Trouser Press, June 1979: Difference between revisions
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{{:Bibliography index}} | {{:Bibliography index}} | ||
{{:Trouser Press index}} | {{:Trouser Press index}} | ||
{{: | {{:US rock magazines index}} | ||
{{Bibliography article header}} | {{Bibliography article header}} | ||
<center><h3> Accidents won't happen </h3></center> | <center><h3> Accidents won't happen </h3></center> | ||
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<center> Pete Silverton </center> | <center> Pete Silverton </center> | ||
---- | ---- | ||
''' The premeditated rise of Elvis Costello | |||
{{Bibliography text}} | {{Bibliography text}} | ||
A couple of days before Christmas, trying to make it home on the London tube before I dropped a bottle of tequila and the ''Times Atlas of the World'' I was balancing in one hand while attempting to flip over the evening paper with the other so I could skim the Third and Fourth Division football results. I heard a voice somewhere say "Hello" | A couple of days before Christmas, trying to make it home on the London tube before I dropped a bottle of tequila and the ''Times Atlas of the World'' I was balancing in one hand while attempting to flip over the evening paper with the other so I could skim the Third and Fourth Division football results. I heard a voice somewhere say "Hello." More a surreptitious rasp than a warm greeting, the disembodied voice could, if my mind had been working that way that evening, have made think I was being contacted by some especially devious MI5 operative. | ||
No such fun. When I turned around (slowly | No such fun. When I turned around (slowly — tube etiquette demands vigilance against ex-professors asking 10 pence for a cup of tea and friends of the Maharishi trying to "give" you copies of albums with "George Harrison" in big letters on the front and "Guaranteed 100% Tortoise Turds" in invisible ink on the back) I was staring at Elvis Costello wrapped in a dark wool overcoat and sporting the inevitable shades. Seated next to him was one of the Attractions, Bruce, Pete or Steve, I forget which; seeing Elvis on the tube temporarily scrambled my powers of perception. | ||
"Hi, how's it going?" We exchanged all that kind of embarrassment-easing small talk. We spoke for a bit about his [[Concert 1978-12-18 London|show]] earlier in the week. I'd caught the first of his six nights at the Dominion. It's a 3000 or so seater, Greco-Roman cake decoration cinema usually used as the major London showcase for the latest piece of multi-million-dollar slop that's about to do the rounds — ''The Wiz'' is there right now. I'd found his show distant, lacking in real passion or contact with the audience (who admittedly did look like they'd come to check out the latest soundtrack for a habitat sofa) and told him as much, only in more euphemistic terms. He agreed and seemed to express slight unease about playing the place at all, preferring to look forward to the unseated venues later on in the tour. | "Hi, how's it going?" We exchanged all that kind of embarrassment-easing small talk. We spoke for a bit about his [[Concert 1978-12-18 London|show]] earlier in the week. I'd caught the first of his six nights at the Dominion. It's a 3000 or so seater, Greco-Roman cake decoration cinema usually used as the major London showcase for the latest piece of multi-million-dollar slop that's about to do the rounds — ''The Wiz'' is there right now. I'd found his show distant, lacking in real passion or contact with the audience (who admittedly did look like they'd come to check out the latest soundtrack for a habitat sofa) and told him as much, only in more euphemistic terms. He agreed and seemed to express slight unease about playing the place at all, preferring to look forward to the unseated venues later on in the tour. | ||
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Don't read too much into that brief encounter. I'm not about to claim I'm some special friend of the man — I've met him maybe 10 times — we are in the same business, more or less. Nor am I about to twist his received image through 180 degrees and pump him up as some closet friend of the people. | Don't read too much into that brief encounter. I'm not about to claim I'm some special friend of the man — I've met him maybe 10 times — we are in the same business, more or less. Nor am I about to twist his received image through 180 degrees and pump him up as some closet friend of the people. | ||
