VIEWPOINT
Jenni Murray
Our columnist on her love for the King of Rock ’n’ Roll, and the veteran pop stars still pulling festival crowds
I was all of six years old when I fell in love with a young man called Elvis Presley. It was 1956 and my godfather, Uncle David, had bought me a record and a little wind-up deck for my birthday. David was my dad’s best friend and was a very glamorous figure. He had a Wolseley car – we had nothing but shanks’s pony or the bus. He was handsome, snazzily dressed, fun and very up to date. He told me I could keep the deck in my bedroom and play music for myself rather than having to listen to my mother’s choices day in, day out. She favoured Frankie Vaughan and Frank Sinatra and I was sick and tired of Give me the Moonlight and In the Wee Small Hours.