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For a guy once known for his unwillingness to do interviews, Elvis Costello has turned out to be one of pop music's most insightful commentators. Over the years, he's actually emerged as something of a "player-coach," to borrow a term Rolling Stone once applied to Pete Townshend (in fact, Costello made his official debut as a music critic several years ago with a glowing review of a T-Bone Burnett album in Musician magazine).
So it's hardly surprising that this bespectacled godfather of New Wave has generally been the best analyst of his own work. He's also been unusually objective about the way others perceive him. In 1994, while discussing the critical savaging that had greeted his '90s releases, Costello said, "It was my turn. I was comparatively bulletproof until [1991's] Mighty Like a Rose."
Longtime Costello watchers might debate exactly when their hero became a mere mortal (my college radio station's glossary of artists deemed Costello "the king of rock until Punch the Clock"). But Costello's assessment is basically accurate. Costello entered this decade riding a creative winning streak that defied one of the fundamental rules about great rock artists: that after about six or seven years (often less), they either dry up or get distracted, never again to attain their early heights.
But Costello was always unlike any other rock artist. Early in his career, he declared, "I'm not going to be around to witness my artistic decline." Some interpreted such statements as pre-emptive suicide notes, but what Costello was really saying was that he refused to cave in to the conventional wisdom about how creativity works. He'd seen too many rock icons slip into self-parody, and he was damned if he was going to let it happen to him. Anyway, this son of a British big-band singer had taken considerable inspiration from pre-rock pop tunesmiths like George Gershwin, Cole Porter, and Rodgers and Hart--composers who had long, sustained creative peaks.
Costello was not only defiant, he was prolific; possibly more prolific than any other rock-era songwriter. Known for his ability to craft an album's worth of songs in one weekend (as he did for pop tart Wendy James in 1992), he confessed to Rolling Stone's Greil Marcus in 1982 that he actually had to slow himself down at times. His ability to string together clever puns and elegant melodies has often seemed limitless.
But in the early '90s, Costello looked like an artist strangely adrift. In 1989, he'd hit one out of the park with the eclectic Spike, his first album for Warner Bros. after more than a decade at Columbia. That year he had the two biggest American hits of his career, with "Veronica" and Paul McCartney's "My Brave Face" (a song co-written by Costello). "Veronica" even won an MTV award that year for "Best Male Video."
In the aftermath of Spike, however, Costello squandered much of this good will with Mighty Like a Rose, which possessed all the liabilities that Costello haters had always claimed to hear in his music: rote crankiness, excessive wordiness, and bombastic, pseudo-soulful vocalizing.
More than the music itself, though, what really disoriented Costello adherents during this period was his apparent transformation into an unkempt hippie. He grew a scraggly beard, let his hair grow long, and became a dead ringer for deceased Grateful Dead keyboardist Pigpen. As if to make the connection unmistakable, Costello appeared on the cover of Musician magazine with Jerry Garcia. It was hard to decide who looked worse.
Of course, fan repulsion to Costello's "beard phase" only showed how superficial pop listeners can be. Costello addressed the topic with typical defiance with Record Collector: "It's my life and my body, and if I want to fuck myself up and have a beard and wear my hair long, that's my business. I have my own reasons for that change of image, some of them willful."
Costello's hippie look didn't last long, but he followed Mighty Like a Rose with the least listenable album of his career, The Juliet Letters, a classical-pop fusion with the Brodsky Quartet. It was a sincere and painstaking effort to break new ground (Costello even learned to read and write musical notation), but too many of the songs strayed perilously close to the bombastic, middlebrow territory of an Andrew Lloyd Webber. Costello's audience averted its collective eyes.
This inauspicious entry into the '90s set the tone for a problematic relationship with Warner Bros. Future projects like Kojak Variety (covers of some of Costello's favorite songs) and All This Useless Beauty (new recordings of old songs that Costello had written for other people) probably cemented the feeling at the label that Costello was being deliberately perverse.
The situation parallels Neil Young's nightmarish experience at Geffen in the '80s, when he followed a techno-pop album with a rockabilly album and later made a brassy blues album. The suit-and-ties at Geffen snorted, "We want a real Neil Young album," to which Young responded by saying that every album he'd made had been a "Neil Young album."
Costello's relationship with Warner Bros. never reached the venomous levels that Young and Geffen got to, but things clearly soured along the way. It reached the point where even an album like 1994's Brutal Youth, which came close to the vintage Costello sound and reunited him with his old band, the Attractions, got lukewarm response from the label. Costello became convinced that the album's "hit single" was the gorgeous ballad "You Tripped at Every Step." However, Warner Bros. refused to fund a video for the song, leaving Costello thinking that an opportunity had been missed. The input Costello got from the label reached a peak of absurdity when one Warner staffer encouraged him to make music that was "less Guns n' Roses and more Juliet Letters."