Odd what comes hurtling down the hallways of memory when I think of the Sex Pistols being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I recall sitting on the balcony of my flat in Westboume Park, London, in the summer of 1975 with a fellow rock scribe named Pete Erskine, a pretty young man with floppy blond hair, and the way the sunlight dappled the garden as he laconically drawled, “Hey, this guy Malcolm McLaren’s asked me to join a new band. They’re called the Sex Pistols.”

Pete was very funny, and I remember how he paused before delivering the group’s name — the punch line — and how he scrutinized my face for the expected look of surprise at the outrageous name, swiftly followed by laughter, both of which I delivered on cue.