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Elvis Costello opened his Palladium show Saturday night with an upraised sweep of an open palm, his mouth fixed in a snarl. The glare of the stage lights reflected off his glasses like a spurious emission of radiation. As he sang the opening song, Nick Lowe's viciously tongue-in-cheek "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding," Costello could easily have been mistaken for Bruce Springsteen's demon half-brother.
The personality sketch that emanates from three tense, brilliant albums and occasional rude public comments (like the Elvis before him he almost never gives private interviews) is that of a troubled man, wracked by doubt, conflict, and hostility which doesn't find quite enough release in the cathartic-seeming surges of his rock 'n' roll.
The most vital and popular songwriter and performer of rock's new wave, Costello's show revealed both his best and worst sides. The Palladium concert was his first since a Friday news conference, at which Costello reluctantly apologized for having made racist comments, specifically about black singers Ray Charles and James Brown, that provoked a Columbus, Ohio bar fight last week with singer Bonnie Bramlett and members of the Stephen Stills rock band.
Early in his set Saturday night, Costello tried to come off as a benign, though angry, young man. Some casual stage patter was out of character for Costello, who is usually sullen and withdrawn. It seemed a deliberate, and welcome, effort for Costello to loosen up.
Musically, the set proceeded with an elegant fury. "Oliver's Army," a song about the loneliness of the long-distance mercenary soldier, was trenchantly dedicated "to all the boys behind enemy lines." It was a fitting song to be part of what Costello has dubbed his "Armed Forces" tour, one on which his stagehands wear army uniforms.
His band, The Attractions, toiled as always in stoic anonymity. They provided the authoritative musical settings for Costello's tensely focused compositions such as "I Don't Want to Go to Chelsea," a rant against fashionable middle-high society; the quietly paranoid "Watching the Detectives;" and the thunderously ominous "The Beat."
But in two situations, Costello's unresolved personality problems got the best of him to such a degree that they posed a clear and present danger to his career. During the song "Lipstick Vogue" (one of his many attacks on those prettier than he), he had extreme high-intensity lights flashed directly into the eyes of those sitting in the loge. The discomfort was unrelenting as people hid behind hands, heads, and handkerchiefs. It was probably his idea of a joke, but it was also offensive, hostile and cruel.
Costello also vented his misdirected anger at American radio. "Here's a song getting played on the radio, and it's appropriately called 'Accidents Will Happen,'" Costello said. (Later, he told the audience: "I said the word 'radio' and I almost fell asleep").
The alleged evil of radio is a constant theme of Costello's, but his accusations aren't valid. American rock radio has embraced him from the start, and has been largely tolerant of his self-absorbed, prima donna notions about himself. Radio may be controlled by "a lot of fools," as he sang in what may be his most artistically conceived song, "Radio, Radio." But the public is not being denied access to either his music or his message.
Despite Costello's often sharp, insightful lyrics and impressively taut music, the message is becoming a burden. Between unnecessary hostility aimed at those who've supported him from the start, and unconscionable racial insults to those without whom Costello's music wouldn't exist, this is a career in danger of meltdown. The old 1960s phrase, "if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem" is something Costello might mull over. If he dislikes his critical and commercial acclaim here so much, perhaps he can stay home and write some speeches for Britain's probable next Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.
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