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Fifteen thousand tongues hanging out, drooling. Not a pleasant sight. Openers Squeeze — playful, frisky, but as lost in this big barn of a place as a blind puppy going for your ankles — were pretty much tolerated as the wait went on. It's been over two years and 40 songs since EC played here — going in one year from the Whisky to the Civic to a cut-down "Intimate Arena setting," I quote — with a show that was dull, detached, bare and blase and about as intimate as a dead vibrator. A small bespectacled Bendy-toy going through the motions before an All-American cheerleader crowd dressed up to the nines. Then it seemed that American rock had got to Elvis before Elvis had got to American rock — as lifeless as the rest of them.
But somewhere in between (absence makes the heart, time heals all wounds etc. etc. etc.) Elvis has GOT HAPPY and it makes for one hellofa show. The packed crowd was bananas in advance. Anything would have been okay, but we got the lot. Showman, Crooner, Redcoat, Rock and Roller — hallelujah, light the bangers and fire the soundman, another night of rock 'n' roll heaven in a basketball barn.
It starts — surprise, surprise — with a slow one, a solo. A paunchy El, crammed into the suit a farmer wears when he goes to see his bank manager, bulging waistcoat and all, croons a new one. "Shot With His Own Gun," accompanied by just a sad piano, moody spotlight and Al Jolson hand-gestures and tasteless whoops and whistles from the rabid throng at all the wrong moments. A powerful beginning.
Then on run Bruce and Pete for "Accidents Will Happen" and the pace gets more hysterical as more and more songs in the Official '80s Dance-beat follow on recklessly, provocatively; Farmer Elvis flinging himself into ringing, wiry, passionate guitar breaks over the Attractions' hard, brilliant backing, still managing to shine through the murky sound (my old Dansette used to be better, I swear).
Though there's enough oldies to generate enough apeshit reaction to fertilise the entire California basin, about a third of the set is new stuff, presumably from the next album. A nation getting used to its new conservatism will be relieved to hear that there's no radical departure here from the old EC sound we know and love (though a lot of the subtleties of something you're hearing for the first time get drowned in this arena's despicable sound system). "Clubland's" a passionate song accompanied by a moving star-and-sky backdrop — how's that for showmanship — "Love Is Work" (or maybe "Love Is War," couldn't work out which, though both sound very Costello, what with his tendency to make love and spit daggers all at the same time in his songs).
"Radio, Radio" gets dedicated to radio station "delinquents who went from disco to country", the bespectacled hand-biter sounding like any jukebox in the Bible Belt with his wonderfully schmaltzy rendition of "But She's Not You," lush and lovely and almost over-the-top. I like Elvis best when he gets slushy and sings about women. The crowd — on its feet from note one — begged to differ and was itching for the frantic, restless numbers, most of which had at least the approximation of a jaunty little quickstep chucked in by out star.
Another new, slow one (something about little sisters wanting to try on big sister's clothes) finished the set as it began; low, caressing and brooding with a kick inside.
Last time no amount of pleading would bring him back for more. This time we had five encores! Glenn Tilbrook of Squeeze joined in on guitar and vocals for "Waiting Too Long" (underlining my new theory that Squeeze are fine musicians but lacking in the focus to be a good band without a dynamic frontman). Then "Alison," a more bouncy version than usual, and "Watching The Detectives," nothing short of brilliant, with Elvis coming off as Soul Man, managing to stick in a verse or two of Stevie Wonder's "Master Blaster" before the song is over. Back again for a victorious "Can't Stand Up For Falling Down" and — this is definitely going to ruin his Nasty Bugger image — a fifth intense "Pump It Up" with the whole hall sweating. Must have made a real mess of his nice tweed suit, dancing like a tight rubber band that's just been snapped. Whatever's in those pills, he should keep taking them, because a happy Elvis puts on one wonderful show. (PS. Fire the soundman.)
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