I rematerialized outside Tupelo, Mississippi in 1938, along the muddy banks of Tombigbee river. The Great Depression had ended, and now the wake of industry's smokestacks blackened the once azure skies. The industrialists called this commerce, a commerce vehement in the throes of reflexsive rebound, recoiling from the recent depths to which it sank, recoiling with the fervor of a drowning human, pulling itself up by the nape of it's collective neck, dusting off civic pride and returning with robust vigor to the pursuit of excellence, rather than starvation. Hunger remains one of the Great Motivators, be it hunger of the flesh, mind or spirit. Humans had grown hungry over the last decade, indeed, and had hence cooked themselves a great bounty. The Industrial Revolution was this bounty. Albeit soot laden and made of iron ore, it nonetheless provided a feast on a table having known nothing but famine for nearly ten years time. This made humanity a little easier to work with. It's hard to convince humans of anything when they're cold and hungry, except that they're cold and hungry. Thus it made me happy to arrive in Tupelo and find civilization in a slightly better mood then whence last I'd spoken with a mortal representative on an eastbound train just a few years prior. Atlas had shrugged, and would shrug again in 1945, but for now humans resumed conquering, as opposed to cowering, returned to emancipation, as opposed to emaciation. These trends became them. Tupelo, too, was basically happy, but it was a town of the south, however, and things were still hot and hungry in the south, as usual. They're hungry in the south, but not solely for food. They hunger for everything -- food, sex, god and so on. -- it's way of life. Some say it's the heat, some say the moisture, some say it's in their blood, other say it's in the mud. Some just say they like it that way. Indeed. Tupelo was a town mired deep in the Mississippi mud. And mud was just where I found Elvis, aged 3.14 years, of course. It was spring, and the heavy rains made mud of everything. The young King of Rock was on his butt, slapping his hands against the muck, making a serious mess, whooping and giggling with joy, unbeknownst to his momma on the other side of the house, scrubbing his other pair of dungarees on a washboard. Elvis was a very willful boy. He watched me walking towards him through the tall grass, slapping and whooping, growing in intensity as I drew near, and stopped abruptly when I came upon him. He looked up at me and smiled a very charismatic smile. He was a beautiful child, to be sure, and worthy of this kingly crowning bestowed upon him as he caught the penny I flicked lightly through the air in the palm of his small, muck-covered hand. "Elvis, King of Rock, arise and take it to them straight between the short hairs, offering no apologies. Awake now Elvis, King of the Cosmic Swivel, and have a good time all the time taking care of business. That's the creedo. You'll bring havok to the civilized world, but from it plunders forth a great nation of rockers, born by and large from your tomcat croon and pagan undulations. Elvis, Prophet of the Rhinestone Grind. Rock bears the sins of mortal men full upon their shoulders, hanging guitar strings and drumsticks around their necks absolving the suffering and injustice of the common man, if only for an hour or two. For eons, since the birth of rhythm, minstrels have served as the martyrs, carrying the brunt of this mortal angst, surgically removed in pinnacle peak moments of the show. The Show, Elvis, the SHOW! The immortal bone-white spotlight centerstage! That purest moment of transmogrification -- beoming a single entity, minstrel coupled with crowd, -- such in the pinnacle dream of an entertainer. Any entertainter. That conjunction, it's what the audience comes there for. You know they all come for that one moment, to become the show. That passing wind in which you impart good blessing, That fleeting reverie -- you absolve them of their woes and worries, belie their sorrows and sins. You take the weight upon yourself, so that they might know happiness, so that they might be saved. It's a martyrs life, the harlequin minstrel, which is why they often die such early and horrible deaths. You will die such a death Elvis, seated at the right hand of Bacchus and Pan and Dionysus. Such is the life of a Prophet of the Rock, so the goes the story of Master of the Swaggering Shimmy. In the end, however, your music saves millions of souls from the dreary purgatory of stagnation. For this you're deified as the King of Rock and Roll, once and for all, now and forever. Wheedle on forth, now, wobbly one, Pelvic Elvis, crooning of heartbreak and happiness, belting out the delta blues with the fervor of a man besieged with fire ants, with a voice smooth and sure, sultry and sanguine that drives the women wild, and brings tears to the eye of the coldest critic. Lead them through the valley of the shadow of ignorance and fear set to fester in the fifties, Elvis, Lord of Rockabilly Blues. Hit them hard and low and just keep on coming. They'll try and stop you, in futility, as usual. "Show them what showbusiness is all about" I said, and vanished, but not before I saw the boy kip up backwards in a spinning backflip, charged like a pheonix, landing upright in the midst of the muck and running, spinning like a dervish and yipping at the top of his lungs towards the small house sinking slowly into the earthen mire. He was singing 'All Shook Up', the early version. Of all my avatars, Elvis would certainly be the liveliest. That would be Elvis, taking care of business, even if it killed him. And it would, of course. This tendancy goes with the territory. To smite one's self on stage, to perform to the point of utter annihilation was, is, always will be considered the greatest trick in the business. It's what the crowd comes there for, whether they admit it or not. Slow, subserviant suicide remains the favorite trick to pull off, but you can only do it once in any given lifetime, no second chanes. That's showbusiness! _ _ _
In the shadowed corners of creativity, where the flicker of a neon sign meets the hum of a distant server, Kevin M. Cowan crafts his enigmatic symphony. As a writer, his words dance on the edge of the abyss, whispering secrets only the night dares to keep. His music, a haunting melody that weaves through the soul, echoes with the resonance of forgotten dreams and digital ghosts. In the realm of technology, he is the silent architect, building bridges between the ephemeral and the eternal, where code becomes poetry and circuits pulse with the heartbeat of a noir tale. Here, in this twilight zone, Kevin's work lingers like a haunting refrain, a testament to the beauty found in the shadows of the human experience
Kevin M. Cowan is a writer, technologist, and artist whose work spans novels, AI development, drumming, and filmmaking. From his fiction roots in Nebraska to experimental media projects and cutting-edge AI, Kevin blends storytelling, sound, and code into one creative continuum. Explore his world — one story, rhythm, and idea at a time.
Music. Video. Visuals arts. All composed or curated by Kevin.
Neo, Archive Guide
