Imperial Bedroom, as you’ve likely guessed, is the second of the three albums I consider Elvis Costello’s masterpieces. And if I had to single out just one of his albums as his best, this would be the one.
It occurred to me recently that Elvis Costello isn’t really an album artist. By which I mean that he doesn’t often release complete albums that succeed start to finish. I can usually count a few duds among the gems, and he has a habit of overstaying his welcome and releasing 15 songs when 12 might have been more effective.
Often when I’m making my year-end lists, I’ll find that a new Costello album has trouble cracking the top five… not because it doesn’t contain some wonderful songs — invariably it does — but because it’s not as consistent as the ones above it.
This year’s National Ransom is an exception. Though lengthy, it is more cohesive than anything he’s released in years.
I went on that tangent to underscore the special standing of Imperial Bedroom in Costello’s discography. This isn’t just a collection of winning songs but a unified statement in its own right. From that distorted bass line that opens ‘Beyond Belief’ to the fading orchestral coda of ‘Town Cryer,’ it demands and commands your attention.
Five songs into Imperial Bedroom, the song ‘Man Out of Time’ has that same effect all on its own. It starts and finishes with frenzied guitar and screaming (left over from a previous incarnation of the song) and in between is one of Costello’s most enduring classics.
In the extensive liner notes of one of the countless reissues of this album, Costello goes into some detail about its origin (if not the specific meaning of its lyrics):
Disgusted, disenchanted, and occasionally in love, “Man Out Of Time” was the product of a troubling dialogue with myself that continued through my more regretful moments. I recall looking at my reflection in the frozen window of a Scandinavian tour bus without any idea who the hell I was supposed to be. I was trying to think or feel my way out of a defeated and exhausted frame of mind to something more glorious.
This was resolved in song, one shivering, hungover morning in the manicured gardens of a remote Scottish hotel. The house in which we were staying had played a very minor part in one of Britain’s most notorious political scandals, apparently serving briefly as a bolt-hole fort one of the disgraced protagonists. I actually delighted at the thought of this sordid history; it suited my mood. I can’t say that the words and ideas that emerged from these experiences were exactly welcome news to some of the band members. Like I could give a damn.
When he ran from you
In a private detective’s overcoat
And dirty dead man’s shoes
The pretty things of Knightsbridge
Lying for a minister of state
Is a far cry from the nod and wink
Here at traitor’s gate
‘Cause the high heel he used to be has been ground down
And he listens for the footsteps that would follow him around
To murder my love is a crime
But will you still love
A man out of time
There’s a tuppeny hapenny millionaire
Looking for a fourpenny one
With a tight grip on the short hairs
Of the public imagination
But for his private wife and kids somehow
Real life becomes a rumour
Days of dutch courage
Just three French letters and a German sense of humour
He’s got a mind like a sewer and a heart like a fridge
He stands to be insulted and he pays for the privilege
(chorus)
The biggest wheels of industry
Retire sharp and short
And the after dinner overtures
Are nothing but an after thought
Somebody’s creeping in the kitchen
There’s a reputation to be made
Whose nerves are always on a knife’s edge
Who’s up late polishing the blade
Love is always scarpering or cowering or fawning
You drink yourself insensitive and hate yourself in the morning
(chorus)
Meet Me In Montauk 
What I’ve always loved about this song is how it feels old-fashioned and utterly contemporary at the same time. This is the first time I’ve studied the lyrics, however, and now I appreciate it even more knowing the history leading up to it.
Wonder what words and ideas upset his bandmates. Maybe you’ll offer some insight next Saturday?
This is one of EC’s songs that I fell in love with early on, even though I didn’t really understand what the hell it was really about. Those liner notes are certainly helpful in setting the context and scene.
Even if I never did quite get the meaning of the entire song, there are so many lines that I find so clever and insightful. “He’s got a mind like a sewer and a heart like a fridge. He stands to be insulted and he pays for the privilege” and “Love is always scarpering or cowering or fawning. You drink yourself insensitive and hate yourself in the morning” Those lines are at once rich with flourishing imagery and at the same time so deeply personal.
Anyway, depending on my mood, this album and KOA vie for my favorite EC album status. And while other albums may not command the same attention or adoration, I would not characterize them, or any particular songs on them, as duds. I maintain that EC’s worst song or album is better than 90 percent of whatever else is out there.
Brilliant. “A tight grip on the short hairs of the public imagination…” You could live inside those lines. Of course, the most virulent expressions of imagination don’t always have short hairs, as you can see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zP5ggZRsNh8