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Elvis Costello And The Attractions
John Cooper Clarke, Richard Hell
Claude Bessy
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To end this concert going extravaganza there is one gig to be mentioned, one that due to the nature of the performers and the gig itself could not be fitted into one of the above categories, the Elvis Costello and the Attractions week-long show at the Dominion. Yep, a whole week, packed to the rafters every night (pretty imposing place too) a real show of strength and popularity for the angry one. First on the bill was John Cooper Clarke, who kind of looks like Dylan but whose speeded urban street wit connects with the ups and downs of everyday life with a truth and precision the Malibu recluse couldn't buy for all the mansions overlooking the Pacific. Clarke is not a comedian, nor a poet, nor a story teller, he is a distorting mirror, a television receiver that only works for the bad programs. His chopped breathless monologues (performed while nervously flailing his arms, and generally behaving like a nervous wreck) can sound like offbeat lunatic gushes of unrelated thoughts and words, and they also can be more visual and precise than pictures or films. Something he did called Beagley Street was as evocative and gripping as a thick convoluted novel on the same subject. After Clarke another loner tried to grab back the attention he once garnered. Richard Hell (and the faceless Void Oids), now on Costello's label Radar, on Costello's tour, but evidently not very much on Costello's fans' list of priorities. It was a valiant try, but the hugeness of the theater (from where I was I couldn't tell which one was Hell!) and the indifference of the spectators (hard to avoid in a place with dance floor just a sea of seats with ushers to get you there!) sank the set to its fizzing out conclusion. After a long wait the Attractions came, played some loud and clear intro number while the El made his way to the mike (small but with the presence and remoteness of a philarmonic maestro). They were off like a well oiled Marine drill team (Armed Forces!), the sound was excellent, every note, every drum roll, every intonation was detectable, Elvis going from old to new songs with the same tenseness, the same determination to get the best out of each tune. Halfway thru a fancy lights system took everything to another level, enhancing the already awesome cohesiveness of what was taking place but detracting from the more immediate identifiable element of the songs, punctuating the obvious in great flashes of blinding flak, dwarfing the players to the importance of hazy silhouettes. Only when a single pool of red light enveloped the defiant figure of Costello and his guitar did it become an integral part. Elvis expressed some discontent with the passivity of the crowd (sitting in their little rows spellbound and busy quietly worshipping) and shortly after ended the set. Twenty minutes later large groups were still demanding an encore, stomping begging pleading but Elvis did not give in, no meek easy going performer he. The man knows what he wants, nothing else will do.
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Clipping and page scan.
Armed Forces
Elvis Costello And The Attractions
Claude Bessy
 With this 3rd well-oiled album (the original English cover was an expensive extravaganza of folding flaps of various designs stuffed with an enclosed assortment of separate pictures, a bonus single — live at Hollywood High, a second sleeve with additional graphics) the Costello assault on the English speaking public reaches even further in its intriguing determination to bypass the well worn roads to mass success: Hardly a trace of any tactical toning down in the mood or the message in this new collection of songs, the little guy insists on incessantly attacking and deriding whatever offends him in humans or organizations or whole countries, arrogantly counting on the strength and seduction of his music to make the crowds swallow the bitter feelings they are not usually keen on accepting. How far can you carry such a gamble like venture? Columbia skillfully underplays the negative tone of Elvis' ideas and emotions, the man himself refuses to comment, soothe or pontify, keeping a respectable distance between his art and his market. The quality of the music can easily seduce the most tone deaf musical programmers, there are enough instantly recognizable tunes, near classic riffs and surface gut appeal to break into the listeners' charts and the near pop perfection of the stuff may be enough to overshadow the definitely not nice thinking that saturates every moment. The original album title, "Emotional Fascism" might have been just a bit too challenging for the cash carrying cattle, it was replaced by a more ambiguous one, making it slightly less obvious to the world that this is after all a relentless attack on many, many things we are all too weak, dumb or cowardly to oppose. Are we also all so deaf that the words will not register while we hum along to the tunes?
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Photo by Roberta Bayley (from Oct. 18, 1978, New York).
Cover and page scan.
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