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First off-putting thing is the name: Elvis Costello. I mean, "Elvis," yipe! Crass? Manipulative?
Well, maybe, except I've heard tell he claims it's his own name.
And after listening to his album My Aim is True (on CBS), I'll grant his claim. Who knows what mothers in the 1950s were thinking anyhow; just notice how many Dylans were christened in the 1960s.
The Elvis comparisons are legitimate in spirit, not final results. Costello doesn't sound anything like Presley, but like the first Elvis his music has the ring of the real goods: a genuine rock and roll original.
And that earns him the name if he wants it.
But what about his looks? Who needs another ugly punker?
Glimpsed on last week's Saturday Night Live, he had ouches written in every lap of skin. Somebody help this poor twisted boy!
Lumpy jeans rolled at the bottoms, Salvation Army thrift-shop jacket, hair pruned by hedge-clippers, eyes peering dimly through black horn-rims, clutching the mic, tottering, flailing the guitar. Craa-zee!
Uh-huh. Crazy as a fox. The boy knows exactly what he's up to, at least so far as his music is concerned.
Imagine a reincarnation of Buddy Holly, chopped and channelled by two decades of rock and roll hysteria, overdosed on the narcotic of electronics, time-warped into society so past and future mingle.
That's Elvis, and I'll bet he knows it.
Costello has torn rock's history apart, dissected the limbs, then stapled it back together into his own special creature — new and different, and yet all the historical traces show plainly around the seams.
Springsteen does it his own way, Graham Parker and the Rumour would like to, Bryan Ferry has had his moments. As I've written before, these guys can tell you more about the sources of the music than any critic can on paper.
The innocence of the early days is lost, of course. Holly forged into the unknown; today rock is utterly self-conscious and must operate within rigid awareness.
And yet Costello sounds new, fresh, exciting. He twists unexpected lyrics around rock-steady tunes, the images striking sparks against each other. I can walk on the water but I'm no "Miracle Man," he says; "Alison" may touch suicide but who can help it; "Blame it on Cain" (who else for second-hand sin?) he advises; "The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes," he warns.
And the hoarse voice has nothing careless about it: his back-up band on television was as tightly controlled as he seemed ready to freak out.
Not so crazy at all.
Especially when other bands will be doing Elvis' songs. Most of the punks have to fall back on rock standards; Elvis could already be a source. Drop into the Royale here in Windsor, for instance, and the Delaney Brothers will play you a few — though they have special kindred to Buddy too.
Elvis, they say, used to be a computer programmer.
I'm typing this into a computer. Maybe there's hope after all.
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