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When the first swells of the "New wave" washed up on these shores in the late 1970s, three of the acts that had the greatest impact were Elvis Costello — the cynical voice of disaffected working-class youth, gripped by sexual tension and racing toward an economic and social dead end: Joe Jackson — adolescent energy and confusion exploding recklessly and charmingly in all directions; and the Police — mixing a basic, stripped-down rock beat with the relentless viscerality of Jamaican reggae.
All three acts overcame the limits of the initial novelty of their sound and went on to make records both commercially successful and critically acclaimed. The three are leaders again, but this time It is in recognizing that the narrow focus of their music's original intent might eventually have reduced them to repertory players of their own work. They have struck out in new directions with a daring that was, after all, a prime component of their original success.
Elvis Costello, who at times in his early work hinted at the honky-tonk strains of rural working-class America, now goes flat-out country on a disc called Almost Blue (Columbia FC 37562). Recorded in Nashville and produced by Billy Sherrill, it employs all the characteristic harps, strings, horns, and highly polished niceties that add an expressive element to the voices of the good ol' country crooners but that seem to have more of an irony as background to this Elvis's coarse voice and suspicious manner. Even when less than successful (about half the time), the record's cross-cultural exploration is worthwhile. And while Costello's stature subjects the work to more intensely critical scrutiny, it may be that the stature is what makes us take note of it at all.
Joe Jackson now fronts a sextet on an album called Jumpin' Jive (A&M SP 3736). It is dedicated to singer-saxophonist Louis Jordan, who, in his hey-day, recorded a bunch of lighthearted R&B numbers characterized by a jumpy, boogie sound that inspired the first generation of rock 'n' rollers. Another case of the tribute being somewhat better in intention than in realization.
The selection of these songs and the unearthing of Mr. Jordan's repertoire create a record of considerable interest. But real enjoyment depends on your overlooking the fact that Jackson's thin, skitterish, new-wave voice is never able to mellow into the worldly, confident resonance that would make the songs ring truer as re-interpretations than as imitations of the original material. A wonderful fringe benefit of the record's release is the creation of an interest in Louis Jordan's original work, several compilations of which are available.
The Police, in no small way because of a transparently passionate honesty to their music, have managed the greatest commercial success of the new-wave groups. Their first three albums went gold or platinum, and so far they've been nominated for eight grammy awards. On Ghost in the Machine (A&M SP3736), recorded at George Martin's studio in Montserrat, they haven't so much set out in search of a new music as sent their music — successful and thus on the verge of becoming formularized — out in search of a new sound. The metronomic guitar bursts that created the skeleton on which they hung their rhythms, and the solo vocals by Sting, the bassist, are replaced by multiple guitars and keyboards, synthesizers, a saxophone (played by Sting, a sax veteran of six months), and harmonic ensemble singing. And though the songs are a departure from what we think of as the new-wave style, the intent of the music is, ironically, appropriate. Two years ago, the group, flushed with success, made records that were more a refinement than an expansion of their musical ideas. But now, with the freedom to explore, they've added the commitment to do so.
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