Letter: Fats Domino obituary

I first fell in love with the music of Fats Domino tucked up in bed as a schoolboy listening to Radio Luxembourg in the 1950s, captivated by the warmth of his rhythm and blues sounds. His album Walking to New Orleans was one of the first LPs I ever bought.

One of my favourite Fats gigs was, paradoxically, one in which he never actually appeared. There was a mouth-watering concert featuring three greats of rock’n’roll – Fats, Little Richard and Chuck Berry – scheduled at the Wembley Arena, London, in May 1995. Sadly Fats had been taken ill with a serious chest infection and had to pull out.

We were then treated to something remarkable – Little Richard taking over the piano stool to perform a wonderful set of Fats’ classics. There was a deep rumbling roar of approval as Richard began, “Ah found mah threell, on Blueberry Hill”, and the audience cottoned on to what was happening. It was all so full of unfeigned affection and respect: we effectively had the best of Richard and Fats himself. Richard was clearly loving every minute of it, conducting the audience to join in for “Ain’t that a shame, my tears fell down like rain …”

To me, Fats’ music always signalled love and togetherness. When I sang Be My Guest to welcome people to my 70th birthday party, it felt as if an old friend was at my shoulder.