THE BEAT GOES ON
Unlike the everyday American pop star, Elliott Murphy doesn’t need to demand attention when he enters a room; he just walks in, and he’s got it. His ash blonde hair and his silver sunglasses, his snow white pants and shirt, set off perfectly by a levi jacket and snakeskin boots make Murphy look like he has just been returned from the dry cleaners.
THE BEAT GOES ON
Elliott Murphy: Last of the Rock & Roll Stars?
Unlike the everyday American pop star, Elliott Murphy doesn’t need to demand attention when he enters a room; he just walks in, and he’s got it. His ash blonde hair and his silver sunglasses, his snow white pants and shirt, set off perfectly by a levi jacket and snakeskin boots make Murphy look like he has just been returned from the dry cleaners.
The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Gatsby carries his five-eight frame with such nonchalance that it suggests arrogance,. But not the manipulated arrogance of a David Bowie or an Alice Cooper; Elliott hasn’t contrived his identity; it’s just the one he’s stuck with.
Murphy is the most interesting thing to happen to Garden City (Long Island), his hometown, since Doubleday left Doran. He’s a walking, talking suburban identity crisis, too literate for his own good, a former Surfer and bit player in a Fellini movie, so much his peers that he’s thoroughly alienated from them. The best thing about the alienation, he’s the first to admit, is that it gives him room to write about what others only experience.