Trouser Press, June 1979: Difference between revisions
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"So what?" I hear you whine. So that crummy bunch of disjointed facts is what landed me with this crazy assignment, which has got me up till Clapton-knows-what-time of the morning — with 12.5 milligrams of Duraphet playing pinochle with the crevices of my cerebral cortex, and two or three gallons of orange juice dyeing my tongue the color of a pumpkin. I daren't look at the clock. | "So what?" I hear you whine. So that crummy bunch of disjointed facts is what landed me with this crazy assignment, which has got me up till Clapton-knows-what-time of the morning — with 12.5 milligrams of Duraphet playing pinochle with the crevices of my cerebral cortex, and two or three gallons of orange juice dyeing my tongue the color of a pumpkin. I daren't look at the clock. | ||
Like so many before them, ''Trouser Press'' had shafted themselves straight into the Elvis Costello bear trap. They'd scheduled a cover story on the man. He deserved it, they'd been the first American paper to put him on the cover, they'd always been behind the lad, made ''This Year's Model'' the ''TP'' fave album of the year, plus ''Armed Forces'' was suddenly big business. So there it was. Deft Kantian reasoning of unarguably symmetrical beauty. One problem. Elvis don't do interviews, even with old friends. Ask <i>NME</i>'s Nicholas Kent. | Like so many before them, ''Trouser Press'' had shafted themselves straight into the Elvis Costello bear trap. They'd scheduled a cover story on the man. He deserved it, they'd been the first American paper to put him on the cover, they'd always been behind the lad, made ''This Year's Model'' the ''TP'' fave album of the year, plus ''Armed Forces'' was suddenly big business. So there it was. Deft Kantian reasoning of unarguably symmetrical beauty. One problem. Elvis don't do interviews, even with old friends. Ask <i>NME</i>'s Nicholas Kent. | ||
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(If you're still in doubt, ask ''New York Rocker''. Their original cover story was meant to be by Kent. He offered them a piece which had already appeared in ''NME''. They rejected it — it finally turned up as <i>Creem</i>'s cover story. Then they contacted my fellow Sounds writer, Sandy Robertson. Duly telexed at the last minute, his story was also dumped — too negative or something. Finally, Andy Schwartz hacked out nothing and called it "Elvis — The Story He Won't Tell." Won't tell? My grandmother could have told him and she's keeping the maggots company.) | (If you're still in doubt, ask ''New York Rocker''. Their original cover story was meant to be by Kent. He offered them a piece which had already appeared in ''NME''. They rejected it — it finally turned up as <i>Creem</i>'s cover story. Then they contacted my fellow Sounds writer, Sandy Robertson. Duly telexed at the last minute, his story was also dumped — too negative or something. Finally, Andy Schwartz hacked out nothing and called it "Elvis — The Story He Won't Tell." Won't tell? My grandmother could have told him and she's keeping the maggots company.) | ||
Still, a challenge is a challenge, and, like most others, I can't help but be drawn like a voyeuristic moth to the panache of the Costello Blut and Eisen [''That's "blood and iron," folks — Ed.''] assault on the consciousness of the Western world. And the problem is that it's often difficult to pinpoint the precise reason for the success of that campaign — leaving aside, that is, the sheer hard work that's gone into it. | Still, a challenge is a challenge, and, like most others, I can't help but be drawn like a voyeuristic moth to the panache of the Costello Blut and Eisen [''That's "blood and iron," folks — Ed.''] assault on the consciousness of the Western world. And the problem is that it's often difficult to pinpoint the precise reason for the success of that campaign — leaving aside, that is, the sheer hard work that's gone into it. | ||
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The rest of the time, though, he seems to fall too easily into what's wanted rather than what's needed (there's a nice rehash of a Dylan/Costello paradox for you). Play the hits, keep the record company satisfied. And he plainly hates doing it. Sometimes, maybe, his brusque treatment of audiences has its roots in disgust at himself. | The rest of the time, though, he seems to fall too easily into what's wanted rather than what's needed (there's a nice rehash of a Dylan/Costello paradox for you). Play the hits, keep the record company satisfied. And he plainly hates doing it. Sometimes, maybe, his brusque treatment of audiences has its roots in disgust at himself. | ||