What I am trying to convey is that, like all the rest of us who ain't had our allotted 15 minutes of fame yet, Elvis is a mess of contrary emotions, counter-claims on his psyche and all-purpose messed-up confusions. Only, being a famous pop star and all that, everyone wants to KNOW ALL. Swiftly scanning press revelations about Rod or Bianca's bon mots about "life with Mick" | What I am trying to convey is that, like all the rest of us who ain't had our allotted 15 minutes of fame yet, Elvis is a mess of contrary emotions, counter-claims on his psyche and all-purpose messed-up confusions. Only, being a famous pop star and all that, everyone wants to KNOW ALL. Swiftly scanning press revelations about Rod or Bianca's ''bon mots'' about "life with Mick," what the general public secretly wants to read about is the night Rod or Mick COULDN'T GET IT UP, i.e. they want to gloat over the star's charmed life, then find those feet of clay, smash them to dust and smilingly prove that he or she is really just like us. | ||
With Costello, this neo-cannibalism manifests itself in one of three forms: Those who've heard that ''My Aim Is True'' is a collection of ''chansons à clef'' about the break-up of his marriage and wanna know every last kitchen-sink detail so they can "understand" the songs; those who picked up on the little-black-book-of-revenge and photographers-having-accidents stories (they want the portrait of the artist as a young psychotic masquerading as a "rilly sensitive individual") and those who are obsessed by Costello's borrowings | With Costello, this neo-cannibalism manifests itself in one of three forms: Those who've heard that ''My Aim Is True'' is a collection of ''chansons à clef'' about the break-up of his marriage and wanna know every last kitchen-sink detail so they can "understand" the songs; those who picked up on the little-black-book-of-revenge and photographers-having-accidents stories (they want the portrait of the artist as a young psychotic masquerading as a "rilly sensitive individual") and those who are obsessed by Costello's borrowings — they wanna be able to point the finger ("Hand in Hand" tiptoeing on the trail of Booker T and the MGs' "Time Is Tight," "Pump It Up" neatly filed under "Interstellar Overdrive" via "Neat Neat Neat"). | ||
More accurately, this last category again divides into two. Those who get upset by it and those who don't. The former can check out of this page right now — you patently never saw that the best thing about " | More accurately, this last category again divides into two. Those who get upset by it and those who don't. The former can check out of this page right now — you patently never saw that the best thing about "Subterranean Homesick Blues" was that it was Dylan owning up to how much he wanted to be Chuck Berry by rewriting "Too Much Monkey Business" in too-much-junkie-business slang, or that the finest moment of Ted Nugent's entire career was when he copped the lick from Hendrix's "Third Stone from the Sun" in the middle of the Amboy Dukes' cover of "Baby Please Don't Go." | ||
You that don't get upset and are still with me, can now have the perverse reward of a few randomly ordered sartorial facts about Elvis, to help you get laid on wet Tuesday nights. | You that don't get upset and are still with me, can now have the perverse reward of a few randomly ordered sartorial facts about Elvis, to help you get laid on wet Tuesday nights. | ||
The red shoes in the | The red shoes in the song of that title are cherry red Doctor Martens. Calf-high work boots with soles designed for cripples, they were the favourite footwear of skinheads when they were kicking the shit out of passing hippies. Also much favoured by scuffling rock stars affecting the common touch. Elvis is supposed to have lost a pair at an early pub gig. No, I don't know where the Angels were there that night. | ||
Nowadays Elvis buys his jackets at the same place as me. He favors a chessboard pattern. I've stuck to pink slue. | Nowadays Elvis buys his jackets at the same place as me. He favors a chessboard pattern. I've stuck to pink slue. | ||
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Ask any honest writer who's tried. I've certainly yet to read a memorable long piece on him. Nick Kent's original interview doesn't count. That was the drunken occasion that Elvis chose to launch his bitter-twisted-guilt-and-revenge image. With gorgeous copy like that how could it fail to make for gripping reading? (And I'm not belittling the fustian grace of Kent's writing.) | Ask any honest writer who's tried. I've certainly yet to read a memorable long piece on him. Nick Kent's original interview doesn't count. That was the drunken occasion that Elvis chose to launch his bitter-twisted-guilt-and-revenge image. With gorgeous copy like that how could it fail to make for gripping reading? (And I'm not belittling the fustian grace of Kent's writing.) | ||
