I was on holiday with my family at Wiseman's Bridge in South Wales. We had borrowed a caravan and awning, and while the rest of the family were tucked up in their cosy bunks in the caravan, I was on a creaky camp bed in the awning, encased in a durable nylon sleeping bag. Not that I minded, as it allowed me to clamp my portable radio to my ear and listen to John Peel at micro-volume. In the middle of a programme of subverting and genre-defining punk, the news came through that Elvis had died, the circumstances somewhat mysterious. Elvis meant something to me, having spent my formative years struggling to play along with GI Blues on my sister's Woolworth's guitar, but I didn't think Peel would have rated him highly. Peel meant rebellious punk and generally weird shit, not Elvis in his (rhine)stoned Vegas splendour. Au contraire. Peely put aside all the bands he used to introduce with "These are the..." and played some of The King's top tunes. I think I listened to In The Ghetto for the first time, and like a lot of people that night, felt a certain dampness in the facial area. Sniff.
