I ducked into the record store today and uncovered an early Elvis Costello album: Imperial Bedroom.
I snatched it up at exactly the same time as another hand grabbed the worn sleeve. I looked over to see what bastard would dare take such liberties.
Turned out to be Elvis Costello. He’s on holiday here in Maine. I didn’t recognize him at first — since he looks a lot different without the hat.
So I ask him, as politely as a man who is still clutching to vinyl can, what the hell he thinks he is doing trying to buy his old records.
His reply. He bursts into a Burt Bacharach song: “What’s New Pussycat.”
Well, that does it. I let go of his record and nab a Tom Jones. “That’s a cover of a Tom Jones song,” I tell him, looking as humble as a music mogul can.
“Is it?” he says, and he lets go of his record and is now groping the Tom Jones.
We begin tugging, and the next thing I know, a pair of knickers fly out of the sleeve.
I try to snatch them. Elvis tries. But we are both too slow.
“Those are mine,” says the shop assistant.