Melody Maker, July 13, 1991

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That bloody awful beard doesn't help matters, no, but there's far, far more to it than that. Whether it's something to do with the worthy plod of the backing bond and the dull pedestrian arrangements, or whether it's in the startling lack of verve in the vocals, which just grizzle where once they raged, spat and bit, or whether it's tied up in the complete non-appearance of Costello's essential impulsive mischief, the unassailable impression left is that that's not Elvis Costello up there singing tonight. We who have held Cossello's songs in a pioce very close to our hearts for many TOktconome tonight looking for reason to forgive the feeble "Mighty like A Rose" (spectacular wordplay as - from dearth of ideas, verclant instrumentcrtion as compensation for relative lock of songs) and leave wondering what it can possibly be that impels a man only about threeyears older than Shaun Ryder to a ve like a crotchety, brandishing grandfather of several. The thing with Costello's driving wr was always that it was as accurate as it was ferocious, hunting down deserting targets with withering accuracy, and yet counterpointed by some of the loveliest sentiments ever sung (II Wear it Proudly', omitted tonight, still knots the ventricles lace no other). Tonight's stand-in Costello trades solely in indiscriminate peevish irritation. Some faintly amusing lines in an updated 'Tromp The Dirt Down" arouse a response of tumultuous Pavlovian liberalism near the finish, but it's hardly "He's contemplating murder °gain/ He must be in love". And when he does try to come over all tormented-but-lender, al he succeeds in doing is reducing "Alison' to a whined complaint c not a lament) set to blundering occomponiment. I who starx1 before you and faff around the point admit it because I honestly haven't the faintest due what Costello, or whoever, thinks he's doing. This makes hirn (still) less tediously transparent thon most, but it does not make tonight any good. Such searing essays in the art of the song as "Accidents WA Happen", "Suit Of lights" and 'Temptation" ore delivered with an indifference which would have been perversely thrilling were it contemptuous, but it's just indifferent. "The Other Side Of Summer", arguably his best ever, is stripped of the giddy fairground organs, as on acoustic (someone's got the bootleg version of alike A Rolling Stone') and demonstrates that there's a thoroughly boring song in there struggling to get out; "Veronica" -Waise„ and the dreadful "So lace Candy" goes on for weeks and tails off it 1 Want You",, outrageous waste of his Icier punch. Never, however, does it grind so close to a complete halt as it does when Costello feels it neiCeirry, as he so often does, to take a Slat the hits of Blind tilarip Chutney or somesuch and enSs on on excruciating Sues epic with the band shuffling comer** along behind him. (Any claims Costello has to a blues heritage are as fictitious and pointless as those 112 laid on 'Rattle & Hum". Why this craving for such spurious notions of "authenticity"? What is he scared of? Transience, at this stage?) The bond are at al times competent, never as exclamatory and muscular as The Attractions or as versatile and wired as The Confederates) and Marc Riot's guitar *eying throughout is so relentlessly pubr-rodc one can only assume he's taking the pin. Costello's decision to take a turn at the piano provokes a speckxular stampede in the direction alike conveniences, which is a shame, btxouse "Couldn't Call It Unexpected" is gorgeous, and octually sung with Costello's customary arresting passion. His voice, when he can be bothered to push it, remains serrated and scabrous, one of the most potent in pop. Pt's a great moment, and one that makes you wish there were more like it, but when Sends, as great things must, it's bock to tepid stomps through Lowe's " la•tis So Funny 'Bout) Peace Uwe And Understanding'?" and yet further butchery with blunt instruments. Tonight's was a wretchedly drab performance from one of the most compelling in the business. The temptation to announce that Costello has now gone irretrievably Over The Wal, that he's now as much a hollow, shelled-out old bore as those he's odopied as lis "contemporaries" of late (McGuinn, McCartney) is great, but it's not as simple as that. Wash a talent as deep, wide and tall as his, it never is. All I know is that the Elvis Costello whose records have sung to me louder over the years than almost anyone else's seems to have absconded and token the till with him. The old mon with the beard means nothing to me. << >> Melody Maker, July 13, 1991 Andrew Mueller reviews Elvis Costello & The Rude 5, Hammersmith Odeon, London, England (July 1-7, 1991). Images File:1991-07-13 Melody Maker page 14 clipping.jpg Clipping. Photo by Stephen Sweet. Cover.

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