(If you're still in doubt, ask ''New York Rocker''. Their original cover story was meant to be by Kent. He offered them a piece which had already appeared in ''NME''. They rejected it — it finally turned up as <i>Creem</i>'s cover story. Then they contacted my fellow Sounds writer, Sandy Robertson. Duly telexed at the last minute, his story was also dumped — too negative or something. Finally, Andy Schwartz hacked out nothing and called it "Elvis — The Story He Won't Tell." Won't tell? My grandmother could have told him and she's keeping the maggots company.) | (If you're still in doubt, ask ''New York Rocker''. Their original cover story was meant to be by Kent. He offered them a piece which had already appeared in ''NME''. They rejected it — it finally turned up as <i>Creem</i>'s cover story. Then they contacted my fellow ''Sounds'' writer, Sandy Robertson. Duly telexed at the last minute, his story was also dumped — too negative or something. Finally, Andy Schwartz hacked out nothing and called it "Elvis — The Story He Won't Tell." Won't tell? My grandmother could have told him and she's keeping the maggots company.) | ||
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''{{n}}You're gonna come with me | ''{{n}}You're gonna come with me | ||
Really Elvis. You sound like a little boy threatening to bring in his dad 'cos he's bigger than the other kid's dad. | Really Elvis. You sound like a little boy threatening to bring in his dad 'cos he's bigger than the other kid's dad. | ||
And yet, even taking all those Achilles tendons into account, Elvis is still one of those destined to carve out his name large in the history of rock 'n' roll. He's a sly, sometimes deceptively casual, songwriter. He's got passion, guts, aggression, compassion, insight, all those things which on the printed page can look so much bullshit, but are in fact the lifeblood of any worthwhile artist, no matter whether it's paint he's daubing or strings he's plucking. | And yet, even taking all those Achilles tendons into account, Elvis is still one of those destined to carve out his name large in the history of rock 'n' roll. He's a sly, sometimes deceptively casual, songwriter. He's got passion, guts, aggression, compassion, insight, all those things which on the printed page can look so much bullshit, but are in fact the lifeblood of any worthwhile artist, no matter whether it's paint he's daubing or strings he's plucking. | ||
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Once upon an innocent time, I used to think that EC was satisfied with merely wishing he'd metamorphose one night — like a rock 'n' roll version of Kafka's creepy crawly — and wake up as Joe Strummer. That way he'd have real credibility. Now I realize this kid Costello don't stop at no petty aims like that. He wants to go the whole way. Consumed by the romanticism of the Prometheus myth, he wants to plunge deep into the realms of the untalked-about and capture the fire singlehandedly for the rest of us less determined souls... before lunch, preferably. And all that in full knowledge that, on his return, he stands a good chance of having a load of messy birds passing the time of day by gobbling lumps out of his kidneys. Of course, like Dylan, who had similar visions, he'll probably be satisfied by a couple of years playing Faust, after which he'll settle down and write a book. | Once upon an innocent time, I used to think that EC was satisfied with merely wishing he'd metamorphose one night — like a rock 'n' roll version of Kafka's creepy crawly — and wake up as Joe Strummer. That way he'd have real credibility. Now I realize this kid Costello don't stop at no petty aims like that. He wants to go the whole way. Consumed by the romanticism of the Prometheus myth, he wants to plunge deep into the realms of the untalked-about and capture the fire singlehandedly for the rest of us less determined souls... before lunch, preferably. And all that in full knowledge that, on his return, he stands a good chance of having a load of messy birds passing the time of day by gobbling lumps out of his kidneys. Of course, like Dylan, who had similar visions, he'll probably be satisfied by a couple of years playing Faust, after which he'll settle down and write a book. | ||
