Complicated Shadows (12 page)

The songs were an intriguing mixture of the personal and the persona-building. While there is no reason to doubt Declan when he said that ‘whatever lyrical code or fancy was employed, the
songs came straight out of my life plain enough’,
¹⁴
it’s also equally certain that with songs like ‘Mystery Dance’,
‘Miracle Man’, ‘No Dancing’ and ‘Sneaky Feelings’, Declan had, not entirely accidentally, hit upon a unique rock ’n’ roll creation.

He admitted as much to Nick Kent in the infamous interview conducted for the
New Musical Express
in August 1977, best remembered for his oft-repeated quote: ‘The only two things
that matter to me, the only motivating points for me writing all these songs, are revenge and guilt. Those are the only emotions I know about.’

Although those were to be the lines that stuck fast in people’s minds, elsewhere in the interview he was unambiguous about the way in which he consciously tailored a lyrical style and
means of expression that combined his own – undoubtedly genuine – painful personal experiences with a keen eye for a gap in the rock market.

‘[Those] are the only songs in a rock idiom where a guy is admitting absolute defeat,’ he told Kent in 1977, referring to the tracks on
My Aim Is True
. ‘I’m
talking about being a
complete
loser. That’s something totally new to the rock idiom, which by its very nature is immature and totally macho-orientated in its basic attitude. Only in
country music can you find a guy singing about that kind of deprivation honestly.’

It was a lesson he had learned from the likes of George Jones and Charlie Rich, and it was perhaps the most significant factor in allowing Declan to make such a dramatic early impact as a
lyricist. At a time when most pop and rock idols were expected to brag about how they were – in the words of Bruce Springsteen – gonna ‘Prove It All Night’, a skinny little
man confessing to
being a wimp and a loser was something quite out of the blue. It was a neat ruse, and along with the soon-to-be unveiled new name and image, it ensured that
Declan arrived on the scene with a ready-made persona so strong that it virtually guaranteed him a shot at the big time.

It was all rather more contrived than many might have imagined. The context, of course, was punk, which for all its claims at having no boundaries was as strict and unforgiving in its membership
rites as any other social or musical movement. Elvis’s style of both dress and music, his background and tastes, were in reality far removed from the punk ethic, but he saw that this was not
the time to be singing country ballads in Great Britain.

The plight of Clover had not been lost on him: superb musicians who could write, record and perform their own music to an exceptional standard, they had wilted in the hothouse environment of the
UK – and more specifically London – in the summer of 1976 and the eighteen months that followed. ‘All those qualities were the worst thing [Clover] could have had going for them
then,’ he said. ‘I could see that.’
¹⁵
As such, he allowed himself to be swept along in the slipstream of punk and kept his more
ambitious musical ideas in check until he had established himself. ‘There was a whole bunch of things I could have done even back then. However, I tailored my songs and style very
purposefully because I knew which way the prevailing winds were blowing. I was shrewder than most people.’
¹⁶

A telling admission, but nothing particularly new. Bob Dylan had jumped on the ‘protest’ bandwagon in the early ’60s to gain a foothold in the music business, courtesy of a
highly conservative folk scene he instinctively knew he would outgrow and outlast. Declan was merely doing the same, sophisticated enough to realise that punk was far too narrow to hold him, yet
astute enough to know that it gave him the perfect opportunity to make his mark.

Later, he reasoned, he could do what he
really
wanted to do, but for the time being, if people were going to get excited about a seething young man in glasses ramming tales of
inadequacy, ‘revenge and guilt’ down their throats,
then he would give them what they wanted. It almost backfired, to the point where it would later take him all
his creative energy to try and shake off the image. Like Woody Allen’s more benign cinematic creation, the grudge-bearing, bespectacled nerd on a losing streak was a winner from the start,
but would prove rather more difficult to set in reverse.

* * *

With Declan’s debut single, ‘Less Than Zero’ b/w ‘Radio Sweetheart’, scheduled for release on 25 March 1977, both Robinson and Riviera took the
view that D.P. Costello was too prosaic a name for their new Stiff protégé. The label already had a reputation for marketing nous, taking pride in Sptheir sloganeering and gimmicky
advertising ruses. Their principal slogan – ‘If It Ain’t Stiff It Ain’t Worth A Fuck’ – was a fairly straightforward statement of intent regarding the
unapologetic, swaggering manner in which the label presented itself, while others such as ‘We’re Not The Same, You’re Not The Same’ tapped into the timely thirst for a
paradoxical sense of ‘collective individuality’.

Declan also enjoyed that side of the label, the product of heavily fuelled get-togethers at Alexander Street. Now Stiff went to work on him. The legend states that the change of name took place
during a drunken meeting in a restaurant on the Fulham Road early in 1977, although John Ciambotti recalls Jake Riviera bursting into the studio and shouting ‘Elvis! That’s it.
Elvis!’, which is at least a nice story, albeit one from the Vincente Minelli school of narrative.

Whatever the exact circumstances, the idea was a piece of quintessential Riviera inspiration/idiocy. It was risky. ‘I was amazed that [Declan] took it,’ admits Dave Robinson.
‘He was keen to get going, and it would seem looking back that he committed himself to the idea of it, so he accepted everything. He felt Jake and I or some combination of the two knew
everything and he would do what we wanted.’

