He’s not quite the last of the rock stars, but he’s still a believer, he’s still pursuing his dream, when so many have been lost and forgotten.

It was drizzling today in Paris. And when I sat by the fountain in the Tuileries I felt like I’d come full circle. I remember sitting in the same chairs, singing Todd Rundgren’s “Something/Anything?” to get me through back in ’72.

Unlike in that year, the entrance to the Louvre is now a pyramid designed by I.M. Pei, and despite all the advance word about the crowds, it wasn’t that bad, especially if you were avoiding the greatest hits.

I struck out for early Netherlandish painting. I almost did my thesis on that. But it turns out those galleries are closed on Thursday and I proceeded to wander the halls disappointed and ultimately overwhelmed. If you can’t see what you came for…

You might as well go for the greatest hits.

And the Mona Lisa may as well have been in another time zone, the museum is so vast, but contrary to said advance wisdom, you could get pretty close, once you wove your way through the selfie taking masses. It’s almost laughable, the made up young girls posing in front of possibly the world’s most famous painting. One forever, the other momentary. But that’s life. We’re all important in our own world, even though very few leave their mark.

It’s astounding how many paintings are anonymous. And others died before their fame. But after seeing the Mona Lisa and marveling how she radiates intelligence and beauty without selling it, I decided to pursue further greatest hits. And while on my way to the Venus de Milo I encountered the frieze from the Parthenon. Talk about stopping you in your tracks. If the Mona Lisa is the world’s most famous painting, the Parthenon is its most famous building. To see the marbles was to have the past come alive. Real human beings who did not know they were living in antiquity did this stuff.

And the Venus de Milo was impressive too, but then I had to run, to catch up with Elliott Murphy.

Yes, the bard of the Aquashow. The new Dylan from 1973. The man who made albums for Polydor, RCA and Columbia before he retreated to the Continent to play for those who cared. Elliott was indie before indie was cool.

So he’s living in Garden City. Going to community college to avoid the draft. And when his shrink writes a note and he gets out of going to Vietnam Elliott flies to Europe, in 1971, and lands a small role in Fellini’s “Roma” and with the resulting inspiration starts writing songs.

And then flies back to the U.S. and plays the Mercer Arts Center and ends up with a deal on Polydor. They paid him ten grand cash. He had to go to the bank to cash the check, he didn’t have a checking account.

And they sent him to California to make a record with Thomas Jefferson Kaye, but it didn’t feel right to Elliott so he came home. That’s what mattered back then, what felt right. And if it didn’t, you didn’t play ball, no matter how much cash was involved.

And after that record got notice and flopped, Elliott hooked up with Lou Reed’s manager who made a deal with RCA. The Nipper paid Polydor $150,000 to relinquish its rights, and then paid Elliott 50k an album. But when two of those stiffed and Leber and Krebs came into the picture Elliott jumped to Columbia, which paid off RCA the same $150k and then Elliott’s album failed.

Three strikes and you’re out. Elliott was demoralized, sleeping on his mother’s couch, he got a divorce, and contemplated the future.

That’s when he found out he was a star overseas. Calls came in. he gigged. But no one in America cared. He was tarnished goods.

But then his old bandmate Jerry Harrison implored him to come to Milwaukee to make an LP and Elliott met a woman and she got him to sober up and when that record didn’t make much noise Elliott went back to college and started working as a legal secretary. His father always told him to be a lawyer.

But after getting his degree, the telexes from Europe started coming in, the firm said it was their way or the highway, either give up the dream or get out.

Elliott got out.

And hasn’t looked back since.

He used to play a hundred dates a year. He’s toned it down a bit, but he’s still hungry. His old pals Billy and Bruce broke through. Elliott would like to, in the meantime he’s keeping on.

So he married him a French wife. An actress he met on tour. And had a kid. And put together five working class apartments for his domain and made enough cash to put his son through college in America. There’s money in music, if you’ve got fans.

And Elliott has them.

And I heard great stories of walking around the Eiffel Tower with Bruce Springsteen at midnight, the Boss was wearing a baseball cap, nobody recognized him.

And we cracked up at the people we knew in common.

And it all transpired at the place Jim Morrison hung out at just before he died.

But Elliott Murphy’s still alive.

That’s the challenge.

To find your way.

To soldier on, pursuing your dream, even though the business no longer cares.

Elliott’s not depressed. He’s not complaining (although he can’t get a royalty statement from Sony), he’s just making music, going on the road, cobbling it together. And it gets tougher as you get older, schlepping the equipment, working class musicians don’t fly private.

But oh for that hour on stage.

Elliott Murphy lives for that hour on stage.