Interview with Elvis Costello
The Times, 2002-03-02
- Alan Franks
After collaborations with Burt Bacharach and the Brodsky Quartet, Elvis
Costello has gone back to his musical roots - he's changed his passport
name back to MacManus and is about to release his rowdiest album in
years
The Dubliner
Interview by Alan Franks Photographs by Graham
Wood
T0 DUBLIN FOR A DRINK WITH DECLAN MACMANUS. IT sounds
like an impeccably Irish appointment, particularly when you bear in
mind he is married to a musician called Cait O'Riordan. This could take
days. But of course Declan is really Elvis and MacManus is really Costello.
Or the other way round, depending on how you like to look at these things.
Also, the drink is only coffee, and we are done by lunch. He explains
to me the relationship between Costello and MacManus, but it's not entirely
straightforward. Elvis makes the records, dearly; that's him on the
label. But even when Declan more songs for other people, the singers
wanted the composer to be credited as Costello, since MacManus is not
a famous name. The driving licence is Costello, as problems can occur
if you are stopped and turn out to be someone other than who you plainly
are, but the passport has changed back to MacManus. So it's an interesting
- some would say Irish - collaboration, with one of them doing the driving
and the other doing the travelling. The living full-time in Dublin and
the reversion to the family name have the look of a statement You don't
hear of Elton John or Cliff Richard wanting to become Reg Dwight or
Harry Webb again. It's a tricky manoeuvre, like trying to unstick a
loud wig after it's got you looked at for years. In Costello's case
there is this sense of a palling joke, or at least a wish to live apart
from the brand name. However, if you fear he has Gaelicised and re-rooted
himself to the point of jamming with uillean pipers, his new record
will set your mind at rest. It will also set the rest of you tapping,
as it is as rowdy as anything he has done in years.
He says he set out to write the whole batch of songs
with a Silvertone electric guitar, A 15-watt amplifier and ''a kid's
beatbox with big orange buttons''. So if there is a reversion going
on, it is here. He made the album at Dublin's Windmill Lane recording
studios, but some of the tracks could almost be backed by the Attractions,
the band he performed with when he first became fatuous as the most
articulate of the late Seventies new wave artists. In those days he
did rudeness and rage as dutifully as any paid-up punk, and he didn't
let up. As it turned out, he was revving up for a good run at the Thatcher
government, whose practices he vilified. Fewer words than Ben Elton,
but the same idea. If that was the acceptable rudeness of the radical
young rock star, there were other, less palatable outbreaks, notably
his dismissal of Ray Charles as ''an ignorant, blind nigger''. He did
take that one back later, but meeting Costello is still a touch nerve-wrecking,
even after all these years. Yet people change. For example it is apparently
quite safe these days to lend Pete Townshend your guitar.
Costello is no old charmer peddling a mellow retrospective
of chart triumphs, but a mid-life musician in a hurry He wants to be
taken seriously, and he is hardly alone in that. He is proud of the
collaborations he has been involved in over the past ten years, even
though some of these may have perplexed his early followers. There was
the work with the classical Brodsky Quartet, the songs for mezzo-soprano
Anne Sofie von Otter, the co-writing with popular ballad maestro Burt
Bacharach, and much besides. Patronise him at your peril.
"Actually" he says, with barely suppressed
devilment, "I did have a furious row with someone from TV in America-they
were doing a short feature on Burt Bacharach. I didn't really want to
fit this into my day but it was Burt. The line of questioning was "Burt
is king of cheese and you come out of punk rock, so how did you guys
get together?" I said, Excuse me, you are starting from a prelude
that I completely disagree with." He said it again, and I said,
'There's no way we can have this conversation.' After he asked it a
fourth time I threw him out because it seemed so insulting to Burt.
I thought, 'You are showing extreme ignorance of this guy's work.''
Both the question and the anger it provoked are understandable.
It doesn't take a musicologist to see that Bacharach and Costello each
have a flair for the skewed melody the clever way of giving the ear
what it doesn't quite expect. In this respect their mutual interest
was unsurprising. Yet they have supplied different constituencies -
easy listening and not-so-easy listening. In fact, one of the problems
of early Costello was that the voice which sounded so sullen, tender
and bruised over the three-minute dash of 4 single such as Olivers
Army or Alison could become thin and overwrought in the course of a
whole album.
As a writer he was always pushing the construction
off songs far beyond the few chords which were enough for many of his
contemporaries. There's a colossal tension in him, a very productive
one, between the scripted and the aural ways, the formal and the throwaway,
the lettered and the unlettered. It probably touches every area of his
life, and it certainly influences the way in which he writes his popular
and his less accessible music. Bacharach's good opinion of him is like
gold, and he flashes it without apology.
