by Patricia Stringer, Philadelphia, Pa

In 1977, on the occasion of our first wedding anniversary, my husband presented me with a pair of tickets for what would be Elvis’ last concert in Philadelphia. We were never huge fans, but certainly knew of the king’s enormous influence on the music we loved. The concert (at the Spectrum) was an odd affair. It was a Las vegas-style review, featuring a painfully unfunny comic, plus separate sets by Elvis’ male and female backup singers, and one by his band. Although the starting time was 8PM, Elvis didn’t make an appearance until 10:45 or so. When he did, he was a sort of caricature of himself. Not only was he overweight, he had sheet music on a music stand to help him remember lyrics. One backup singer hit high notes he couldn’t reach; another did the same for the low ones.

Oh, yes, the raw talent emerged for a few moments, but the performance was a sort of train wreck in slow motion. Strangest of all was his proclamation, as he left the stage after performing for about 45 minutes, that he was in good health, and that fans shouldn’t take those silly tabloid stories seriously. Three months later, he was gone.