Still, world domination. Now there's a worthy concept. Personally, these days I don't trust anyone who isn't bent on their | Still, world domination. Now there's a worthy concept. Personally, these days I don't trust anyone who isn't bent on their own trail of world domination. Since the Great American Novel dream started going down the pan the day Kerouac got treated as a serious novelist, and finally gave up the ghost when it caught the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, since the idea of making the perfect rock 'n' roll album got lost soon after the twentieth tab of acid, what else is there for a poor boy to do? | ||
In this Indian summer of a society, what hope of survival is there other than making sure you're the one that's calling the shots? | |||
So Elvis has opted for bare-faced hubris, screaming at the gods to just dare to come and waste him. Which means, when all that's squeezed into song form, he's just as quotable as Dylan used to be when he was still patron saint to literate speedfreaks. What else is ''"bite the hand that feeds me"'' but the one true epigram for a generation that doesn't have the confidence or the misguided imagination to push "it doesn't take a weatherman to know which way the wind blows" to its ultimate conclusion? | |||
And I'm sure that aura of overweening ambition is just what makes Costello so appealing to the wide wide world. Above all else, rock 'n' roll is melodrama. The chants, the lights, the violent jerky moves, a good part of the whole rock 'n' roll live experience is a late 20th century variant of the "died and never called my mother" school of art. Which is fine by me. Better that than an unceasing diet of Samuel Beckett. | |||
With Costello, that melodrama shows itself in many ways. The surly but aggressive wit of his ad campaigns; the spindly fountains of white light that he used as a backdrop for his Dominion Theatre gigs in London; his hunched, tense postures at the mike; the Garbo-esque approach to interviews (in fact, he's probably better off avoiding them; while generally pleasant enough, he's rarely said something quotable that someone else hasn't already said better); the occasional step into pure hamminess like "Hand in Hand"; the global sweep of ''Armed Forces'' (from "Goon Squad" to "Oliver's Army" via the authoritative sounding "Moods for Moderns" — you can get a fair idea of where those songs are coming from without even listening to the music) and beyond all reasonable expectations, he's produced unsullied masterpieces like "Watching the Detectives." | |||
The sheer eerie impotence of the lines ''"I don't know how much more of this I can take / She's filing her nails while they're dragging the lake"'' is positively suffocating in its harrowing evocation of domestic disharmony: wife watches ''Starsky and Hutch'', husband squirms in his chair wishing he could be up there with the big boys, telling it all to the world from behind his guitar instead of being stuck here in his safe West London home in front of the box with wifey. | |||
When Elvis first started to sell enormous amounts of ''Aim'' on import in America, I expressed my bewilderment to Dave Schulps. "Oh that's easy," he blithely told me, "I got that one all figured out. All his songs are neurotic. All Americans are neurotic. They suit each other like Liz Taylor and Richard Burton in ''Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"'' | |||
I believed him at the time. But, honestly, neurotic? That's like saying a suicidially-inclined manic depressive has problems with his nerves. | |||
''{{n}}Two little Hitlers will fight it out until <br> | |||
''{{n}}One little Hitler does the other one's will <br> | |||
''{{n}}I will return, I will not burn | |||
A cunning and witty song for sure, but way beyond mere neurosis — these days even his private rage takes on an epic form. Which can be seen in the history of the song itself. Elvis thought of the title "Little Hitler" and mentioned it to Nick Lowe who promptly — such is the morality of the man — nicked the idea for himself and connected a lot of nonsense around one of his invariably quirky tunes. | |||
That's the difference between Lowe and Costello. While Lowe trumpets on about pure pop, it's Costello who actually does it. Lowe's own songs — despite the radio reassurance factor of containing references to everything from Bo Diddley to Abba — are far too oddball in their construction for easy assimilation between, say, Gloria Gaynor and Showaddywaddy: pure pop for people with encyclopedic memories and a fair grasp of what the future might bring is more like it. | |||
