Saturday, September 27th, 2003
When I lived in London in 1984 — a strange year of drinking ale with Cockney bond traders and sniffing port and the country air with my posh boss and his wife — I also developped a strong affection for the music of Robert Palmer, particularly his album Double Fun. I put on that CD a couple of weeks back and was sucked out into the sea of memory.
So when I saw today that Robert Palmer had died of a heart attack, I didn’t at first connect. Damn, gone at 54. I’m gonna get out that album, or maybe Riptide, right now.