Trying to Make it Big (in the Elevator-Jazz Scene) by ...mmm published on 2012-06-17T01:46:01Z Otis Krupp the III and the Eleva-tones are set for success! Their shoulder pads are large, their mullets erect and the whiff of hairspray heralds their coming with flammable uncertainty. Their producer has promised them a drum sound so compressed and in your face that booty shaking shall be MANDATORY, rather than merely hedonistic. Armed with spreadable, double-knit slickness they start away with a smooth groove designed to turn corduroy into velvet and water into champagne. They romp along gracefully, their drums are BIG AND SHINY, the clavinet is rippin’ and the bass is a pumping with the DISCO beat that makes chins tick-tac and toe across all the elevators in the land. Enter Otis (Mr Krupp the III) the lead guitarist with his mellow George-Benson influenced flights of fretboard fracking. They are unsurpassed, they are glitz and scapel-sculpted cheekbones turned to chords and measures they, my friends, they put the ouefs in suave... But HOLD! Something seems to be going awry! It's as if they're melting, their impeccable plasticity is waxing down and deforming, it's as if the proverbial elevator is going sideways! What has gone wrong!? But fear not, for the shiny drums have rolled and we are back in the BEAT, and that “wee-wee-wee-wee-wee-weeeee” that is the melody line to this enigmatically supposable ditty is back with a vengeance! Otis and the boys are ticking the floors up, up and away into ELEVATOR JAZZ HEAVEN when suddenly... EVERYTHING TURNS UGLY ANEW!!! The drums are clanging, the guitar is going forwards and backwards! The Eleva-tones are REGRESSING to a rawer, pre-frontal cortex-ly challenged form of musicianship, it's.... But no! The battle wages on and their mullets anchor them down and back into their shiny lapels, it's as if the band is filofaxed’n’fixed to a pendullum swinging wildly between the realms of good, corporate penthouse-suite chivalry and something GREASIER! Disparate vistas rear their ugly (or botox’d) faces in quick succession! From the Thrasiest of Metals to the most crotch-busting of funks!! Until in the end THE ELEVATOR GOES THROUGH THE ROOF in a phanta-phallacious rocket launch of harmonized lead-guitar noodle-inos that scale up Otis’s fretboard (I hazard that he’s playing a Nine-necked guitar by this juncture) and beyond!!! That she goes!! Genre Does Humour Belong in Music?