The Days Are Never Really Done

“Lucky Dog” appeared as the B-side on Elvis Costello’s July 2017 cover of “American Tune.” Released under the pseudonym “Sgt. Larry Singer,” this character also seems to be credited with writing the tune, listed as “L.E. Singer.” Of course the A-side is credited to “The Imposter,” a pseudonym that has served EC since 1983, when he issued “Pills and Soap” using the monicker for a rush release designed to hit just days before that year’s general election in the UK. A disguise within another disguise. 

(The nom-de-tune also acts as a clever inside joke for those who know their pop history; in the mid-1960s as America was starting to escalate its commitment to the Vietnam War, Staff Sgt. Barry Sadler co-wrote and performed “The Ballad of the Green Berets,” a treacly attempt at patriotism that hit a strong juxtaposition with the growing tide of anti-war protests.) 

Not that I think EC is trying to avoid ownership of the song; to me, it’s more like the way you might send an anonymous note to communicate tough truths, or avert your eyes when you’re telling someone how you really feel. This is as direct and damning an indictment of war as Costello has ever written, and it’s somehow made all the more potent because it exists in relative obscurity in his massive catalog. 

“Lucky Dog” is a view of battle from the front lines, sung by a narrator who is staring down the enemy and considering his fate, as well as the fates of those he stands alongside. It’s hard to say if he’s contemplating at the moment of his demise, or at a moment when a fellow soldier is saving him from certain death. Also, is the titular creature a metaphorical fortunate human, or an actual “lucky dog” embroiled in the conflict? 

There’s a pre-chorus that’s an exquisite set of aphorisms: 

The days are never really doneThe war's not over until it's wonIf you want to count on anyoneThen thank the Lord you're free

It’s in the chorus that the real gut punch of the song hits its mark. War doesn’t account for courage or fortitude; you don’t get extra credit for dying well. And if you’re emotionally scarred by the experience, did you really escape unscathed? Who was that lucky dog? Was it him, or me?