I have 25 Elvis Costello albums
in my CD collection. There is only
one other artist more prominent
in the shelves of compact discs
than Elvis, and that would be
Mr. Frank Zappa, at 36 albums,
half of which are double CD’s.
On the shelves of vinyl, I have
the three Elvis studio records
released since 2018, and three
more special edition albums
of some of my absolute favorites.
Elvis Costello is a giant, a profound
influence; for me, one of the all-time
greatest songwriters of my lifetime.
I think of a high school friend, Casey,
a fellow theater geek, who, as far as
I could tell, was the only other kid in
my suburban school in 1979 who was
listening to Elvis. He was an ugly kid,
but super funny, and he used to do
a pretty mean Elvis Costello impersonation
where he would flail his arms around
like an octopus and sing in his best
Elvis voice, an amalgam of (and
improvement on) the greatest
of the nasally singers, a kind of Petty
and Dylan mixture, with that silly
kind of noodle-like physicality.
We’d walk around back stage during
rehearsals for some production,
singing at each other the first solo
syllables of the song “Accidents Will
Happen” in our best nose-front
English accent: “Oh I. . .”
If you know, you know. That song
was a hit, so you should know.
“Oh I . . . just don’t know where to begin.”
I first recognized Elvis as a punk rocker,
one of the key progenitors of new wave,
but what he really was, even from the
very first album: just a phenomenal songwriter,
one who would, over his, what, now 50 year career,
produce the most diverse body of pop music
of the late 20th century and into the 21st,
more varied, more expansive than Elton or
Bowie or even McCartney. He will, I know,
like Bowie did, require of me more than
one entry into this listening challenge series,
because, as I write these words, I have not
yet listened to a single note.
michael jarmer 