''I don't like people to be unaware of the fact that
I wrote the music with him as well as the words (on the 1998 album Painted
from Memory). Each of the songs had a different proportion, but the
material we brought to the piano may even have been a lithe in my favour.
After the career he's had, he was willing to open himself up to a full-blooded
collaboration, which was largely unprecedented. He had written one or
two songs with other people, such as Neil Diamond, but nothing like
to this extent. And people like this TV guy still want to talk about
him smooth, me rough. But I threw him out, so he got what he came for,
because he ran into this 1977 guy! But, really, I don't have many arguments.
If we're going to get angry, let's get angry about real tings, like
politics.'' OK. Apart from the Manic Street Preachers, or Pulp, there
aren't many big-selling bands doing social effusion songs, let alone
giving the Government an earful. Five years in, they must be fair game.
Blunkett rhymes with flunk it, Blair with yeah. What's everyone waiting
for?
''The Eighties were very clearly defined'' he says.
''Either you made the music celebrating the greed culture, or you didn't.
You were either part of the problem or part of the. . . not solution,
but dissent. Very few songs actually changed anything. The only one
I can think of that really influenced events was Free Nelson Mandella.
That gave energy to a movement. It showed how a bold, bald sloganising
song can work . . . I've never been one for making big broad statements
that are easily picked up. People make the inference that because you've
written so-called political songs - I never said they were - there's
something lacking if you don't then follow them up.
"There's more than one kind of political song.
It's a childish kind of impulse to blame the 'They'. Ive done
this myself. This 'They' really means the part of you that allows particular
things to happen.''
All this is delivered in his distinctive London-and-Liverpool
accent. He was born in Paddington but later moved up to Birkenhead (he
has strong views on the Robbie Fowlers transfer to Leeds). He's
47 now and was just 23 when his first album, My Aim Is True, was released
to instant rapture. He talks at full tilt, doesn't need questions to
keep him going, and sometimes treats them rather as a joyrider treats
a sleeping policeman. For assertive fluency he's up there with, well,
Mrs Thatcher. He doesn't smoke or drink. Used to drink, but gave it
up and said it was no big deal.
There is a first Mrs Costello, who is in the strange
position of retaining her ex-husband's stage name, and a 27-year-old
musician son, Matthew, from that marriage. There is also a band of brothers,
or half-brothers, from Costello's father's second marriage. Ruari, Ronan,
Liam and Kieran MacMmus, all in their twenties, play in a London band
called Riverway. Costello's judgement is on the line; about five years
ago they asked him for his opinion of them and he said they would be
ready in five years.
He looks content and prosperous. You wouldn't say fat
- particularly not in front of him - but when you compare him with the
cover of This Years Model (1978) he a matrioshka. Unscrew him
at the waist and you would find the earlier, smaller versions going
back through the decades - the Spike model of 1989, the Get Happy!!
one of 1980 - all tile way to the weird and scrawny Seventies original
with his twisty legs and nerd specs.
Considering he absorbs so many diverse styles, you
might have expected to find more evidence of Irish music in his output.
After all, the best of it belongs to a tradition in which there is not
the same schism between supposedly high and supposedly low art as there
is in England. For good measure, his great grandfather was born in Dungannon,
his grandfather was a travelling Irish musician, and his father, Ross
MacManus, is a singer and former bandleader.
This last influence is the most telling, for it brought
the young Declan into contact with the pre-sixties repertoire of popular
ballads. By 1963, the true beginning of the Sixties according to Philip
Larkin, that epoch had already become a distant place of sheet music-which
his mother sold for a living) and tuxedo bands. In the revolution that
followed, the tunefulness and musicianship of the old regime was all
but forgotten. He says that, although he didn't realise it at the time,
the knowledge he acquired from his parents was as good as a formal musical
education. He even played guitar onstage with his father when he was
still at school, but was so out of tune that he tried not to be heard.
''I can remember being amazed at the gaps in people's
knowledge,'' he says. ''It was not to do with the technicalities, it
was just that they had never heard these things. Since then I've had
chance encounters that have led me dorsal all sorts of different paths.''
And these paths seem to have emphasised the shared ground of the forms
rather than the distance between them.
''Absolutely The threads of (musical) thought run across
the world and across time. You find people inventing the same musical
structures for entirely different reasons. For example, inside the Shostakovich
cello sonata there's a perfect little melody, just like a Duke Ellington
song. That can be a kind of illusion, but it happens all the time. You
can hear bits of music poking out from the body of something completely
different. Beethoven's very last piano sonata goes into something weirdly
like jazz or ragtime. Nothing else quite like it crops up for another
hundred years and you think, "What was that? Was it just a slip
that no one else noticed?''
