The Electric Eels only existed for a little while — and then only intermittently and chaotically. But clearly they were 'ahead of their time'. "Natural Situation" is a cavernous underground silo of unstrung resonances and tremors that anticipates the dub-potholing of Sonic Youth ... ( Simon Reynolds, Melody Maker, February 1990 )

Wave a baby bunny under my nose and I'm gonna do what any good ol’ blooded hound would — follow the scent! So when Mr. Morton (researching the origins of Eels’ cover song "Black Leather Rock" for the liner notes to our upcoming 2001 Scat LP release "Eyeball of Hell") favors me with a rare email probe wherein he wonders whether or not—in the year of our recording it—I had accompanied him and Davy to a theatrical screening of the Hammer film "The Damned”, I’m baited. The anthem in question had been central to the obscure 1961 JD/Nuclear Doom flick says he, seasoning the lure. But who needs more spice? Already, the feature’s fragrant title has by itself (un)Damned in me a flood of familiar ... no, familial ... feelings. (Yes, I must’ve been there!) Previews of John & me writing excitedly and often from now on—to hash ephemera surrounding not just this cinematic revival but other similar events— begin to flicker. Pass the popcorn!

Catching sight of something fluffy hopping across the treeline of my long-term memory, I read on, expectantly ... only to have the silly wabbit go flatfooted a few lines later. Surely, I’d’ve well-remembered Oliver Reed as a teddy boy!? And I don’t. Nor do I place Viveca Lindfors sculpting mutant creatures.

Forced to conclude that I’d not in fact been out with Dos Bravos that night after all, I can but covet the pair’s cultish coup. I brood back bitterly (if cryptically) in an email reply addressed to John’s nom de spam, “little Mary Shelley”. Carping in the draft’s subject line: "Cottontails for Two" (a, perhaps, too “inside” play on a favourite song title wherein alcoholic drink’s mentioned) is first among my fishy phraseology to lose edge when the document strays from its sharp sarcastic center to wander aimlessly toward a sickeningly gracious acknowledgment of the pas de duex. I hit “delete”.

I take stock. Having just vanquished coy & indiscriminate venting as means for restoring my emotional ballast, I wonder if variations on a more positive and socially acceptable approach might be in order. For example, are there not specific tangos from my own dance card of some thirty years ago that I can throw in his face?

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