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Elvis Costello is no longer with us. Declan Patrick McManus has done away with his snarling, angry alter ego and re-assumed his original identity. The result, displayed on King of America, appears to be a caustic songwriter who rebelled at the self-absorption of 1977 British punk and identifies himself instead with American country music.
Columbia Records, ever aware of product identification, calls the record King of America — The Costello Show (Featuring Elvis Costello). The album is unique among Costello's — oops, McManus' — recordings in a few ways. The Attractions, McManus' backing band for eight previous albums, are present on only one song. The musicians here are session veterans, including members of the THC band, Elvis Presley's touring unit. There are no synthesizers or percussion programs, and the muted drum playing relies on brushes instead of sticks. McManus' guitar is mellowed, though he bills himself on each song as "The Little Hands of Concrete." King of America contains McManus' most explicit American-bashing; he seems justified in this task because he empathizes with the upstart nation.
What this LP does share with Costello/McManus' previous work is fantastic songwriting. There is not one mediocre tune on the fifteen-cut recording. Much of King of America is "last call music"; it is easy to imagine McManus in a ginmill after closing, playing songs like "Our Little Angel" for himself as the help mops the floor and stacks chairs on tables.
The first track, "Brilliant Mistake," makes a good jab at an American woman who is a talking head: "She said that she was working for the ABC News / It was as much of the alphabet as she knew how to use." "Lovable" is one of the most country-ish cuts. It is a rave-up, dominated by Jerry Scheff's excellent bass playing.
The cover version of "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" has McManus sounding like he's beaten up and lying in an alley. A marimba takes over for the whomping bass of the Animals' original version, and McManus sounds defeatist in comparison to Eric Burden's defiant machismo.
"Glitter Gulch" is an indictment of Hollywood, where they have "prizes if you can afford / some small humiliation before you get your reward." This single should he required listening during Oscar week.
The songs on King of America do not depend so excessively on repetitive metaphors. Unlike the redundancy of Goodbye Crawl World's "Only Flame In Town," "Indoor Fireworks" says simply, "though the sparks would fly / I thought our love was fireproof."
"Little Palaces" is a typical look at English desperation, made stark by the use of only mandolin, acoustic guitar and an unusually reserved string bass by Scheff. The closing track on side one. "I'll Wear It Proudly," is an equally bleak acceptance of lost love.
Side two opens with the album's most complete song, "American Without Tears." It tells the story of a man who is driven from his New Orleans hotel room by television, where "they prosecute anyone who's exciting." The man's lament about the fall of England is more painful because Britannia has been replaced by, ugh. America. "We've been crying now for years and years / Now we don't speak any English / Just American without tears." The song ends as McManus' expressive voice spars with Jo-El Sonnier's French accordion.
"Poisoned Rose," stemming from a typically well-developed image, is nonetheless a bit difficult to listen to. When McManus' intellectual/emotional self-abuse is slowed down this much, the listener might wish the song were shorter.
Just in time to bring back a more uplifting mood, "The Big Light" is the only song on the album that recalls the "racing-full-speed-into-a-brick-wall" pace of a Costello and the Attractions song. The noticeably lightweight tune is about the morning after when a hangover can have "a personality."
The next two songs take up a theme common on King of America. the hollowness of fame. McManus expresses a willingness in "Jack Of All Parades" to forego the privilege of being "everybody's boy." He would prefer to be loved by "one true heart." Little surprise, when "Suit Of Lights" finds the star being "pulled out of the cold, cold ground / and put in a suit of lights." After this renunciation of fame, "Sleep Of The Just" ends the record on an unnecessarily sober note.
With this album, Elvis Costello/Declan Patrick Aloysius McManus denies all the critical guesses about his aspirations. "I don't want to be Buddy Holly or Elvis Presley or Smokey Robinson," he seems to say. "I want to be Willie Nelson." If he sticks to writing songs like Declan McManus, audiences will be content.
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