‘Jake and Dave would come at you like good-cop, bad-cop,’ Declan recalled. ‘“
This’ll be great”,
Jake just said,
“We’re going to call you Elvis. Ha ha ha ha!”. And I thought it was just one of these mad things that would pass off, and of course it didn’t. Then it became a
matter of honour as to whether we could carry it off.’
¹⁷

In March 1977, Elvis Presley was still alive and nobody had any idea at that time that he was so ill; to many, he was still the reigning ‘King of Rock ’n’ Roll’. Within a
few months Presley would be dead, his demise bizarrely coming within weeks of the release of
My Aim Is True
. Then, Costello’s name came to inherit a harder edge, and also embodied a
little more the mood of the zeitgeist.

But all this was merely luck. At the time it occurred, the change from Declan to Elvis represented some of the less inventive aspects of the punk era: a juvenile jab at shocking the
establishment which could be traced directly back to the Sex Pistols and myriad other, more jokey punk acts. Declan taking on the name of Elvis rendered the multi-faceted arrogance so obvious in
his music bluntly explicit rather than cunningly implicit. It could have gone badly wrong.

Some people had huge problems with the name. Charlie Gillett for one was appalled, and claims it took him a long time to say the name aloud without it leaving a bitter taste in his mouth; while
both John McFee and John Ciambotti thought Declan would ‘get stoned’ if he toured America. Other people just found it funny. The fledgling Boomtown Rats handed their demo tape into
Stiff in early ’77 and met Dave Robinson, who introduced Declan to the band, at the same time telling them they were changing his name to Elvis. ‘We all went, “fucking
hell!”,’ recalls Bob Geldof. ‘Everyone started pissing themselves, and we went [sarcastically], “Oh!
That’s
good!”.’

In the US, some journalists felt it was disrespectful, especially after Presley’s death, and Declan even felt the need to offer a rare explanation: ‘It wasn’t meant as an
insult to Elvis Presley,’ he said towards the end of 1977. ‘It’s unfortunate if anyone thinks we’re having a go at him in any way.’
¹⁸
However, he was not immune to the sense of drama the name provoked. It simply stopped people dead in their tracks. ‘It meant people would pause just that
little bit longer,’ he said. ‘“He can’t be called
that
! He is called that!” By that time, they’d noticed me more than the bloke called Joe
Smith.’
¹⁹

To complete the striking picture, Declan was now decked out in tight thrift shop suit jackets, turned-up jeans, and big, Buddy Holly-style spectacles. It was a cartoon caricature of his existing
look, with everything blown up large for effect. He already wore glasses, but they were discreet and rimless rather than black-framed and oversized; there are pictures of Declan from 1974 with his
jeans turned up, but now he turned them up six inches rather than two. He had always been physically slightly awkward; now he was gawky and comically knock-kneed.

Dave Robinson takes the plaudits for the exaggerated glasses. ‘I said “Can you try these on?” So he put them on, he was wearing some funny grey suit, we looked at him and
thought “Elvis Costello!” And he didn’t tell us to fuck off, he just said, OK. I remember thinking, “Have we made a big mistake here or what?”.’ Ian Gomm of
Brinsley Schwarz recalls walking into the Stiff office in Alexander Street and meeting Declan ‘flying out of the door’ on his way out. ‘He was wearing these stupid glasses. Jake
was behind him, shouting: “And don’t fucking take them off!”.’

At the age of twenty-two, Elvis Costello was born.

PART TWO

Don’t Come Any Closer,

Don’t Come Any Nearer

E
LVIS
C
OSTELLO MADE HIS LIVE DEBUT
with two short, unscheduled guest slots supporting The Rumour at London’s Nashville
Rooms on Friday, 27 and Saturday, 28 May. The acoustic guitar had gone, regarded as a relic of the D.P. days; instead, he backed himself with the crisp, biting tones of a Fender electric. Nattily
turned out in shades, jacket, waistcoat and loosened tie, over the two nights Elvis played urgent solo sets which included ‘Red Shoes’, ‘Waiting For The End Of The World’,
‘Mystery Dance’, ‘Hoover Factory’ and ‘I’m Not Angry’.

The gigs provided the only break in a long, frustrating lull in proceedings following the adrenalin rush of making
My Aim Is True
. The release of ‘Less Than Zero’ in March
1977 was intended to herald the imminent launch of the album, but the record was delayed until the end of July while Stiff resolved a dispute with Island over a distribution deal that the two
labels were finalising.

In the meantime, a further two singles were released to proclaim Elvis’s talents to the world, but the world wasn’t necessarily interested. Like their predecessor, both
‘Alison’ and ‘Red Shoes’ failed to do any business in the charts or on mainstream radio, despite their obvious strengths. Elvis’s career effectively remained on hold.
He was still trudging into Elizabeth Arden every day to earn a living, trooping back to Whitton in the evening to be with his wife and two-year-old son.

The feeling of being left in limbo brought his desire to get going bubbling somewhere close to boiling point. He remained in occasional touch with some of his Flip City
friends, and they noticed a definite gear change in his attitude when they all attended a gig at Kingston Polytechnic. ‘He turned up with the drainpipe jeans and the jacket and the stupid
black glasses, and by then you could tell,’ says Steve Hazelhurst. ‘The attitude was: “Yeah, I’m Elvis now. Hiya, but no thank you”.’

However, progress was being made. The shows at the Nashville Rooms had marked the beginnings of a print media buzz that rapidly built up a considerable head of steam. ‘The very wonderful
Elvis Costello spells Major New Talent,’ raved Allan Jones’ review in
Melody Maker
. ‘You’d better believe it.’ Others had admired the singles and been highly
impressed by advance copies of the album.