: Elvis Costello and the Attractions: The Armed Forces Tour, 1978-79
THE END OF THE TOUR IN THE U.S. culminated with Elvis being beaten up by the r 'n' b shouter Bonnie Bramlett who became enraged and outraged when she heard Costello call Ray Charles a 'blind ignorant nigger' in a drunken bout of misplaced goading. Elvis refused to apologise. The Americans packed him back to Blighty, the start of an exile that would last for years.
I saw the band a few weeks before that at the Communty Centre in Berkeley, California. I had recently returned to my homeland from a seven year stay in New Zealand where I was ignited by the albums 'My Aim is True', 'This Year's Model' and 'Armed Forces'. The first feature I read about the band was a celebratory account reprinted from 'The Melody Maker' in the 'New Zealand Herald', Auckland's daily rag, which made me want to see the band immediately before they self-destructed. Little did I know that I would marry its author three years later at Richmond's Registry Office on a rainy gloomy day at the end of July. All I knew then is that I had to see the band live at all costs.
I went to the gig alone and arrived early blazing with anticipation. I could have seen The Clash that night who were playing across the bay in San Francisco where they were promoted as 'The Only British Band That Matters' on flyers attached to any flat plane in public view. The Give 'Em Enough Rope Tour had an American theme which did not interest me as much as the entirely Brit sound of Elvis and the Attractons. I was hungry for that and did not give a toss about The Clash.
I was among the first to take a seat at the Community Centre, a small intimate venue I knew well from my younger life in Berkely as a 17 year old runaway. I worked selling fabric yardage on Shattuck Avenue and lived for weekend gigging.
I was one of the few honkies at Ike and Tina Turner's Revue when another r 'n' b shouter Kathy McDonald, one of my long time favourites, was in the Ikettes. Then the crowd danced ON their chairs to the taped Turner music which preceded the show. When Ike came on stage, pandemonium. When the Ikettes appeared, all three of them, strutting in stilletos and shaking their asses, the shouts and cheers filled the theatre. And then, Tina's star entrance sent us all crazy and made the Ikettes look pale, frail and thin.
I was there when Cat Sevens made a mockery of American accents, loud American women and gum chewing. No suprise he took refuse in Islam - we yankee ladies and southern belles hold no truck with sensitive ears and can destroy uptight Brit sensibilities with our love of life and volume. American Girls just want to have fun and all you can do is invest in ear plugs or leave us alone. Slagging us off only makes us yell louder.
I was there when Bill Graham hastised the crowd for booing an extremely short set by B.B. King...'You've seen a fucking legend, FUCK OFF'.
And now I was there for Elvis. I had a ticket to see him in Sydney, Australia, a month before, but was stopped by passport problems having acquired several new nationalities through marriage (then happily defunct) and my own imaginative initiative. There was confusion because in those days Americans could not have dual nationality let alone quadruple allegiances to Presidents, Queens and other despots. I was stateless while Elvis stormed through the Sydney set which finished without an encore. This angered the crowd who tore out all the seats in the venue in what the newspapers described as a 'riot'. I hoped the Berkeley gig would be equally lively and full of incident.
It was. And I had a very small part to play in the drama.
The band arrived on stage with Elivs in an oversized jacket that brushed his calves, all silver glitter and giant shoulder pads. His black wide trousers were equally too large, the cuffs dropping into pools around his cloth Chinese slippers. Keyboardist Steve Nieve had shaved and polished his head to a high sheen which sparkled as much as his black patent leather raincoat. Drummer Pete Thomas had more work than posing to do and came dressed in a white cotton singlet and jeans. Bassist Bruce Thomas could have been any guy off the street - he gave the spotlight to Elvis.
I couldn't bear sitting while all my favourite songs materialised, writhed and vanished at a breakneck pace with no silence in between. I got up to dance in the aisle beside my seat urging others to join me. Before I knew it I had my arms pinned to my side and was immobilised. A securty guard had grabbed me from behind and lifted me back into my seat.
