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"Elvis asked if I'd seen the lyric sheet to the Japanese pressing of the Almost Blue album. I said I hadn't, and he said, 'Do you know the song "Why Don't You Love Me (Like You Used To Do)"? The line, "Why do you treat me like a worn-out shoe" was transcribed as "Why do you treat me like a one-eyed Jew!" And then he laughed — delightedly."
It's a long drive to Boston, but my passenger is keeping me entertained by relating in detail (and not for the first time) how just a week ago he met Elvis Costello — who we are on our way to see in a solo acoustic concert at the Orpheum. And who we saw two nights ago at Avery Fisher Hall in Lincoln Center. And who we had both met after the 1983 Bridgeport concert, along with the Attractions and the TKO Horns. But that's another story. My co-pilot, Mike, an avid Costello fan since 1977, has the spotlight all to himself for this one, and relishes the retelling.
Here's the Reader's Digest version: Mike had gone to the Stony Brook University Gym on Long Island with a friend and waited outside in the chilly drizzle for hours in order to get first crack at the general admission seats. Near showtime, a limousine pulled up to the building and Costello emerged, waved to the folks in line, and went inside. A second limousine arrived, bearing Costello's sardonic manager Jake Riviera and a well-dressed blonde woman. Mike approached Riviera, who he'd met before at the Bridgeport show and also at assorted Nick Lowe gigs, and though the manager appraised him coolly at first, he then seemed to recognize him and chatted for a few minutes. Mike resumed his place in line. And a few moments later, Jake reappeared and handed him two reserved-seat tickets.
During the intermission following opening artist T Bone Burnett's set, Mike glanced around the auditorium and noticed that sitting directly behind him was the blonde woman he'd seen getting out of the limousine with Elvis' manager. He struck up a conversation with her, mentioned that he'd seen her outside with Jake, and — could she possibly take him backstage later? To his surprise, she agreed. At the end of Elvis' set, before the first encore, she left her seat and motioned for Mike to follow her. And as they watched the encores from the wings, the woman at last introduced herself. "Oh, by the way, I'm not Jake's girlfriend," she said. "I'm Mary." That is, Mrs. Costello.
"The entire evening," Mike says, "was one of those rare, precious moments you wish you could keep in a bottle forever." He recalls that backstage, Elvis was decked out in a black hat and black leather trenchcoat and had a small tunebox by his side. They talked about lots of records, including the new Special AKA single "Nelson Mandela" which Costello produced and Elvis' own collection of obscure jazz albums. Of his next album (working title: Love Field), Elvis said he expects great things, based on his theory that his best work falls on alternating albums (and the last of such stature being, in his opinion, Imperial Bedroom). They also discussed the Elvis Costello Information Service, a fanzine published in Holland that Costello said had gone so far as to inspect his garbage and tap his father's telephone. Mike subscribes to ECIS, so he tells this with some consternation. All the while, Mike says, Mary looked on, beaming proudly. "She was very stylish," he recalls, "but very sweet. There was definitely something old-fashioned about her."
The car is briefly quiet. We're still a good half-hour from Boston. Mike turns on the radio, listens to Cyndi Lauper for barely a second, and snaps it back off. "You have to listen to so much music that doesn't give you anything valuable," he says. "Yeah, Stony Brook was a really good show. He was so mechanical at Avery Fisher."
Well, I respond, how would you feel doing a solo set at the Lincoln Center?
"Yeah," Mike says, "I was intimidated just finding my seat in that place. I wonder what new stuff he'll do tonight. I have the setlist from Long Island — the head roadie took it right off his grand piano for me — and do you know all the songs that were written on there that he didn't even play? 'Goon Squad,' 'The Element Within Her,' 'I'm Your Toy,' 'Withered and Died' by Richard Thompson..."
Boston: 20 Miles.
The people who have come to the Orpheum are the most ardent concentration of Elvis' admirers, not the johnny-come-latelys who still expect him to stalk out onstage in a perpetual snit nor the likes of the leftover Clash fans that gave me bruises the size of fried eggs at the Cape Cod Coliseum two years ago. This crowd has come to hear Costello's songs pared down to the barest of essentials: guitar or keyboard used as a basic rhythm instrument, voice for the melody. And the lyrics, taken out of the usual context of Bruce Thomas' wry bass lines and Steve Nieve's keyboard acrobatics, leap out of the speakers as if freshly minted:
"Somebody's watching where the others don't walk."
"She gets tired of the lust but it's so hard to refuse."
"Trying to be so bad is bad enough."
The Orpheum's sound system and acoustics are so clear that on several occasions I hear the entire audience draw a sharp breath in unison at a particular phrase — whether because they've finally understood the words or because the familiar syllables suddenly say something different, it's hard to tell. But the emotion is audible.
Costello has their number, all those age old gremlins of love, libido, power and jealousy that have bedeviled humans for time eternal, cropping up everywhere from the Bible to Shakespeare to Woody Allen to General Hospital. "I could swear, I could promise that I'll always be true to you," he says in "Man Called Uncle," adding with gentle chagrin, "But we may not live to be so old." And like those emotions of which he sings, Costello, incongruous as always with his electric guitar and baggy grey suit, is bound to no particular era, no specific genre. "Like the song on Imperial Bedroom," Mike says, "he really is a 'Man Out of Time.'"