The Dublin where this conversation takes place is a
racy cosmopolitan world by the restored and pencilled quays of the Liffey.
The hotel costs more than a London counterpart, the staff are ultra-elegant
in their dark suits that button all the way up to the neck, and the
whole area feels far closer to Europe than the English mainland. Which
of course it is. Earlier in the day, Costello bridled - nodding more
than that - at being pictured in an old Dublin pub. Not, he insisted,
because he's not a drinking man himself but because he disliked perpetrating
stereotypes.
''I do think there is a lot of it [stereotyping] going
on. English people know little of this country and what they gave to
the world. They (English people) are still patronising and demeaning.
It's not as though it's all perfect here. There's an influential and
tolerated class of businessmen and politicians - which is most of them
and it's not very admirable - who have worked out a deal with another
authority, that of Europe, which maintains their place in the scheme
of tidings. There are obviously benefits here, but if you go out to
the middle of the country or further west, you can see that it hasn't
been shared out properly.
''People assume the worst of politics and business,
think that they are up to no good and that there is some weird compromise.
Every day the papers are full of scandal and inquiries. So, although
the country is said to be doing well, it's at the expense of this. It
goes on everywhere. France, Spain, Italy all have versions of it, but
the UK doesnt. There it's like, 'Well that's what you'd expect
from them."
''Anyway, that's my experience of Dublin as an observer. I like it.
I think it's a brake on some more oppressive and claustrophobic authority
building up in the governing class, which naturally induces big business.
It raises questions about the moral foundation of the governing class.
But it's different in the UK, specially the president. Sanctimonious
and laughable. That's why I don't live there any more. I didn't like
the generalissimo (Mrs Thatcher) any more than I like the president
of the new, undeclared republic. Let's have one (a republic), but let's
come out and say it, and have someone with grace like Mary Robinson
going round and standing up to dictators and telling them off. What
a thing. Fantastic.''
Later this year he plans to collaborate with director Neil LaBute on
a film project, and is appearing in The Simpsoas. After the touring
with the songs on his new CD, When I Was Cruel, Costello's orchestral
score for a ballet adaptation of A Midsummer Night's Dream will be recorded
by Deutsche Grammophon, with Michael Tilson Thomas conducting the London
Symphony Orchestra. This is not a work that has evolved through a pop
star's single melody line being fleshed into a full score by classically
trained professionals. Through hard work and a good ear that hears ''vertically''
through the stave, he has been able to pencil-out a 200-page score himself.
He says by the end he was able to write 60-piece arrangements straight
out of his head.
This is an intriguing place to find a rock'n'roll star with a history
of rebellion. No less so when he explains what happened to him as a
boy. It was simple really, although perplexing at the time. He couldn't
understand the link between the treble and bass staves. No one explained
to him that they were part of a continuum, joined by the alto stave,
but that the alto stave was left out as it was generally only used by
viola players. ''It was the separation that threw me',' he says. ''I
gave up music for 30 years. I could sing, so I sang in the school choir,
but then my voice got too loud and they threw me out. I became an altar
boy because of the solemn face, but I got thrown out at 14 for laughing.
Because the priest used to mumble everything except the church plate
takings.
''The music teaching was laughable. They did Gilbert and Sullivan,
but that too I had to give up because it was so far from what I was
interested in. And I wasn't getting anything out of Barbara Allen and
The British Grenadiers.'' This picaresque account of his youth goes
on and on, jumping to the inevitable postscript in l 998 when the school
wrote to him asking him for help with a charity drive, and noting that
he and the former Liverpool footballer Steve McManaman were the two
most famous old boys. ''Not the best recommendation for the place, I'd
have thought.''
Perhaps not. But you never know, the school could have done him a disservice
if they had managed to house-train his ability in the approved way:
Andrew Lloyd-Webber's father, a composer and music professor, realised
his elder son's talents would not benefit from formal study and discouraged
such a course. There are some people who have to get there themselves,
and Costello is clearly one of them. What gave him his particular force
- and still does on the evidence of these 15 songs - was the pairing
of his clever, edgy noise with the spit of a lyricist who had learnt
what was possible from a previous generation of rule-breakers: Bob Dylan,
Lou Reed. even the prototype three-chorded moaner Woody Guthrie. The
curious thing is this: the songs are more serious than they sound, while
the man who makes them is more full than he's letting on.
Elvis Costello's new single, Tear Off Your Own Head (It's the Doll
Revolution), is released on April 8, the album When I Was Cruel is released
on April 15, both on Mercury. Elvis Costello plays London's Astoria
on April 16