Interviews: Elvis Costello Writes The Book

Elvis Costello Writes The Book

The Other King

Oh, I just don’t know where to begin.

While preparing for my interview with my absolute, palm-itchingly, hands up choice for most acerbically sarcastic, lyrically fearless, and crafty—in every admirable sense of the word—songwriter, Elvis Costello, by jumping back and forth between the twin beds in my hotel room until the springs plink through the mattresses and the neighbors clobber against the cardboard walls, I go through my mental Cliff Notes on E.C.’s oeuvre like a Yeshiva boy cramming for his first test on Talmudic tongue-twisters—and, by the way, impress myself with how clever I am about his cleverness. I psych myself up like I’m going into a word rumble. He’ll pull out a sharp-edged double-entendre and I’ll be ready to counter with an analytical allusion.  I’ll match him jab for jab, barb for barb, pun for pun. Listen, here’s the thing about interviews. Politicians, you put on the tape recorder, leave the room, get a sandwich, take a nap, and they’ll fill 45 minutes. Movie stars—Wow, you are so amazing—and that gets them interviewing themselves enough for you to think about last night’s episode of Battlestar Galactica. But Rock Stars can either be non-existent or out to mess with your head.

I thought Elvis would definitely be out to mess with my head. After all, for those who twist words like balloon animals, he’s the Master Clown.

For those waiting to be seated after the intermission, Elvis Costello erupted onto American radio out of London in 1977, along with the Clash and the Sex Pistols in that first wave of British punk. However, he was exponentially more melodic and reverent of diverse music styles, including jazz and country. His jukebox includes “Alison,” “Watching the Detectives” (a film noir masterpiece, without the film), “This Year’s Girl,” and “Accidents Will Happen.” He’s collaborated with Paul McCartney, Burt Bacharach, T-Bone Burnett, and his wife, jazz swan, Diana Krall. Just Google him.

But bollocks to all that. Here we are, me and Elvis, before and after he and the Attractions hit the stage at, of all places, the Pennsylvania State Fair. He’s wearing a black suit, trademark glasses, and spanking cool checkered boots, the non-ironic wearing of which may be the whole reason one aspires to become a rock star in the first place. So much of life is about the shoes (and angels wanting to wear them). Elvis Costello:

“I never explain songs. I write songs about something I care enough about to want to write about, subjects that conjure up a feeling or an emotion. They’re generally about human matters, whether in the form of a relationship, the government, or my next-door neighbor. I hate the idea of political songs, because unless they’re ‘We Shall Overcome’ or ‘People Get Ready,’ they’re bloody boring. If you want to make a speech, don’t sing it. For the same reason, I hate the idea of rock music as a category. I suppose having all these labels in music—rock, country, urban, jazz, classical, what have you—I suppose it stops you from buying songs that you don’t like, so you don’t accidentally buy Ray Coniff instead of Roy Orbison. But I don’t see rock music as being more important than any other so-called label. That’s a very limiting idea. When rock ‘n’ roll replaced swing, they said, ‘this is the end of music.’ They burned Elvis Presley records! They broke Chuck Berry records! And rock music was very important in 1955. It shook up young people and led to rethinking the grey Eisenhower establishment. It was important again in 1964. It suggested that peace, love, and understanding were options. And in 1977, it gave young people power over cynical hypocrisy—though for a very brief time only. Other than that, it never exactly brings down the government, does it? There’s more power to me, say, in ‘The Kid’s Are Alright’ than in ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again.’ It’s important to take your work seriously, else you do it badly, but to take yourself seriously, you become an absolute buffoon. I’m less interested in writing about issues than I am in writing about trust and betrayal and love and people’s stories. These are the things that interest me the most. Only the most pompous people write songs thinking they’re going to change anything with them—whether politically or personally. An artist is primarily of an observer of him or her self in the world. Far too much emphasis is placed on aggression and mistrust and bitterness and anger and all of the negative things people read into my work. I always assumed that that was because it made better copy to project me as aggressive. And I wouldn’t say I hadn’t written songs like that. But maybe I just have high hopes. I am disappointed quite a lot, not least of all in myself, most of all in myself. Most of the vitriolic songs were really aimed at me, some weakness, some foolishness. Sometimes I don’t even know what the song is about until after I’ve been performing it for a while. I’ve often found myself singing and thinking, my God, was I really this depressed when I wrote this or was I just being too clever and messing about with words?”