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The lyric sheet on the inner sleeve of Imperial Bedroom could pass for one of the
more pretentious art pieces you see on the walls of certain trendy Manhattan restaurants. It looks like a cross between an eye chart and a microfilm of a coded spy document. Unintentionally, I think, it has the effect of rendering Elvis Costello's breathless array of puns, word plays, and speed-freak rhymes just about meaningless. The irony is that the aural version, the record itself, has the same effect. I suppose I should be grateful that any songwriter in 1982 is so concerned with the use of words, but apparently the only way Costello can demonstrate that is by using a lot of them. There's no denying his cleverness, but getting at the truth of male/female relationships, as he seems to be trying to do, requires more than sloganeering and occasional obeisances to old Cole Porter songs.
In terms of production, this is the slickest record Costello has done. The Attractions are augmented with strings and horns, and the musical idiom ranges from late Beatles to Philly Soul to French cabaret. But the tunes are shapeless and dull, the lyrics sophomoric and verbose. Costello constantly reaches for vocal effects that are beyond him, fine singer though he is. The overall impression I got is of an unpleasant, garrulous smugness. In short, a record that only a determinedly trendy rock critic could love.
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