'Goon Squad' appropriately began, spitting out vitriol against all those 'who put you to the rod'. I got up again, this time on the look out for my guard. He came towards me...and I thought, 'Oh fuck it' and took off running in the opposite direction towards the stage. Full tilt across the stage front with him in pursuit. Elvis called out 'Get up and dance!'as I was halfway across the front, but no one did even as I began the run up the next aisle. I made the turn near the rear seats when I was nabbed again. 'Lipstick Vogue' was in full barrage as he marched me back to my seat.
He stood over me for a while, then left and I got up again in the laser shots from the stage. My guard was on me in an instant, 'Sit Down!' he ordered, his first words to me. 'Hey, do YOU sit down when YOU want to dance?' I challenged. 'SIT DOWN', was the reply. I did. Just in time to see the band leave the stage after a blistering 'Clown Time is Over'. I had spent the entire gig running the aisles with a secruty guard! Well, maybe now was the time to enjoy the encore in peace.
But as in Sydney it never happened. Only then did the crowd get on its feet to yell insults and throw debris on the stage. I thought, 'You stupid spoiled brats - you never danced and yet you feel you deserve an encore'.
As I left the security guard approached me with a huge welcoming smile on his face and eyes alight with excitment. He told me had never had so much fun at work and I had given him a delightful challenge. He was concerned he may have hurt me (he hadn't) and showed me how his sand-filled gloves were designed and contructed not to bruise. He told me I would enjoy being in an all black audience...I responded, 'See, I KNEW you didn't sit down at gigs!' He asked me to come all to some all black gigs he was working at, but I was only in town for that night...and I was rueful that this was the case as he was a fine guy and we would have had some more fun together.
I moved out of the venue and into the night to discover the tour bus windows had been broken and sharded by angry fans. Several bonfires were fuelled by posters and t-shirts. The bus driver gunned the engine,leaing in a hail of beer cans.
A few days later Steve Nieve was in a near fatal car wreck in Los Angeles and the rest of the band moved toward their date with desitny and Bonnie Bramlett, another loud and lovely American Girl.
The next day I began organising my long planned shift to London where I would eventually tire of the band, grow weary of Elvis and remember my security guard as a rock 'n' roll star.
(c)26torti, 2006
THE END OF THE TOUR IN THE U.S. culminated with Elvis being beaten up by the r 'n' b shouter Bonnie Bramlett who became enraged and outraged when she heard Costello call Ray Charles a 'blind ignorant nigger' in a drunken bout of misplaced goading. Elvis refused to apologise. The Americans packed him back to Blighty, the start of an exile that would last for years.
I saw the band a few weeks before that at the Communty Centre in Berkeley, California. I had recently returned to my homeland from a seven year stay in New Zealand where I was ignited by the albums 'My Aim is True', 'This Year's Model' and 'Armed Forces'. The first feature I read about the band was a celebratory account reprinted from 'The Melody Maker' in the 'New Zealand Herald', Auckland's daily rag, which made me want to see the band immediately before they self-destructed. Little did I know that I would marry its author three years later at Richmond's Registry Office on a rainy gloomy day at the end of July. All I knew then is that I had to see the band live at all costs.
I went to the gig alone and arrived early blazing with anticipation. I could have seen The Clash that night who were playing across the bay in San Francisco where they were promoted as 'The Only British Band That Matters' on flyers attached to any flat plane in public view. The Give 'Em Enough Rope Tour had an American theme which did not interest me as much as the entirely Brit sound of Elvis and the Attractons. I was hungry for that and did not give a toss about The Clash.
I was among the first to take a seat at the Community Centre, a small intimate venue I knew well from my younger life in Berkely as a 17 year old runaway. I worked selling fabric yardage on Shattuck Avenue and lived for weekend gigging.
I was one of the few honkies at Ike and Tina Turner's Revue when another r 'n' b shouter Kathy McDonald, one of my long time favourites, was in the Ikettes. Then the crowd danced ON their chairs to the taped Turner music which preceded the show. When Ike came on stage, pandemonium. When the Ikettes appeared, all three of them, strutting in stilletos and shaking their asses, the shouts and cheers filled the theatre. And then, Tina's star entrance sent us all crazy and made the Ikettes look pale, frail and thin.
