The cupcakes have all been eaten, but I still get to Toys In Babeland in time to see co-editor Rachel Kramer Bussel selling a copy of Up All Night: Adventures in Lesbian Sex to sapphic Playboy centerfold Stephanie Adams–and that’s hot! Actually, Bussel has to later explain to me who Adams is, but that’s okay. It’s still good to know. I’m thinking that may be the only thrill I get from the new erotica collection. Before I accept my own copy, I ask Bussel if she’s handing me another one of those books full of gay people fondly reminiscing about how a loving 30-year-old seduced them at the age of 11.
See, some of us felt that Ed Meese had the right idea about taking those stories off the shelves of our local convenience stores.
"No," a typically enthused Bussel assures me, "there’s no underage stories. There are some unusual things. My friend in Texas wrote about this pumpkin-carving contest that became an orgy. I hope that’s not a cliche. They’re supposed to be true stories, too–but I didn’t verify them. I don’t know about the legality of those other kinds of stories. Most places I write for won’t even let me use underage characters."
Well, there’s some more crushing of diversity. Not that Bussel seems like the kind of gal who’d write those stories. She’s refreshingly fun and free of controversy. In fact, the Toys in Babeland event turns out to be a pleasant respite from any talk of gay marriage. That’s a relief. I’ve been putting up with bitter leftists creating a fantasy world where lifelong Republicans abandon national security so that Andrew Sullivan can share his frequent-flier miles with his happy hubby. It’s nice to see lesbians simply celebrating true tales of tawdry sex.
"My friends are pretty much always about the tawdry sex," Bussel notes. She’s not kidding, either. I’m happily reading about the Great Pumpkins while heading uptown to see the greatest living argument against heterosexual marriage–specifically, Elvis Costello, whose lousy new album North is a disastrously sappy celebration of his love for Diane Krall.
I’m expecting the Beacon Theater performance to be a showcase for an exceptionally abysmal album. Instead, it’s far worse. The serious songwriter has contracted Montreux envy from Krall, and the concert is packaged as an Evening with the Great Elvis Costello Songbook. Our former hero sports a suit, stands in a spotlight and revamps old songs with pianist Steve Nieve even while complaining about fans who "suffer from a disease called nostalgia"–which prompts a shout for "Veronica!" That lame oldie doesn’t even predate Costello’s salad days.
Costello’s been pulling this crap since the late 80s, mainly to disguise how nobody cares about his later work. Those shows used to include a nicely self-deprecating manner. Sadly, he now seems to buy into his shtick. The Brodsky Quartet liven things up when they emerge for a John Barryish take on "Pills and Soap," but that just makes me wish I was at a Loser’s Lounge show. Besides, the strings are really present to showcase a set of North tunes, which provides a perfect mid-concert death knell–especially when Costello wraps up the Quartet’s cameo with the excruciating "Fallen."
You’d think a guy with so much love for great songwriters would know better than to write a song about the autumn leaves. Except, of course, Costello loves great songwriters because he considers himself to be one of them–which he was, right up to around 1984. The real lesson to be learned tonight is that Joe Jackson is a goddamned genius.
There’s no recovering from the North nod, even with the reliable "(What’s So Funny ’Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding?" Costello keeps attempting to redeem the Warner Bros. years, but it’ll take more than pretending that he used to work for Jack Warner. This is easily the worst concert I’ve seen since a righteous fan bounced a bottle off of David Bowie’s head.
And Costello’s a lot less likely to rebound, as shown by his spoken-word departure during "God’s Comic." He bravely takes a stand on the Upper West Side to cast his witty wrath upon the CMA Awards, "hillbillies in Georgia," The Passion of the Christ and–of course–anyone who could possibly imagine opposing gay marriage. In his defense, though, we can’t assume Costello is sincere about any of this. He doesn’t even mention Ray Charles.
