In the twilight of a rough year, Little Richard lives quietly in a penthouse suite in a Nashville hotel. Chuck Berry has given up his regular St. Louis gig. Fats is alive in New Orleans but won't play in public. Of the first wave, only The Killer is booking dates.
My rock'n'roll memories are like clouds. You look away. You look back again and they changed, they're gone.
My remembrances of romance are flimsier.
The records play and there's evidence that I was fortunate enough to rock, to roll. Faded photographs seem to show hearts breaking slowly. If I played to avoid success, I seem to have succeeded. If I loved to avoid happiness, I'm a star.
Maybe I don't love well but I've loved hard.
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