Inspiration, it seems, strikes in two-handed chords, fat ones that hum low and stretch high up onto the treble register. After a too-quiet winter, spring is here. The birds are chirping, the band is playing, and the music is FRESH.
First, there was Bonnie Prince Billy. The man–aka Will Oldham– bedecked in yellow, threw his microphone into the East River, then crossed the street to Monster Island for an entirely acoustic basement set. Lordy Lordy Lordy, Elvis thought. That man can sing. In the dim light, Elvis saw something familiar. The musical banana, he swayed–more forward and back than E’s trademark side to side. And he crooned. Sure, he tilted his head up (projection, bear in mind, was critical), rather than following Elvis’s chin down, lip-up form–but no bother. Shivers, either way. Emma went home and made an homage in banana bread.
Then to Vegas, Emma Lee and her Pal went. That trip merits another whole story, another whole time, but of note was their witnessing the phenomenon of a reduced BIG ELVIS. Once a whopping 900 pounds, big E’s less the half his former self, but still holding it down at Bill’s Gambling Hall. The man behind the bouffant, Peter Vallee, has been voted one of the best fake Elvises ever, and did not disappoint. He was getting to be ambulatory again, and Emma Lee just wants to wish him luck shaking, rattling, and rolling off those last few hundred.
Finally, the high note: a new studio. Emma Lee, while never matching Elvis’s musical mastery, has played a few bari saxes in her day, bit the reed and rented a music studio. She’s got mornings in the Brothers Braun Studio, a concrete and plywood barn a few blocks away from the nest, and she has decided, a week into her stay, that there are few things better than running scales on a Fender Rhodes and blowing real loud in the morning.
There was other notable performances that sent Elvis humming along the way: A great set by Dujeous, a comp ticket to Million Dollar Quartet, the Pal’s new electric guitar, ANOTHER Elvis impersonator (Three in Two Weeks!), and a great, great set by Radar Fiction. With all those tunes, that Emma Lee’s left ear headphone blew, rendering her noise-canceling work cocoon canceled, and making her workday soundtrack spew out in lopsided mono, seemed a little less awful. Because there’s noise, and then there’s music. Playing now.
Emma Lee has been cheating on Elvis. The last few weeks she’s been dreaming about another, a man in a white linen suit. He’s lanky and wrinkled, casual and always happy to see her. Each night, she tries to quell her nervous, assuage the butterflies with a chant of “down, buddy, down.” He’s always coming towards her with a smile and a calloused hand stuck out, treading across wide, old hardwood floors in nice shoes. She sense they are in a downtown loft, but the walls are different each time, as are the chairs–wicker one day, Knoll the next. He’s not with his guitar and she not with her resume; theirs is an exchange of mutual interest and quiet excitement.
