitting silently, eating cod and reminiscing her youth.

Through two sets of fogged-up windows, I could see into my brother-in-law’s car, a small blue Datsun. My sister, Bev, one of the funniest people I have ever met, was laughing. Almost certainly, they were listening to loud, cool music. My nephew was smashing a chip against the small backseat window.

It would be several years later that Woody Allen captured exactly how I felt:

After dinner, we set off. We dropped my grandparents off at their flat, and headed home, back to Banbury.

In the 70s, calling was expensive. There was no Viber, Signal, Telegram, or WhatsApp; just the regular old phone with its insane prices. So my parents had their hack: they would make a reverse-charged (“collect”) call to “Mr. Don Pastore.” This was code for “we made it home OK.” The receiver would tell the operator that Don Pastore wasn’t there, the call wouldn’t go through, and nobody would be charged. I’m not sure how my parents let the Pastores, their lifelong friends, know they got home OK, but that was the sole flaw in an otherwise crafty plan.

My mum had just hung up on an attempt to get through to Don Pastore, when the phone almost immediately rang. It was my sister, Dee, calling from America.

Elvis was dead.

I knew of Elvis, of course. Everybody in the 1970s did. I knew what he looked like, and I’m sure I had heard his songs. But I didn’t know Elvis. Much in the same way that today I know of Taylor Swift. I know what she looks like. But I can’t name a single song she sings. Despite probably having heard her sing many times.

But by the end of the day on August 17^th, I knew a lot about “the King.” You couldn’t turn to any of the three channels that the UK had to offer at that time without seeing him. And as I watched, something caught fire in my soul.

My love affair with music had begun.