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"I know I've just got to get out of this place.
I can't stand anymore of that mechanical grace.
Though you say it's only an industrial squeeze,
It looks like a luxury, it feels like a disease.
...I need, I need, I need a HUMAN TOUCH"
— Elvis Costello on Get Happy
It appeared as if it was going to be just another one of those crummy, rainy Saturday afternoons—the kind that would even make playing Russian Roulette seem boring. I thought that playing some Elvis Costello albums might brighten up things somewhat. So I plopped This Year's Model on the phonograph and drifted into a euphoria of nostalgia and daydreams. Elvis' songs had those same qualities and sounds that made me love rock 'n' roll when I was an adolescent in the mid-sixties, which to me was rock's finest period.
In 1965, I could turn on the top-40 AM radio and, at almost anytime, hear such greats as The Kinks, The Yardbirds, Sam Cooke, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Supremes, The Rolling Stones, or Them. Then there were the semi-punkish one-shots like Question Mark and the Mysterians, The Standells, and The Castaways, who made some classic contributions. Listening to Elvis, I could hear all these old groups again in his music. "Radio, Radio" came on, where Elvis was lamenting about all those old songs "bringing tears to my eyes" and bitterly protesting about radio now being in the "hands of such a lot of fools."
When that was over, I put on his last album, Armed Forces. The opening bars of "Oliver's Army" reminded me of The Four Seasons and listening to them as a kid in the back seat of my father's car. The song itself is a satiric gem about modern British imperialism ranging from Northern Ireland ("There was a check point Charlie. / He didn't crack a smile. / But it's no laughin' party / When you've been on the murder mile. / Only takes one itchy finger / One more widow / One less white nigger.") to South Africa ("When you're out of luck, you're out of work. / We can send you to Johannesburg...")
"Day-um!" I thought. "Elvis is the best thing to happen to rock since Dylan went electric in '65. There hasn't been too much of a progression since then."
Until the "New Wave," I hadn't been following rock music hardly at all in the 70s. (The main exception would be paying attention to the new works of old favorites like Dylan or the Stones.) In the early 70s, there was glitter rock, heavy metal, and that pseudo-classical crap that groups like Yes and Jethro Tull would inflict upon us. Not being a fan of any of these sub-genres, I found myself rediscovering '50s R&B and getting into pre-W.W. II blues and Western Swing. These, after all, were the roots of rock 'n' roll.
I also didn't care much for "punk" when it first came out around 1976, thinking it sounded too much like crude heavy metal. I was ready to dismiss the "New Wave" with similar disdain until Elvis came out with his first album, My Aim Is True, in 1977. After reluctantly listening to that album a few times, I eventually realized that I was in the presence of a work of genius. I was converted. Elvis made me a born-again rock 'n' roll fan. Maybe there's some hope for the '80s after all.
Like such Dylan masterpieces as Blonde on Blonde and Highway 61 Revisited, Elvis' albums are a mixture of memorable melodies, tantalizing vocals, complex lyrics, hard-driving rhythms, lilting ballads and cynical and angry reactions to love and politics. Whereas the '60s biggies (Dylan, The Rolling Stones, the Beatles) rejuvenated rock 'n' roll by drawing upon such influences as '30s blues and folk (Leadbelly, Robert Johnson, Woody Guthrie) and '50s trendsetters (Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Hank Williams, Muddy Waters, etc.), Elvis' main influence is obviously early to mid-'60s rock 'n' roll.
Anyway, I turned over Armed Forces and flicked on the TV without turning on the sound. (Listening to music on the phonograph while watching silent images on the tube is a habit I acquired after too many shock treatments in the 60's. Watching The Lawrence Welk Show, while listening to The Stones' Exile on Main Street, can be particularly amusing.)
"Goon Squad," a sublimely jaundiced rallying cry was blaring as I watched an old rerun of Adam-12. Suddenly, the doorbell started ringing like a thousand fire alarms.
"Hold on, hold on," I grumbled as I stumbled to the door. "Goddammit, I'm coming." I opened the door and there stood a man who looked like a composite of Woody Allen and Buddy Holly, or like something Roman Polanski had thought up. He was carrying a soggy umbrella and was holding a stack of bright orange record albums in his arms. I realized almost immediately that this person was none other than Elvis Costello himself.
"Elvis!" I stuttered, somewhat in shock.
"That's right," he snarled.
"Why, er, ahh, come on in. Here, let me take your umbrella."
"Take it then." He walked by the TV, his galoshes sloshing like he was walking in oatmeal. He squinted at the TV, then looked directly into my eyes and asked, "What're ya watchin?"
"The Detectives."
"Don't get cute," he snapped.
"Aw, Elvis. I was only kidding. Hey, what are you doing here anyway?"
"Sellin' my new album to people who are known as being my fans." He stalked around, bumping into furniture. "Hey, where's your record player? I wanna put this on. I've got better things to do than talkin' with physical jerks."
"What's the new album called?"
"Get Happy," was the sarcastic reply.
