This novel - there's no other word, I suppose it's a novel - must have been written on a bet of some kind, like, I bet I can write something weirder and grosser than YOU can or something, nothing else would explain it.
It made me laugh, but I do not expect it would have the same effect on anyone else.
Especially Elvis fans.
Sp please, if you're an Elvis fan, look away now.
But it's not anti-Elvis. It's...er...mmm....it's....
Words fail me. A quotation will have to suffice.
"When he was a foetus, Elvis used to wait till his Mom was asleep, carefully remove his umbilical cord, sneak out of her insides and head off into town. He usually wore the little tartan coat which Alfredo, their disgusting toy poodle, wore for his walks with Momsy on cold winter mornings. Elvis looked like a complete tosser in this outfit, what with the blood and the dog hairs, but what the fuck did he care? He was the unborn King of Rock 'n' Roll and if he wanted to go out naked except for a ridiculous tartan dog coat, he bastard well would. He'd steal cans of Delmonte pineapple chunks from the Magic Market on Centenary Road, Goole, England. 'Now's the time to rip stuff off,' he figured. 'Before I get any goddamn fingerprints.' One time when he got home he tried to crawl back inside Alfredo by mistake, but as any fool knows, you can't get to heaven in a biscuit tin (coz a biscuit tin's got biscuits in) and you can't fit an embryo up a dog's arse."
To be read in one afternoon while drinking heavily.
yknow that wallace stevens poem w/ the jar? where the landscape changes just by virtue of there being a jar in the midst of it? suppose that jar was elvis. here we've got largely a bunch of what appear to be treated texts, where elvis's elvis-ness warps an account of violence into a weird new shape (not a fat joke). more effective if you ask me than crump's later MJ book, i suspect due to how it builds on the spooky alchemical relationship b/w rock & roll and violence (cf the cover of sonic youth's goo). behold what happens when you DO go on together with suspicious minds
I borrowed this book from the library in Belfast and it was so wild and strange and twisted! I will never think of Elvis in the same way. I read it out loud to my boyfriend and we laughed our holes out. Now I can't find it anywhere.
I thought I had read a few strange books- some Peret and other surrealists, Vonnegut, Ballard, and Genet etc and more recently Michael Dhillon but Simon Crump has shown me that I have been languishing in Ordinary Town with nothing but a phone book to peruse. Having read ‘My Elvis Blackout’ I am now on board a groaning bus filled with a wide cross section of the population dressed in white spangled jumpsuits, enormous sunglasses and oily quiffs on an endless mystery tour. The thing that is leaving me more than a little perturbed is that I'm sure I recognise one or two of them.
Well, that was weird. Really, really weird. Funny. But weird. This is the literary equivalent of going to see an indie arty slasher film in Belgian, after dropping some LSD, instead of the latest Liam Neeson. It has a zombie Chris de Burgh in it and that's not the most unusual thing about it. It's really, really, excellently weird.
Wow....I must admit I could only read it half way through....when I asked myself, "what the hell am I reading this crap for? ".... If you like disgusting snuff flicks, you'll love this book. I read it was really different, unexpected, and funny. It was different, and unexpected....but not in the least funny ...just plain creepy and sick.