Who can deny the greatness of George Gershwin? Rhapsody in Blue alone would be enough to put him on the Mount Olympus of modern composers. And from a highly personal perspective, An American in Paris is just about perfect for me who is exactly what the title suggests. Both marvelous pieces of music by the way, which were composed in the 1920’s, my default cultural decade. First, there’s the mythical lost generation of American writers who moved to Paris because it was both inexpensive and there was no Prohibition and these guys and gals liked their cocktails: F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, being the most prominent of the lost legionnaires of literature. But there were others too, like John Dos Passos, Archibald MacLeish (I mentioned him in “Metaphysical Moments” from my current EP Wonder-Full) as well as the poets E.E. Cummings and Hart Crane as well as novelist Kay Boyle (who was blacklisted during the McCarthy Red Scare) and wonderful Janet Flanner who covered Paris and all its doings for The New Yorker for decades. Speaking of which, I’ve two confessions to make: first, I have been subscribing to The New Yorker since I moved to Paris 34 years ago; and second, I don’t think I have ever read an entire issue in one sitting. But I nearly always read the short stories (especially if they’re by Thomas McGuane), the book and film reviews, any pop music coverage which catches my eye (although not enough coverage of literate singer-songwriter which one might think would be a given) and anything Adam Gopnik writes. For all my ex-pat life, The New Yorker has remained my cultural lifeline to an America that is constantly shape shifting.
Micmag, an online arts and news website, has published a glowing review of Elliott's recent "Birthday" shows at New Morning in Paris. The article is in French but these days it's very easy to translate online articles for reading in English. read more
He has had four albums released: Aquashow, Lost Generation, Night Lights and Just A Story From America. His articles and interviews have appeared in various magazines including Rolling Stone and Circus. He wrote the liner notes for the Velvet Underground's live 1969 album. His name is Elliott Murphy. He is a writer. read more
Début d’octobre 2023 à Paris. L’été s’attarde toujours, comme s’il ne voulait pas céder la scène à l’automne. Bien sûr, changement climatique et tout ça… Si effrayant que ce soit dès que l’on commence à y penser, ce temps peut être agréable quand on décide de temporairement cesser de réfléchir à ces questions pour juste être un parisien inconscient et joyeux qui arpente innocemment les rues de sa ville. read more
Who can deny the greatness of George Gershwin? Rhapsody in Blue alone would be enough to put him on the Mount Olympus of modern composers. And from a highly personal perspective, An American in Paris is just about perfect for me who is exactly what the title suggests. Both marvelous pieces of music by the way, which were composed in the 1920’s, my default cultural decade. First, there’s the mythical lost generation of American writers who moved to Paris because it was both inexpensive and there was no Prohibition and these guys and gals liked their cocktails: F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, being the most prominent of the lost legionnaires of literature. But there were others too, like John Dos Passos, Archibald MacLeish (I mentioned him in “Metaphysical Moments” from my current EP Wonder-Full) as well as the poets E.E. Cummings and Hart Crane as well as novelist Kay Boyle (who was blacklisted during the McCarthy Red Scare) and wonderful Janet Flanner who covered Paris and all its doings for The New Yorker for decades. Speaking of which, I’ve two confessions to make: first, I have been subscribing to The New Yorker since I moved to Paris 34 years ago; and second, I don’t think I have ever read an entire issue in one sitting. But I nearly always read the short stories (especially if they’re by Thomas McGuane), the book and film reviews, any pop music coverage which catches my eye (although not enough coverage of literate singer-songwriter which one might think would be a given) and anything Adam Gopnik writes. For all my ex-pat life, The New Yorker has remained my cultural lifeline to an America that is constantly shape shifting.
