Who the F**K is ETM?
To put it bluntly, even he doesn’t know. Whatever psychotropic trauma pushed The Small ‘e’ over and into the abyss ensured that his return to reality would not be swift, if at all. But really… is that a bad thing? The story of Elvis Tyler Moore is a twisted road, rife with holes large enough to swallow a ’57 Buick. It takes a strong man to admit he is a charlatan, a poser, a fake, a phony, and still hold his head (mostly) upright. Elvis Tyler Moore is not one of those men. He is, quite simply, ‘ETM’. The Small ‘e’. The legend in his own mind, wherever that may be.
He is the inventor of ‘Moth Rock’, a sub-sub culture happening borne out of London’s Swinging 60s underground, the participants of which are now dead, in care homes, maximum-security psychiatric hospitals, or are greeting shoppers at Walmarts across America. Having suddenly disappeared from the crawl space counter-culture in 1970, ETM would remain AWOL for over a decade, finally resurfacing – quite literally – in Fresno, CA in 1982. He was found in suburbia by an old Moth Rock groupie, applying fresh concrete to an unsuspecting homeowner’s driveway.
Encouraged by the aging Moth Duster to get off his knees and return to music, Elvis hitch-hiked to Canada, being unceremoniously tossed out of a moving car on University Avenue in Toronto. Not knowing where he was – a perpetual state for The Small ‘e’ – he wandered down Queen St West and into the midst of its early 80s music scene. ETM would audition for several bands over the next few months (none of whom wanted to be mentioned here), but his style and caricature-like speech patterns only brought derisive comments and uncomfortable moments. The hipsters, clearly, were not ready for Elvis Tyler Moore.
In the summer of 1985, while wandering the back alleys, Elvis saw an open door and simply walked in. The small, lightless, airless room was the recording studio of struggling artist/producer brilliantfish. Surveying the scene, ETM stood silent for a few minutes, then uttered the immortal words, “Well Alright. Let’s Go.”
The rest is mystery.
