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Once one of the most prolific of recording artists, Elvis Costello has been conspicuous in his absence since 1986, when he released both King of America and Blood and Chocolate.
Spike, Costello's debut album on Warner Bros., is a standout even in a year that already has produced such four-star efforts as Mystery Girl, Beliza Tropical, and New York? But it's noteworthy not so much for the astonishing scope and variety of its 14 songs as for its dense personal content.
Of course, Elvis as auteur is nothing new: His absolute dedication to his own artistic principals and personal vision has helped make him one of the more interesting pop musicians of the last decade.
But while he's no solipsist, Costello makes demands on his listeners that they're ill-prepared for by Top 40. In its detail, craft, and wordplay this is more like a superior collection of short stories than a rock 'n' roll record — which is much less an indictment of Costello than of rock 'n' roll.
For instance, "Veronica," the first single from the album, belies its brisk, pop sound with a multi-faceted lyric and built-in flashbacks. (Paul McCartney co-wrote the song, and it suggests that the teaming of McCartney and Mac Manus could be as inspiring to both as we might have hoped.)
Like "Veronica," the best of the songs on Spike pose a personal drama against a political context, necessitating a choice by the characters in the song as well as by the listener. The paradox is that in refining his sound and fury, "the beloved entertainer" further limits the audience that is willing to invest its time and money.
In other words, new label or not, Elvis Costello remains a cult phenomenon — kind of a waste for the most gifted lyricist of his generation, you might think. But those are the limits of auteurism — busily tunneling away, hoping to undermine some small sector of the status quo. And somehow, in these times, it's more than enough.
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