Elvis Costello
Brisbane Convention Centre
Sunday 18 October 2009

I was trying to remember during the lounge act parts of the evening how many times I've seen Elvis Costello perform before.

Once, in LA at the Hollywood Bowl (around '98) where myself and the PR were shamelessly drunk and singing along bawdily to him and Burt Bacharach (on piano) as they ploughed their way through our formative years. Our drunkenness was a source of some annoyance to those around, especially the photographer. Frankly, I would have punched me if I'd been sober.

Once in Brighton, in the plush, intimate surroundings of Brighton Dome (around ‘05), Elvis stunned us by turning in a blistering performance full of anger and wild guitar, ably assisted by The Attractions or The Imposters or whatever Steve Nieve and Pete Thomas were calling their band that day. In venom alone, he matched Neil Young.

I can’t remember much beyond that.

Tonight, he plays solo with a battery of guitars and caustic wit for support: and man alive, if he isn't on fire once... wait, on fire isn’t the right description. He’s driven, scarily over-the-top in places, and pushing his whole quiet-LOUD-quiet-LOUD singing style beyond acceptable limits. He runs on, full of pith and bluster, rushes through the opening three numbers – ‘(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes’ (1977), ‘Either Side Of The Same Town’ (2004), ‘Veronica’ (1989) – so pumped that my wife whispers, “Is he on speed?” This, after he’s swooped off his R. Crumb hat and fixed the front rows with a steely glare for the 10th time. No one dares move or shout, for fear of being picked on.

And right now I’m thinking, man I miss Steve Nieve.

And then he starts talking about his dad. “My dad taught me,” he says deadpan, “never look up to a note, always look down.” He pauses, a pro. “I have no idea what he meant.” Therein follows the first obligatory song from the new album (2009’s Secret, Profane & Sugarcane), ‘Down Among The Wine And Spirits’, more barroom bawdiness. It doesn’t mean much to me; neither do the next cluster of songs, ‘All This Useless Beauty’ (1996 – great title!), ‘I Dreamed Of My Old Lover’ (2009) and another newbie.
 
He’s too self-aware. He needs to cut loose. He needs to kick that soundman for dropping the lead instead of just flashing dagger eyes at him: he kicked some poor ass guy in Brighton all around the stage back in ’05, making everyone uncomfortable and raising the tension considerably. He needs a moment like that, not a sedentary ‘Good Year For The Roses’ (1981) played on his grungy acoustic, and ‘The Other End Of The Telescope’ (1996), accomplished songs they may be. He takes a sip from a continually replenished plain china mug – “for my smoky fireside voice,” he jokes. We know Elvis is an accomplished songwriter. We also know him as a slightly cheesy TV presenter. We need something that lifts him above the two.

And right now I’m thinking, man I miss Pete Thomas.

When the break-out moment comes, it’s unexpected. Maybe Elvis’ self-hatred plays a part. Who knows? But man: much as the first third of the set is too schmaltzy, so the second third totally burns.

It begins innocuously enough.

“Here’s a song I hate,” Elvis murmurs, to which a girl behind me shouts, “Why play it then?” He ignores her. “I wrote it in 10 minutes for a joke and it was a hit.” Lingering in the laughter, he continues with a story about how the Japanese call Ron Sexsmith Ron Sexmoth, and tells how Mr Sexsmith taught him how to sing the following – a sultry, revamped reading of previously forgettable 1983 single ‘Everyday I Write The Book’ that pisses all over history; the way he does call and response off-mic, the way he answers back to himself and pulls his own version of Motown out of his torn voice. Yes, he can still hit the highs. And, freshly invigorated, he delivers the first show-stopper of the evening, a tumultuous reading of ‘Bedlam’ (from 2004’s The Delivery Man) that is well self-described: all chaotic and fast-paced, tending to rap even, and loud. “I've got this phosphorescent portrait of gentle Jesus meek and mild,” he rasps, suddenly bitter. “I've got this harlot that I'm stuck with carrying another man's child.”

