He was in fine form and rocked the crowd. Sometimes, though, his songs were just a little sad — poignant even. But he’s still The Killer, so get outta the way.

Orders came down the line: make way for “The Killer.” There just wasn’t enough room on the plywood walkway for both Jerry Lee and me, his stalker.

Since moving to Memphis, I’d wanted to shake the guy’s hand. Reach out and touch the legend.

As he toddled down the path, guarded by family and friends, I realized there was no chance.

The Killer moved unsteadily to the stage, wide berth all around.

I asked a favor of FM 100 radio guy Ron Olsen.

“Look, when he gets close just give me a good hard shove right out in front of him,” I said. “I’ll bumble into some face time. ‘Oh, ‘scuse me Jerry Lee, some jerk just… How are you doin’ tonight, Killer?’”

Ron Olsen only laughed because he’d already done that once, in Amsterdam. Bumped right into Jerry Lee in a hotel at 1 a.m. after a concert. They had a good talk about Memphis.

Jerry Lee passed by, unmolested, in a striped purple shirt. He took his seat at the Yamaha grand and started pounding out tunes.

Radio host and Elvis buddy George Klein said he never missed Jerry Lee if he could help it. “He’s the last man standing, the real deal.”

J.W. Whitten, “Career Advisor to Jerry Lee Lewis,” (“Please don’t call me his manager! He hates that.”), said he had good reason to keep going.

“It’s like B.B. King told me,” Whitten said. “We can’t just fade away. The fans keep him going. He gets out there. He’s 72. He sits at the piano, it’s like he’s 22. He’s still touring. Heading to St. Petersburg tomorrow.”

He added: “We don’t work him like we used to.”

Onstage, the Killer gave the ivories a beating, until some folks in the crowd must have confused it for the good old days.

A ruckus broke out, and the Killer cut his eyes at the crowd. Uh oh.

He stopped the concert until the fight subsided.

Then it started up again and he stopped, nearly huffing off the stage.

“Can we get some police out here?” Klein pleaded into the microphone.

And the police came. Or was it the swat team? 15 officers or so, marching into the photo pit. I had flashbacks of Cash’s Fulsom prison concert. Not that I was present.

You’d think the sight would have made a guy with a nickname like “Killer” a little nervous.

But he finished his set with aplomb. “Great Balls of Fire,” then “Whole Lotta Shakin’.”

And on that note, he stood, walked straight down the stairs, across the plywood, and into a waiting white limo, which got hung up on the plywood as it was leaving.

I rushed over to fix the problem. The limo pulled away into the night.

So I didn’t meet Jerry Lee. But I did help him with his exit.

Wonder if he thought: “Now there’s a good fan.”