As usual for an Elvis set, the cover tunes are surprisingly varied. This performance includes songs by Bob Dylan, Charlie Rich, Prefab Sprout, Jerry Dammers and June Tabor. And while the audience sings along (softly) with the songs they know, they listen in pin-drop silence to new material like "Worthless Thing" (sort of a "Radio, Radio" for television), the poignant "Only Flame in Town" and "Love Field" and of course "Peace in Our Time," the antiwar song that was debuted at Elvis' UK Christmas shows last year and has recently been released as an import single under the pseudonym The Imposter.
After the third encore, Mike is on his feet; still clapping. He looks pleased and exhausted. "I've seen this guy everywhere, from Providence to Cape Cod to Bridgeport, to Jones Beach — I even saw him at the Shaboo on the Stiff tour — but this may have been the best one ever."
Though neither of us boast the official black-and-white backstage passes, Mike has to try to meet Costello just one more time and we queue up with other hopefuls at the stage door. Just as we reach Checkpoint Charlie, Jake Riviera appears, spies Mike and waves us on in graciously. And this is the man who threatened to nail a would-be Elvis biographer (and her publishers) to the nearest wall? Another myth shattered. Or dented, anyway.
We wait somewhere below the Orpheum stage in a tiny whitewashed room with a ceiling full of pipes. Nobody touches the buffet, but a few help themselves to Heinekens. T Bone Burnett mills around, a cordial caricature who towers over everyone. He finally sits down and several people ask for autographs. In a tight, spiky hand he writes little yearbook-type platitudes: "Look up!! All good things are coming." But the guy's as down-to-earth as Will Rogers, and you know he means them.
"I saw you with the Rolling Thunder Revue," Mike tells him. T Bone's already-prominent eyes widen.
"But you were just a baby then!" he exclaims.
The metal stair clatters and suddenly there they are, Elvis in the black hat and trench-coat and Mary on his arm, smiling, looking splendid in a leopard-and-leather jacket. Everyone takes a step back and for a moment no one ventures forward. So Mr. and Mrs. Costello step into our midst, both smiling and shaking hands. Elvis spots Mike and with a grin says something about "the world traveller." He is polite, almost formal, with a direct gaze and a good firm handshake, obliging those asking questions or seeking autographs. He periodically reaches for Mary's hand or puts a hand on her shoulder.
"Elvis, I have to tell you this," Mike says. "You know how much you admire people like Holland and Dozier — "
"Yeah," Costello says. "As a matter of fact, I met them again three weeks ago — and I never told them how great they were!"
"Well, the way you feel about them," Mike continues, "is the way I feel about what you do."
Costello looks down for a second, then says quietly, "Thanks very much. You don't have to say any more."
It all reminds me of the time I waited in front of the television for Elvis' appearance on the Tomorrow show. After hearing so many tales of the angry young songwriter and witnessing his vitriolic Saturday Night Live set, not to mention having access to few print interviews at the time, I wasn't sure what he'd be like on camera. And when he finally came out and began to banter with Tom Snyder, he was — charming. Sharp and witty, tossing off asides that sailed right over Snyder's head, and absolutely charming. So he is in person.
Jake Riviera, champagne glass in hand, has by now joined the rest of us jostling for position in the tiny room. "I've convinced Nick Lowe to stop drinking," he says dramatically. "I've saved his life. The new album's the best thing he's ever done. The new Elvis album will be the best thing he's ever done."
The people without backstage passes are talking to Elvis, Mary and T Bone. The people with backstage passes are all talking to each other. A woman who's been hovering around Jake all night offers to buy him a drink somewhere, but he declines with some gracious vagueness about getting off to Rochester for the next show. I ask Mary about their son Mark, who will be eight this year. "He's on school holiday now, staying with his uncle," she says, adding almost apologetically, "I'm going back home to England tomorrow. I can't keep up with life on the road."
Elvis writes "Good Luck" on the back of one of Mike's business cards. Mike then asks Mary for her signature. She modestly declines at first, then takes the pen at Elvis' gentle nudging. "Lots of Love, Mary, XX" she writes, then asks mischievously, "So, do you have my new album?" Mike approaches Jake for an autograph. "I only sign checks," he says drily.
Just as suddenly as they appeared, they're all bidding us farewell and the Orpheum's stage manager is thanking us all for coming in a very loud voice, heavily dropping the hint that it's time to lock up the store and go home. We wander through the lobby, empty now but for the crew, who are scurrying to load the equipment van. The head roadie looks up from his checklist with a broad smile. "Hello, Mike! Are you coming to the show in Rochester tomorrow?"
"No matter what's happening in your life, good or bad," Mike is saying as we wheel onto the highway, leaving Boston behind, "you can go back to the guy's music and a line will just jump out, like he's speaking directly to you. Everything else, musically, is so pale by comparison. And now it's all over again. We won't see him till he comes back with the Attractions in August."
Silence drifts through the car. The evening is finally beginning to wind down, though all is still fresh and vivid in the memory. A toll booth glares in the distance and I grope in my pocket for exact change. Then there's a voice from the passenger seat.
"Say... how far is it to Rochester?"
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