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"Now seriously, do you know where we can get some drugs? Any kind. A little something. You know how it is."
I'd like to help the man. After all, I do know how it is. And they seem so ... well, nervous. Think of it. A rock band on the road with no drugs! For a well-known rock band to run out of drugs before it runs out of road simply does not happen; or rather cannot be found out to have happened. The situation is embarrassing.
But if you can't speak French and you're a band wandering the Cote d'Azur, and you have no drugs, and are looking for A Little Something, a passing American is always a good bet. Being a passing American, I'm therefore a potential go-between. The fact that I can't speak French either and have, truly, no one to go between doesn't matter. The mere asking for drugs seems to calm the band. The mere question is in itself a connection and makes them feel at home, almost comfy.
And if the Elvis Costello hand is in need of anything these days it is a comfy home complete with mum.
We are standing in an 18th century courtyard in an obscure town in southern France. The band has a concert in Cannes in a few days and is busy recording its exploits on film.
"Wanna try for a take, Elvis?" asks a voice. It belongs to a scruffy American filmaker complete with World War Two flying jacket by Cerruti. He is fondling the zoom-lens of his 16mm Ariflex and gazing distractedly around the courtyard. A tiny generator rattles away, making it difficult to hear in this enclosed stone space.
"What?" Elvis Costello squints through his thick National Health glasses trying to locate the cameraman who is standing about four feet in front of him.
"I said do you wanna try for a take?"
"A take? Oh. Yeh. Gimme a second to practice my moves."
Elvis takes a coin from his pocket and stands off to one side flipping it backhanded from hand to hand. Behind him the rest of his band slouches around the drummer and mutters. Elvis turns and joins the band. After a few minutes of consultation they begin to move around the courtyard to the steady chug of the generator; goofing, jerking, grimacing, stumbling and, in general, enacting a tired version of rock and roll hi-finks circa Hard Day's Night.
"Publicity," the red-eyed head roadie informs me in a hung-over East End mumble. "Footage for Top of the Pops. That sort of rubbish. You know how it is."
And that's exactly how it is. No surprises, even less excitement. Not even here in the French provinces where only a few years ago any mid-level English rock band goofing around these twisting medieval streets would have drawn fans out of the mortar between the stones. All Elvis and the band can manage to attract are a few wine-sodden teenagers, with neither energy nor interest, loitering in the near distance and gazing at the group's antics with vacant expressions.
The antics seem limited to: Elvis solo flipping a coin from hand to hand with arms and legs held slightly apart; the same trick
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