And, while he started out with that whole bagful of exquisitely crafted songs, ''My Aim Is True'' still sounds like everything was made | And, while he started out with that whole bagful of exquisitely crafted songs, ''My Aim Is True'' still sounds like everything was made to suffer grievously at the hands of Clover. Lovely blokes probably (although my sources indicate otherwise), but they still sound like the proverbial Marin County cowboys on Valium. Even the burgeoning talents of Nick Lowe couldn't salvage the likes of "Sneaky Feelings" from their grip. Anyway that was the least of Lowe's problems. If reports are to be believed, he kept on nipping back to the Stiff offices during the recording sessions for a spot of rest and recuperation and a few large Pernods, moaning, "Gawd, I can't take all this gloom and despondency much longer." Since ''Aim'' and the arrival of the Attractions, though, it's been a whole different story of course. | ||
to suffer grievously at the hands of Clover. Lovely blokes probably (although my sources indicate otherwise), but they still sound like the proverbial Marin County cowboys on Valium. Even the burgeoning talents of Nick Lowe couldn't salvage the likes of "Sneaky Feelings" from their grip. Anyway that was the least of Lowe's problems. If reports are to be believed, he kept on nipping back to the Stiff offices during the recording sessions for a spot of rest and recuperation and a few large Pernods, moaning, "Gawd, I can't take all this gloom and despondency much longer." Since ''Aim'' and the arrival of the Attractions, though, it's been a whole different story of course. | |||
And finally, the most telling chink in his armor is his habit of sometimes reaching for the first facile phrase, metaphor or paradox that comes his way. Balancing the terse precision of "Pump It Up" (the perfect phrase describing doing it all to death) there's the likes of the glib and inane ''"Your mouth is made up / But your mind is undone."'' And sometimes he ladles on the menace so deep and so thick, as on "Hand in Hand," that it ends up sounding almost laughable. | And finally, the most telling chink in his armor is his habit of sometimes reaching for the first facile phrase, metaphor or paradox that comes his way. Balancing the terse precision of "Pump It Up" (the perfect phrase describing doing it all to death) there's the likes of the glib and inane ''"Your mouth is made up / But your mind is undone."'' And sometimes he ladles on the menace so deep and so thick, as on "Hand in Hand," that it ends up sounding almost laughable. | ||
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Two years ago he was still the unhappily married computer clerk with a kid trying to hustle his way into the big time on the back of some country demos that he got DJ Charlie Gillett to play on the radio. First the deal with Stiff, then the overnight putsch which ended up with him, manager Jake Riviera and Nick Lowe striking out on their own. It was around this time that he tried to interest Columbia by busking on the pavement outside their conference at the London Hilton. They ignored him. He got busted. And, as in all good fairy tales, they finally signed him. (This, incidentally, has not always been the smoothest of relationships. Reportedly Mr. Riviera was asked to restrict himself to conducting his business over the phone after he accused one of the employees in the Columbia Art Department of being a defenseless little cripple. Unfortunately, said employee was a...) | Two years ago he was still the unhappily married computer clerk with a kid trying to hustle his way into the big time on the back of some country demos that he got DJ Charlie Gillett to play on the radio. First the deal with Stiff, then the overnight putsch which ended up with him, manager Jake Riviera and Nick Lowe striking out on their own. It was around this time that he tried to interest Columbia by busking on the pavement outside their conference at the London Hilton. They ignored him. He got busted. And, as in all good fairy tales, they finally signed him. (This, incidentally, has not always been the smoothest of relationships. Reportedly Mr. Riviera was asked to restrict himself to conducting his business over the phone after he accused one of the employees in the Columbia Art Department of being a defenseless little cripple. Unfortunately, said employee was a...) | ||
Less than 20 months gone by. Three albums. Clutches of singles — last time I looked I had 11 of the blighters and that wasn't counting "What's So Funny" or the odd promo-only 12-incher. Wide-ranging tour after punishing tour — only now he doesn't have to squeeze the band and their guitars in one station wagon like he did on the first visit to the Americas. The wife's gone. She got the house and, I should imagine, the kid. He's got Bebe Buell. Such is the price of fame. | Less than 20 months gone by. Three albums. Clutches of singles — last time I looked I had 11 of the blighters and that wasn't counting "What's So Funny" or the odd promo-only 12-incher. Wide-ranging tour after punishing tour — only now he doesn't have to squeeze the band and their guitars in one station wagon like he did on the first visit to the Americas. The wife's gone. She got the house and, I should imagine, the kid. He's got Bebe Buell. Such is the price of fame. |
Revision as of 19:55, 7 May 2015
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