ICYMI, Part XI: an interview with e-low the artist
Frankie Metro: I’ve heard this general observation that more artists are embracing their anonymity in order to maintain the quality of their private lives.
It seems like since I’ve known you, you’ve worn a ‘Covid’ mask. It can be construed as a key part of your on stage presence and when I first saw your customized title belt, I immediately thought of TriStar Pictures’ iconic emblem from the 80’s/90’s. I admire people lIke Thomas Pynchon, Orville Peck, Rey Mysterio, The Great Muta, Ultimo Dragon, Sexy Star, and Pentagon Dark.
What’s the story behind your mask? Is the ‘Pegasus Title’ on the line 24/7?
e-low the artist: I've worn a mask for most of the time since 2020 for so many reasons. I always tell people ridiculous things like, "I was born without a face," or "I'm too hot to be seen," but really, I still wear them because I never know who has COVID or any other sickness that I don't want! I live in a decent-sized city and interact with a lot of people, I like to wear it for my own safety & for theirs because you never know who could be immunocompromised or sick. Beyond that, there are so many surveillance cameras like Flock & others out there in this city. It kinda freaks me out to know that you can't go anywhere without being watched. I try to give it to them as little as possible if I can. That, & a.i. deepfakes are really disturbing to me. I hate that it exists, & if I have to live in a world where people are doing that, I'm not giving them my face, if I can help it. I also just love wearing it. It makes me comfortable when I'm around a lot of people. The mysteriousness of it all. It's great!
My title belt is not up for grabs & I will be the only champion in it's lineage! It's an accomplishment only achieved by living my life, so unless somebody knows how to switch bodies like Freaky Friday, sorry y'all. 😂
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I’d be remiss not to admit that it’s a tad ironic my last paycheck is $1776.00 the day after Trump’s UFC birthday bash on the Whitehouse lawn. I need a visual impairment test, 7-9 confederates in a secure space telling me the lines aren’t as clear as I believe them to be, and I of course, will go along with common opinion so long as it keeps me gainfully employed. These truths are held self-evident and imposed by a court of law/public opinion.
Brynn and I came to reality on 6/17/26: what we’re planning is too crazy. She sees the reptile in me when I talk about my son-in-law and says she can’t have the 7 children around all that. I’m not bitter and decide to walk Misha back home, along Pearl Street & 7th to avoid the sunlight. A double date is moving too slow for our quickened pace and when I try to pass, one of the guys is drunk and embellished in whatever conversation moves past the dim lighting at a restaurant I can’t afford.
“On your right.”
Nothing.
“On your right!”
No acknowledgement, and I don’t like raising my voice or repeating myself.
“Rawrrr! Move motherfucker!”
“Hey! Watch it!”
“You watch it, Captain Oblivious!”
Things escalate to the point I dare these 2 guys step into an alley with me, as I’m willing to fight 2-1 despite my best interests and health concerns. No one is invested in this ruckus; finally my pulse begins to subside. I can’t help but acknowledge society’s, in particular Denver’s lean into being proudly rude and absurd. It’s the next day my daughter reminds me how she used to clean up the beer cans when she lived here…
I’d met e-low the artist while working at a dispensary a few years ago; around the time my daughter and I moved to a quaint and relatively quiet space in the Baker district, and walking near the building before picking a fight with drunken strangers, I felt like a cosmological appraiser looking at what I used to rent for the sake of sanity. 2020 serves as a monumental turn for the shape of 2030, and knowing people from many walks of life, I can’t help but ask how everyone is getting by in spite of what the world defines as best interests, health concerns notwithstanding.
I've woken from a dream about my brother and I, very young, both awarded plastic, marble mounted baseball trophies from our respected little league teams. I used a lefty glove with the wrong hand and played shortstop/2nd base. Steven was an outfielder. I considered the fact that as then we were on rival teams, would I be looking at a battle for the legacy of Willowtown Hill against my greatest adversary in the near future?
Recent text messages from an ex-girlfriend, running into LL on the walk home from another pizza place that I despise after an unlawfully managed shift 3 months later; it’s no turn of luck but just Venus in the shadow of its retrograde, Chiron’s nostalgia for this Aries dick is making everyone feel uncomfortably vulnerable.
There’s no closure in the stars overhead.
There’s large drug busts and mounting regrets, the Sundays have become a day of desperate reflection. I'm left with a full ashtray of stubbed out Lucky Strikes and an overpriced pack of Zig Zags because vice is all that remains. Burning bridges always came easy, making amends, not so much.
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