Elvis, however, is both more devious and more straightforward. He might be denied an American hit single by the innate conservatism of American radio (not that British radio is any better — just that he ''is'' homegrown talent), but the suppleness of his melodies are invariably a decoy for the sharpness of the lyrics. "Oliver's Army" has been both his biggest British hit (number two), and one of his most directly targeted lambasts of a power structure which recruits its killers in uniform from this year's tired poor wretched rabble. True subversion from a master of his past who's still fresh enough to be forcing himself to his own limits. | |||
Maybe one day he'll even learn to tune his guitar. | |||
{{cx}} | |||
{{Bibliography notes header}} | {{Bibliography notes header}} | ||
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{{Bibliography images}} | {{Bibliography images}} | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 24.jpg| | [[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 24.jpg|x245px|border]] | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 25.jpg| | [[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 25.jpg|x245px|border]] | ||
<br><small>Page scans.</small> | <br><small>Page scans.</small> | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 26.jpg| | [[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 26.jpg|x245px|border]] | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 27.jpg| | [[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 27.jpg|x245px|border]] | ||
<small>Cover and contents page.</small><br> | |||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press cover.jpg|x245px|border]] | |||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 03.jpg|x245px|border]] | |||
<small>Photo by [[Roberta Bayley]].</small><br> | <small>Photo by [[Roberta Bayley photos|Roberta Bayley]].</small><br> | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press photo 01 rb.jpg| | [[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press photo 01 rb.jpg|320px]] | ||
<small>Photo by [[Timothy Shonnard]].</small><br> | <small>Photo by [[Timothy Shonnard]].</small><br> | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press photo 02 ts.jpg| | [[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press photo 02 ts.jpg|320px]] | ||
<br><br><br> | <br><br><br> | ||
{{Bibliography box | {{Bibliography box}} | ||
<center><h3> Rubinoos like pop and they don't care </h3></center> | <center><h3> Rubinoos like pop and they don't care </h3></center> | ||
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<center> Danny Heaps </center> | <center> Danny Heaps </center> | ||
---- | ---- | ||
''Extract: | |||
{{Bibliography text}} | {{Bibliography text}} | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press page 10.jpg|120px|right]] | |||
On the road with Elvis Costello, the Rubinoos have been getting enthusiastic receptions wherever they go. Their bouncy, energetic stage show is at times almost too cute. Live, as well as on record, they present themselves as a refreshing alternative to the oh-so-narcissistic world of rock 'n' roll. The question, then, is whether or not the public is tiring of the formula platinum of the '70s. Conventional wisdom says no. But that's never stopped anyone at Beserkley Records before. | |||
"Right now, radio is real dry" — says Rubin — "it's all disco or homogenized rock. I think our stuff will stand out. I think the public will realize how conservative the record industry is. And then bands like us will begin to sell. Look at Elvis. If he's doing so well, a lot of other good bands can also succeed." | |||
{{cx}} | {{cx}} | ||
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<br><br><br> | <br><br><br> | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press | <small>Pub Rock family tree by [[Pete Frame]].</small><br> | ||
[[image:1979-06-00 Trouser Press pages 28-29.jpg|390px|Pages 28-29.]] | |||
{{Bibliography notes footer}} | {{Bibliography notes footer}} | ||
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==External links== | ==External links== | ||
*[http://www.trouserpress.com/magazine/issue_pop.php?i=39 TrouserPress.com] | *[http://www.trouserpress.com/magazine/issue_pop.php?i=39 TrouserPress.com] | ||
*[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trouser_Press Wikipedia: Trouser Press] | |||
*[http://www.robertabayley.com/ RobertaBayley.com] | |||
*[http://www.timothyshonnard.com/ TimothyShonnard.com] | |||
{{DEFAULTSORT:Trouser Press 1979-06-00}} | {{DEFAULTSORT:Trouser Press 1979-06-00}} | ||
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[[Category:Trouser Press| Trouser Press 1979-06-00]] | [[Category:Trouser Press| Trouser Press 1979-06-00]] | ||
[[Category:Magazine articles]] | [[Category:Magazine articles]] | ||
Latest revision as of 23:36, 24 January 2024
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