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It's fair to say that singer-songwriter-guitarist Elvis Costello isn't moving boatloads of CDs these days, what with his Burt Bacharach collaboration and the perception that this veteran English artist might have been supplanted by too much sentimentality. But he's gathered a rabid audience of faithful fans over his two decades-plus in the public eye and he reels 'em into the concert halls. Costello, 45, did this last night at the Orpheum Theatre, playing with keyboardist extraordinaire Steve Nieve, a longtime anchor of Costello's now-defunct backing group the Attractions, and touring without any particular album to support. These turned out to be very good things — the duo format and the implied freedom to pick and choose from his expansive, eclectic catalog of material without the concern of pushing current product, the latter being the reason most tours exist to begin with.
Costello and Nieve are out on the road for the joy (and, yes, the financial remuneration) of it and were still going strong at the two hour-and-10 minute mark, when we exited to make deadline with the expectation they'd go another 20 minutes and play five more songs. The "regular" set started in near darkness with a terse new song, "Alibi," and lasted 70 minutes, closing with the sweetly malevolent ballad "Alison"; Costello and Nieve were in the midst of their sixth set of encores, playing the pulsating, teasing "Green Shirt" (with Nieve adding Tangerine Dream-like synth lines and Costello coaxing guttural growls from his electric guitar) when duty called.
Nieve, introduced as "maestro" by Costello, has become the Keith Emerson of, well, whatever genre he's playing in. He's all over the keyboards and consoles — piano, synth, rhythm box — banging away like a madman when appropriate or laying down an exquisite, quiet cluster of notes. At one point, during the syncopated, mutant-techno version of "Clubland," he seemed like the Chemical Brothers' third sibling. For "Watching the Detectives," he kept the reggae pulse and added spare, jarring effects, pumping up the tension in conjunction with Costello's staccato riffs.
It's been said before but bears re-stating: Costello, once the most abrupt and antagonistic of performers (first Orpheum show, 1978, played in under an hour; left stage to deafening guitar feedback to drive patrons out) has turned into the most loquacious and generous of performers. His vocal prowess has grown; his writing has remained razor sharp, for the most part. That was all on display under the beautiful, subdued (mostly red) stage lighting. Costello shifted moods from the ballads ("What's Her Name Today?") to the rockers ("Temptation") expertly. Deeply emotional songs, like the cry-in-your-beer crooner "Almost Blue" and the long, raw-nerved, obsessive ballad "I Want You," were on the same high ground as brooding pop songs like "Girls Talk" (maybe the best opening line ever: "There are some things you can't cover up with lipstick and powder ..."), "Little Triggers" and "(I Don't Want to Go to) Chelsea," and mature embattled-relationship songs like "Indoor Fireworks" and "Motel Matches." "Veronica," all breezy melody and acute observation, again shone as one of the most sad/uplifting songs about aging.
New tunes, "You Lie Sweetly," about two new lovers and the uncomfortable truth of the morning after, and "45," about the conflicts of the age itself and memories of 45 RPM records (Hey, George Harrison got away with "33⅓"), held their own. The only fault you could find might be with Costello's shameless encore milking. But, really, when you're given an abundance of riches like this, it's hard to begrudge how often he exits and mounts the stage. Hard to believe, perhaps, but 22 years down the road and Elvis is still king.
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