As he was putting the record on the turntable, he noticed a Led Zeppelin album nearby. "Is this yours?" he demanded.
"Naw, that belongs to my roommate."
"Good," he said, as he shattered the album over his knee. "Those guys've always sucked. Now sit down an' listen to this."
Get Happy started out with a Doorsy rocker called "Love For Tender" (a pun on Presley's "Love Me Tender"?) in which Elvis compares love to money (legal tender). "You won't take my love for tender / You can put your money when your mouth is / but you're still not sure. / I could be an advisor or a big spender / but ya might get more than ya bargained for." The song ended with a pounding organ crescendo similar to the Doors' "Touch Me."
"Say, that was pretty good," I told him. "What's next?"
"Shut up and listen," was the curt reply.
The next one was "Opportunity," a catchy and bouncy tune which showed Elvis' paranoia and alienation. "I'm in a foxhole / I'm down in a trench. / I'd be a hero / But I can't stand the stench. / ...Opportunity, Opportunity / This is your big opportunity. / Shop around, follow you without a sound! Whatever you do now, don't turn around" ...and the Dylanesque, "I'd like to be his funeral director."
Then came "The Imposter": "Always been too smart / And you know all our boys are girls at heart / And he is not the man that you think he can be. / I don't know why you cannot see / That he is only the Immposssttterrrr."
"Hey Elvis. You know, I really like the way you use the same kind of tonal, but not nasal, expressions that Dylan used. The song gets all its power in the way you hold on to certain syllables."
"Yeah," he acknowledged. "Wait until you hear how I do it on "Human Touch." And don't forget to stuff that into your review and choke it."
After "Secondary Modern," "King Horse" came on. "I'll bet you end up liking this one best," Elvis said. (He was right, but I might change my mind tomorrow.)
It began and ended sounding like the old Four Seasons, although a bit of Peter and Gordon's "World Without Love" could be heard in the melody at the very end too. The chorus went, "Now I know that you are King Horse / Between tenderness and brute force."
"What does that mean, Elvis?"
"You gotta figure that out for your self."
"Well, it's hard enough just trying to understand the vocals." But just then I realized that this is one thing that makes his albums so great. Every time you listen, you can discover some new lyrics, meanings, and insights. Boy, that Elvis has it all figured out!
After a few more songs (all of which were good), I asked Elvis how many songs were on the album. (This was still only side one.)
"Twenty," he answered, smiling for the first time. "Ten cuts on each aide. Notice that they're all under three minutes long, just like in the early 60s."
We listened next to "New Amsterdam," a waltzy thing that at first sounds like the Stones' classic, "Back Street Girl." Here Elvis was obviously having a field day with double puns and wordplay.
"New Amsterdam, it's been gone much too much. / Do I have the possession of everything she touches?! Do I speak double-dutch to a real double dutchess?" The song also has great lines like "Everything you say sounds like it was ghost written." The final verse sums up the alienation. "Soon I find myself down by the dockside / Thinking about the old days of Liverpool and Rubberhide / Transparent people who live on the other side / Living a life that is almost like suicide."
When the final cut on side one ("High Fidelity" with music that reminded me of the Supremes) ended, Elvis was turning the album over as I said to him, "Your songs have all the qualities that have always made the best rock 'n' roll so good. You sing about rebellion, frustration, love, and all that, but I've noticed that this album is less political than the previous ones."
"Clean out your ears and listen," he quipped. And so I did. Trying to pinpoint his influences was the most I could do upon the first listening. I could hear the ghosts of the Beatles in "Clowntime Is Over," "5ive Gears in Reverse" (compare the music in it to "I Call Your Name"), and "Riot Act." Little Richard's "The Girl Can't Help It" in "Beaten to the Punch," and the Association's "Windy" in "Temptation."
Get Happy fittingly concluded with "Riot Act," a mournful self-confession in which he lamented, "Forever doesn't mean forever anymore / I said forever / But it doesn't look like I'm gonna be around much anymore / When the heat got so tropical / and the talk got so topical / Riot Act / You can read me the / Riot Act..."
"Golly Elvis, I sure hope you do stay around a lot more."
He angrily replied, "Why do you talk such stupid nonsense when my mind could rest much easier? I would be happier with amnesia." (This is also a line from "Riot Act.")
"But hell, your songs keep recurring in my head. Yesterday, while a friend of mine was listening to one of your albums, he said, 'Every time I hear this, I wonder why I don't play it more often. Like all the time.' I think that could be said of any of your albums. One week I'll think Armed Forces is the best, then the next week I'll change my mind to This Year's Model. It sounds like Get Happy might even be your best."
"What the fuck do I care what you think unless you really understand my songs?" He was picking up his umbrella. "Just give me my six quid — I mean bucks — for the record and let me outta here."
I wrote him out a check, shook hands with him, and he left in the same manner he had come in. I went back to the phonograph and put Get Happy on again, pondering on the notion that maybe all of his albums are equally good. It really doesn't matter as long as Elvis makes us listen. And I don't want to stop listening. Besides, just wait until he tries to cash that check and it bounces from here to Liverpool.
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