My "Reagan" moment

So, we retire to the den towards the end of Bill's summation (it's not a speech, it's a seduction, he's Bill for gosh sakes) to watch the most Christian show on television, "So You Think You Can Dance." And all's going very well; for cryin' out land it's the final four of both genders! I'm so exhausted I want to sleep but this is the only display of truly Christian charity, not dogmatically, but in terms of establishing bonds and covenant relationships that you'll ever encounter on broadcast, cable or pay per view. Period.
But after a few featured segments an advert comes on. The track is easy; a mildly reverbed I pedal point with 5-6-b7 and backwards riff  on a Strat. The very heart of rock, that which Jagger and Richards lauched themselves into immortality with a fuzz boxed "Satisfaction" in '64.
I'm sitting there listening to the advert. I know the VOICE, I know the riff, I know the era, I know everything about the world inwhich that tune lived at the height of its popularity.
I can't, even now as I've struggled to solve this so inconsequential question, remember the group's name, the song's title.....I can't "place it."
For an analyst, AKA, anal retentive organizer, this is no small collapse; it's monumental. No herbal nor medicinal regimin will alter the course with any assurance that decline can be delayed.
I suppose this is that moment I've anticipated nearly all my life: when my wits fail me. Wits, don't fail me now!
Sorry, guy. Spit happens. (Spit is at least somewhat arbitrary, the other is required.)
I'm thinking: was that Freddie Mercury? Some great American rock tenor I can't place. I don't know. I can't place it.
This is the old reality/new reality of me.