Nonfiction | January 24, 2019
The Day the King Died
On the day we lost Elvis Presley, I had to consider—even just for a moment—the fact that the king of rock and roll had collapsed off the toilet while attempting to take a shit.
The official cause of death was cardiac arrhythmia. In truth, he’d had a cocktail of prescribed drugs that included morphine, Demerol, Valium, Codeine, and Quaaludes.
I was working at Rolling Stone magazine when the news broke on August 16, 1977, just weeks after magazine founder Jann Wenner ditched the Bay Area music scene for the gold in Manhattan’s skyline.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?Subscribe Today
SEE THE ISSUE
Aug 05 2019
For all too short a time we were blissfully at one with a white world, one that wasn’t “other” when it fell upon us, for it was, in fact, a
Editors' Prize Winner
Apr 23 2019
My assistant, Boris, came flapping through my front door like an injured raven, one arm clasped to his side, the other flailing widely. He was dressed all in black, head
Apr 23 2019
For so gentle and cautious a man, he provoked strong responses from the beginning. At twenty-three he was kicked out of Amsterdam’s Jewish community with impressive ceremony. An incensed Most