I was there when Cat Sevens made a mockery of American accents, loud American women and gum chewing. No suprise he took refuse in Islam - we yankee ladies and southern belles hold no truck with sensitive ears and can destroy uptight Brit sensibilities with our love of life and volume. American Girls just want to have fun and all you can do is invest in ear plugs or leave us alone. Slagging us off only makes us yell louder.
I was there when Bill Graham hastised the crowd for booing an extremely short set by B.B. King...'You've seen a fucking legend, FUCK OFF'.
And now I was there for Elvis. I had a ticket to see him in Sydney, Australia, a month before, but was stopped by passport problems having acquired several new nationalities through marriage (then happily defunct) and my own imaginative initiative. There was confusion because in those days Americans could not have dual nationality let alone quadruple allegiances to Presidents, Queens and other despots. I was stateless while Elvis stormed through the Sydney set which finished without an encore. This angered the crowd who tore out all the seats in the venue in what the newspapers described as a 'riot'. I hoped the Berkeley gig would be equally lively and full of incident.
It was. And I had a very small part to play in the drama.
The band arrived on stage with Elivs in an oversized jacket that brushed his calves, all silver glitter and giant shoulder pads. His black wide trousers were equally too large, the cuffs dropping into pools around his cloth Chinese slippers. Keyboardist Steve Nieve had shaved and polished his head to a high sheen which sparkled as much as his black patent leather raincoat. Drummer Pete Thomas had more work than posing to do and came dressed in a white cotton singlet and jeans. Bassist Bruce Thomas could have been any guy off the street - he gave the spotlight to Elvis.
I couldn't bear sitting while all my favourite songs materialised, writhed and vanished at a breakneck pace with no silence in between. I got up to dance in the aisle beside my seat urging others to join me. Before I knew it I had my arms pinned to my side and was immobilised. A securty guard had grabbed me from behind and lifted me back into my seat.
'Goon Squad' appropriately began, spitting out vitriol against all those 'who put you to the rod'. I got up again, this time on the look out for my guard. He came towards me...and I thought, 'Oh fuck it' and took off running in the opposite direction towards the stage. Full tilt across the stage front with him in pursuit. Elvis called out 'Get up and dance!'as I was halfway across the front, but no one did even as I began the run up the next aisle. I made the turn near the rear seats when I was nabbed again. 'Lipstick Vogue' was in full barrage as he marched me back to my seat.
He stood over me for a while, then left and I got up again in the laser shots from the stage. My guard was on me in an instant, 'Sit Down!' he ordered, his first words to me. 'Hey, do YOU sit down when YOU want to dance?' I challenged. 'SIT DOWN', was the reply. I did. Just in time to see the band leave the stage after a blistering 'Clown Time is Over'. I had spent the entire gig running the aisles with a secruty guard! Well, maybe now was the time to enjoy the encore in peace.
But as in Sydney it never happened. Only then did the crowd get on its feet to yell insults and throw debris on the stage. I thought, 'You stupid spoiled brats - you never danced and yet you feel you deserve an encore'.
As I left the security guard approached me with a huge welcoming smile on his face and eyes alight with excitment. He told me had never had so much fun at work and I had given him a delightful challenge. He was concerned he may have hurt me (he hadn't) and showed me how his sand-filled gloves were designed and contructed not to bruise. He told me I would enjoy being in an all black audience...I responded, 'See, I KNEW you didn't sit down at gigs!' He asked me to come all to some all black gigs he was working at, but I was only in town for that night...and I was rueful that this was the case as he was a fine guy and we would have had some more fun together.
I moved out of the venue and into the night to discover the tour bus windows had been broken and sharded by angry fans. Several bonfires were fuelled by posters and t-shirts. The bus driver gunned the engine,leaing in a hail of beer cans.
A few days later Steve Nieve was in a near fatal car wreck in Los Angeles and the rest of the band moved toward their date with desitny and Bonnie Bramlett, another loud and lovely American Girl.
The next day I began organising my long planned shift to London where I would eventually tire of the band, grow weary of Elvis and remember my security guard as a rock 'n' roll star.
(c)26torti, 2006
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