If you look very carefully at the checkerboard squares on Elvis Costello’s first album—My Aim is True—you see the words “Elvis is King” spelled out on every other square. Although this was probably meant to be tongue in cheek (interestingly, Elvis Presley died the same year the record was released), I look back now and think, by God, the man is King.
This is a man who has released an album of classical music, country-western, experiments with a string quartet, jazz and countless rock and roll albums. To say he’s an enormous talent slightly more than overlooked by the mainstream and underrated by many measures is an understatement. At the risk of invoking rock and roll blaspheme, I would put Elvis on par with no lesser talents than Buddy Holly, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, the Grateful Dead and any other so-called “classic rock” artists that have—at least in some cases—become overplayed on corporate rock stations across the country.
I first discovered Elvis as a Junior High School student. My brother went to college in 1978, the year This Year’s Model—Elvis’s second album—came out. During his first semester break, my brother brought home an armload of new records from artists including Blondie, Bruce Springsteen, Marshall Crenshaw and, of course, Elvis. I remember listening to My Aim is True and wondering what to make of it. It sounded at once familiar and very new. It was only after repeated listenings that I realized Elvis had perfectly synthesized the sound of the 60s (mostly soul) with a New Wave and Punk sensibility. He’d combined the sublime soulfulness of Sam and Dave with the anger and edge of the Sex Pistols. All of this at the age of 21.
As I matured (for lack of a better word), so did Elvis and his music. I remember listening to Armed Forces and being just stunned at how the man could turn a phrase (“She’s my soft touch typewriter/And I’m the great dictator,” from “Two Little Hitlers”). And the audacious and bold strokes of chords, effortlessly blending pop, reggae and soul. What 16-year-old flowering (yet ultimately unsuccessful) musician/poet wouldn’t be impressed?
But it wasn’t until 1982’s Imperial Bedroom that Elvis had sealed his place alongside George and Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, Bob Dylan and Lennon and McCartney—in no small part thanks to the New York Times declaring him one of the greatest songwriters of the 20th Century. And why not? The critics eviscerated the album but I found such a fondness for it. What’s more, it opened up Elvis’s repertoire to include such crooners as “The Long Honeymoon” and rockers such as the Dylan-tinged “Man Out of Time.” What’s more, Elvis had made a giant leap from pop songwriter to classic songwriter (not to mention crooner).
Interestingly, Elvis’s influence on the next generation of rockers seems to be limited. In a gushing piece for Rolling Stone, Liz Phair praised Elvis as a unique and single songwriter, with a noticeable paucity of imitators. Perhaps this is because other songwriters—no matter their skill or level of talent—just can’t live up to the Elvis oeuvre. Or maybe he’s simply inimitable.
Whatever the reasons, Elvis is singular and unique. And prolific. He did what few of his contemporaries could accomplish by putting out nearly an album per year between 1977 and 1986. And some of his albums boasted 20 songs or more. I tend to think he simply can’t stop writing music. He’s probably a music-writing junkie who couldn’t stop if he tried—or it might kill him.
Watching him perform is akin to watching a three-act play. Settle in at an Elvis Costello show and you may be in for a long (albeit enjoyable) evening. At a show I saw supporting his recent album with Allen Toussaint, Elvis said, “I’ve written about 170 thousand million songs. Allen has written about three trillion. We could play till dawn.” And they very well might have if management had allowed them. He’s as energetic as Springsteen and dry as Oscar Wilde.
So where are the other Elvis-heads? I see them at his shows—aging hipsters and punkers from the day sporting their graying goatees and fading tattoos—but we are far from united. Back when I was following the Dead, I felt a sense of community with the deadheads. I don’t feel that an Elvis show. And I should. There are enough of us out there, Lord knows.
But every time I scan a crowd at an Elvis show, I am encouraged by the numbers. In addition to us paunchy aging dudes I see plenty of young folks who’ve either just discovered him or are finally old enough to go to a show without their parents. Elvis transcends generations. Just like his predecessors, be they Beatles, Stones or Dylan.
And yes, I realize Elvis is not as underrated an artist as I may make him out to be. He gets plenty of airplay (though not enough in my mind) and was recently inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Still, he seems niche—an acquired taste. It’s as if he’s only reaching a very small segment of otherwise intelligent, sensitive listeners. And that’s a pity. I’m convinced if more people heard Elvis, we’d have more converts.
But, as I said, he is a bit of an acquired taste. Some people cannot stomach the idea of an endless stream of double entendres coupled with complex arrangements. (“I might make it California’s fault/Be locked in Geneva’s deepest vault/Just like the canals on Mars and the Great Barrier Reef/I come to you beyond belief.”) So maybe those folks should just stick to Dave Matthews.
At the same time, Elvis is completely accessible. Even though I like my music to be challenging sometimes, I’ve never felt intimidated by an Elvis song. On the contrary, his work makes me want to explore more. Upon finding out that “Less Than Zero” was about John Kennedy’s assassination, I dug deeper and found an early version now known as the “Dallas Version,” complete with alternate—and much more obvious—lyrics. (You can find the Dallas version—long a staple on Elvis bootlegs—on the second disc of the Rhino version of My Aim is True).
Just as there are no truly bad Cohen brothers movies, there has yet to be a truly bad Elvis album (though Goodbye Cruel World is in the running). Indeed, the worst of his work matches up to the best of what many bands can offer. But I’m doing that thing again where I compare apples to oranges. And I’ve been asked to stop doing that. After all, what’s the point of dissecting an album like Trust or The Delivery Man along side the likes of Hotel California or 52nd Street. Then again, I believe the Eagles and Billy Joel dare to take themselves seriously enough to merit comparison to a true (and truly superior) artist like Elvis. So I’ll put it bluntly. The Eagles and Billy Joel suck. Elvis doesn’t.
And Elvis will keep thriving. Unlike the Eagles and Joel, who are stuck in a sad rut and time, Elvis continues to grow as an artist and a songwriter. Unafraid to take chances, he’ll be rocking, crooning, swinging, rhyming and timing for a long time to come.
The King is dead. Long live the King!
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