Now Give Me My Rest

Elvis Costello knows how to end an album.

That’s an underrated skill. Ideally, an album wraps up with a song that’s a summation of what you’ve heard, as well as its own emotional journey. More often than not, for EC, that means a ballad. 

“I Want To Vanish” is a gently brutal conclusion to All This Useless Beauty, a 1996 album that started as a collection of Costello’s songs that were written for (and rejected by) other artists. There’s a fair amount of self-depreciation in it, which fits for a record that essentially chronicles a legendary songwriter’s near-misses. (Oddly enough, “I Want to Vanish” is one song that did reach its intended performer; June Tabor included it on her 1994 album Against the Streams.) 

And yet, the end result of the All This Useless Beauty sessions (which extended over two separate periods in 1995 and 1996) is far more than just a covers album with a twist. And this song is more than just a rejected songwriter contemplating his lonely fate.

(A quote from EC’s 2001 liner notes to the re-release of ATUB, which are well worth a read on their own.) 

There’s an aspect of this song that seems to address EC’s relationship with his listeners. As he’s matured in his career, Costello has become more preoccupied with the tendrils that connect him to his audience. He’s always seemed patient and kind, but cautious. As one of the paunchy middle-aged white guys with conspicuous glasses who lurks near the back of any crowd EC plays for, I understand his reluctance. 

He’s capturing an emotional moment here. He wants to vanish out of frustration with the strange netherrealm between fame and anonymity, and with all of the expectations that come along with it. 

There’s something more metaphysical here, too. In the final verse, he tosses off one of his all-time greatest couplets, another example of extreme self-depreciation: 

I used to have that on a T-shirt. There’s so much confusion to unpack; the dog is lost from the jump, and he’s considering a sign he can’t read to help him find his way. Hell, he probably doesn’t even know what a “sign” is or “directions” or “words” so his lack of understanding is almost impossible to articulate. 

Similarly. the singer admits that in spite of his “rare and precious jewels/that were only made of paste,” he doesn’t possess any more insight than the next canine. He’s a songwriter, a singer, an observer. He’s uncomfortable with anyone putting too much of themselves into anything he creates. He rejects the notion that he has any unique insight in life and how to live it. 

Having sketched out such a resigned, dour view of his life’s work, Costello couches his words in an achingly gorgeous melody and arrangement. He’s aided and abetted by Steve Nieve on piano and a small orchestral section anchored by the Brodsky Quartet. The gentle, aching accompaniment seems to chide the singer; in a world where music can be so beautiful, how could anyone who creates it really want to vanish? 

(Quick plug: if album closers are your jam, you should be reading The Run Out Grooves, a terrific e-mail list where Mitchell Stirling writes insightful essays that are ONLY about the last tracks on classic albums. Check it out!)