3. ARE WE ROLLING, BOB?

Typically, an Elvis session would begin with a loosely defined but logically structured 'set-up' number. It was geared to achieving a maximum number of events with a minimum number of motions. We were still trying to understand electricity.


Sometimes the Elvis aura began to descend as early as the sound check. More often than not, the music itself sounded like the sound check. Cognizant of the power of our equipment, we shuffled instruments and sound-checked various configurations and levels. This information was frequently ignored while playing, but the important equilibrium was inevitably returned to.

Taping was suggested during our evaluation of one of the first sessions. Taping imposed a beginning and an end. This delineation was often by consensus, but the responsibility was also taken on arbitrarily by individuals. Also, the finite tape length imposed itself more than once. The more we began to conceptualize finite blocks of time, the more purpose and scope began to be defined for each piece.

With tape ready to roll the lobbyists for a warm-up number would make their pitch. On occasions when we were convinced, the group would move cautiously into a series of stretching exercises.

With a single micophone suspended from a cup-hook in the middle of the room and plugged into a single-track cassette deck, we were able to reproduce the Elvis "sound" - that of a live bootleg recording.

A few other inevitable events punctuated the sessions. Tapes ran out, equipment failed, people became thirsty or exhausted, band members succumbed to fits of uncontrollable laughter, the telephone rang -- and a band member called out for "more telephone". Pieces also came to an end on their own accord, resolved as statements or simply left hanging as unanswered questions.

Frequently, when a piece ended, we stopped the tape, took a few deep reflective breaths and a sip of tea, and tried to envision the next piece. A new direction often needed clear heads. However, sometimes consensus would call for an instant tape replay to demonstrate a useful excursion or to exchange compliments and pats-on-the-back. Other times the tape would roll on forgotten, capturing the wit or cynicism of the relieved players. Occasionally we continued to record purposefully, sensing something left unsaid, or a fresh idea imminent.

Typically we'd record five tunes encompassing one hour. A variety of moods were engaged and recordings would reflect:
1. something of the current individual and collective head-spaces (emotional)
2. something of the quality direction that various group members were working toward (academic/intellectual)
3. something of the hallucinogenic quality generated by the group's total encompass of its members at points in the evening.

Energy waxed and waned, but fortunately it tended to accumulate toward a subtle climax. This was frequently in the vicinity of the tape running out. Winding down was often a problem. Tea and a little medication and meditation helped. Occasionally a piano solo helped dispatch the band.

The presence of recording equipment and the act of recording the sessions had a significant effect on the performance. It helped introduce duration and hence structure into the individual pieces, and facilitated themes for entire sessions. It provided an important feedback facility which was used over the course of the evening and it facilitated comparison of emotions experienced during the performance with those projected into the world. This comparison proved to be an important part of our evolution.

Taping also provided band members with recorded music they could listen to in their cars on their way home after a session and during the week until the next session.

We have continued to tape our sessions from time to time and today there exists a library of probably a hundred or so hours of taped Elvis Was a Truck Driver music. Nobody seems to care.