The spooky, creepy show tune ‘Mr Feathers’ (from 2008’s Momofuku) matches it in venom – and then comes the astonishing ‘God’s Comic' (Spike, 1989) and ‘I Hope You’re Happy Now’ (Blood And Chocolate, 1986), and there sure as buggery on a Bengalese budget ain’t nothing wrong with them. This is Elvis Costello as we most like him – vicious and petty and mean-spirited, with a great line in barbed insults. Sentiment and old-fashioned revelry is fine, but everything to its place. Everything to its place.

And right now I’m thinking, man I’m glad to be here.

Another new song follows – “so new that we had go into the studio at midnight and wax it,” the man announces proudly, “so new that it’s not even on Sugarcane” – another cheery revenge fantasy. “Soon he’ll be giving you 10,000 volts… I said make that 25!” the man spits, enflamed. And then, man alive, we’re into the second of the night’s show-stoppers – a reconstructed, looped, ultra-distorted version 'Watching The Detectives' that would do both the maudlin English post-structuralist David Thomas Broughton and Sonic Youth proud.
 
The second time through, he totally ruins the shaking, vibrating, layered guitar solo by over-indulging – but hell, if someone’s going to tear Elvis Costello apart note by note it might as well be Elvis Costello himself. His use of silence and sheer bloody-minded refusal to be cowed by his own legacy are worth the price of admission alone. (Um, I didn't pay. But you know what I mean.)

After that, and a ho-hum song dedicated to a wedding party in Bridlighton, the highlights come thick and furious.

For example: the audience sing along on 1977’s ‘Radio Sweetheart’ (introduced as “the first song I ever recorded… of course, by now I thought I’d have three girls in sequined headdresses backing me, holding cigarettes, ladders in the tights, bored-looking…”). This mutates into a cover of Van Morrison’s ‘Jackie Wilson Said (I’m In Heaven When You Smile)’, the way songwriters do when they finally grow mature or uncaring enough to admit their influences… either way we couldn’t care, just lustily enjoying.

And right now I’m thinking, man alive he’s still got it!

For example: a slowed-down, seditious version of 'Ghost Train' (B-side of 1980 single ‘New Amsterdam’) that proudly lays bare Costello's roots, as he talks about going travelling from music hall to music hall with his singer dad and the on-stage organ that went up a semitone just before the curtain was drawn back. “Maureen and Stan were looking for a job/They got songs for every occasion,” he laments, drawing out meaning from stagnant pools so poignantly I start wondering if this is a new song he’s playing. “And a little limelight robbery/No one will employ them.” This is followed by ‘Man Out Of Time’ – from 1982’s impeccably dressed Imperial Bedroom – and there ain’t nothing wrong with that, either.

For example: the way he stops the bawdy new song 'Sulphur To Sugarcane' after the line, "Everywhere I travel, the pretty girls call my name" evinces a very male response. It’s pure pantomime, the way he chastises the “girls” for their deep voices – as are the lyrics that follow, their main purpose seemingly to bring blushes to the cheeks of womanhood in every state in the US – but bugger it. Forget what I said before. This is how we best like out Elvis, rampant and music hall and a lecherous old bugger to boot.
 
Or, as he puts it: “The women in Poughkeepsie/Take their clothes off when they're tipsy/But in Albany, New York/They love the filthy way I talk.”

The encores can’t help but be a disappointment, despite his pokerfaced intro to the seated part of the show: “Here’s my special guest… me!” Three songs follow, all trivial in comparison to what went before:  ‘Almost Blue’ (from 1982: a great song that I'm yet to witness performed greatly); ’All Or Nothing At All’ (a Starbucks reading of the Billie Holiday standard); and ‘She’ (a straight version of the Charles Aznavour weep-o-thon, which I believe may well be a TV theme or something now, hence its inclusion).
 
The closing brace – the Costello standards ‘(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love And Understanding’ and ‘Alison’ (segued into 2005’s self-pitying ‘In Another Room) – are equally as meaningless, Elvis returning to his opening gambit of putting all the emphasis and enunciation in the wrong places. But still: what an evening, what an entertainer, what fucking superb versions of ‘God’s Comic’, ‘Watching The Detectives’, ‘Ghost Train’, ‘Sulphur To Sugarcane’, etc, etc.

Everett True