London, 1969: I was lost, though I didn't know it yet. For reasons I no longer remember, some friends and I had become separated from the rest of our group. Certain that we were in the right place, and expecting them to show up at any moment, we sat and waited. And waited, and stared at the wall-sized poster of a man, a singer. It was emblazoned, "Englebert Humperdinck."
The only Englebert Humperdinck I'd heard of was a composer. Said composer being long dead, I suppose the up-and-coming singer thought the cool name was up for grabs.
I would have thought that by now the name was again available for recycling, but Englebert Humperdink, the singer, is alive and singing. How do I know, and why do I particularly care? Not for his music, for sure (I still prefer the dead composer), but because our friend AL is booked to sing three shows with him! How cool is that!
(P.S. After some negotiation of the British telephone system, we left the 1969 Humperdink behind and were reunited with our friends.)
