#Steve Nieve

[spilladabalia]

Elvis Costello & The Attractions -- "Neat Neat Neat" Live at Leicester University, October 22, 1977

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley Meltdown Festival 1995 (full show)

Meltdown Festival Program 23 June - 1 July 1995 (England) Saturday 1 July Queen Elizabeth Hall 8pm

THE SONG Part 3 Glad to be Unhappy

-June Tabor -Elvis Costello -Jeff Buckley -Steve Nieve -Marc Ribot

... "The tone of Part 3 is defined by the Rodgers and Hart song Glad to be Unhappy, epitomising the beautiful melancholy of this final set".

1. The Boy With The Thorn In His Side 2. Grace 3. Corpus Christi Carol 4. Dido's Lament

Ian Bolton, violin Philip Shepard, cello Catherine Edwards, piano

Jeff played the last day of the festival.

Note: I believe they forgot to include the song The Other Woman, a Nina Simone cover.

[tankgirlfan23]

[jt1674]

[mychameleondays]

Elvis Costello: Brutal Youth

Music On Vinyl/Warner Bros. MOVLP817, 2013

Originally released: 8 March 1994

[nervoussystemmusicreverence]

Elvis Costello and the Attractions - Shipbuilding

Music Video

Artist

Elvis Costello and the Attractions

Composer

Clive Langer

Lyricist

Elvis Costello

Produced

Clive Langer Alan Winstanley

Credit

Elvis Costello – vocals, Epiphone, Gretsch and Fender guitars, Synclavier and Casiotone Steve Nieve – Bösendorfer piano, Emulator, Fairlight CMI, Vox organ, Hammond organ, Synclavier Bruce Thomas – electric Wal bass guitar Pete Thomas – Gretsch drums, Sabian cymbals Chet Baker – trumpet solo

Released

August 5 1983

Streaming

[stillunusual]

Elvis Costello & Steve Nieve @ Palau De La Música Catalana, Barcelona 5/9/2023

[mywifeleftme]

356: Elvis Costello & the Attractions // Get Happy!!

Get Happy!! Elvis Costello & the Attractions 1980, F-Beat

Get Happy!! was the first of Costello’s explicit genre exercises—the genius of the new wave does R&B. The emphasis is on his virtuosity as a pop songwriting machine, meaning neither his venom nor his wounded bitterness bite like they had on his three previous masterpieces. His lyrics are a multiply-compacted sediment of entendre, rhyme frequently leading sense, basically the point where power pop and backpacker rap improbably meet. It is, in every respect, the Evil Buddy Holly showing off for twenty songs. It might be the best record any Elvis ever cut.

Like a hummingbird, I need a lot of sugar to stay aloft sometimes, and the opening six songs of Get Happy!! give it to me uncut: “Love for Tender” with its hysterical army of extra Elvises on backing vocals; the sophisticated chirp of “Opportunity” (“The chairman of this boredom is a compliment collector / I'd like to be his funeral director”); breakneck Northern Soul raveup “The Imposter”; strolling sock hop blues "Secondary Modern”; the galloping piano heroism of “King Horse”; and “Possession,” a song that sounds like trying to win your girl back while she’s trying to get across the stage in her robes and tassel to accept her college degree. (I don’t exactly know what I mean about that last one either.) The fourteen tracks that follow hit those heights a little more sporadically, but most are good, some are confounding in an appealing way, and the best of them (“New Amsterdam”; “I Can’t Stand Up…”; “Temptation” etc.) are indispensable gems.

Much of the credit, as always, goes to the Attractions, one of the great rock combos ever assembled. Bruce Thomas is the John Entwistle of new wave, a one-of-one monster whose restless virtuosity frustrated the comparatively technically-limited guitarist who led his band—a virtuosity that nonetheless helped make even the occasional middling tune relentlessly groovy. Pete “No Relation” Thomas was a drummer who could play anything with power and a jazzy grace (check what he does given a little space to work on “Motel Matches”). Meanwhile, Steve Nieve, wielding his array of oddball organ tones, handles the lead melody on nearly every track—it’s the flexibility of his instrument that gives Costello’s lean four-piece its capacity to sound like a giddy R&B dance band, or a spangly, orchestrated chamber pop act, or any other costume Elvis might choose to wear on a given day.

356/365

[longliverockback]

Elvis Costello & the Imposters The Boy Named If (Alive at Memphis Magnetic) 2022 EMI ————————————————— Tracks Disc One: 01. Farewell, OK 02. The Boy Named If 03. Penelope Halfpenny 04. The Difference 05. What If I Can’t Give You Anything but Love? 06. Paint the Red Rose Blue 07. Mistook Me for a Friend 08. My Most Beautiful Mistake 09. Magnificent Hurt 10. The Man You Love to Hate 11. The Death of Magic Thinking 12. Trick out the Truth 13. Mr. Crescent

Tracks Disc Two: Memphis Magnetic Versions 01. Magnificent Hurt 02. Truth Drug 03. Penelope Halfpenny 04. So You Want to Be a Rock n Roll Star 05. What If I Can’t Give You Anything but Love? 06. The Boy Named 07. Let Me Roll It 08. Everyday I Write the Book 09. Out Time 10. Here, There and Everywhere 11. Magnificent Hurt  —————————————————

Elvis Costello

Dave Faragher

Steve Nieve

Pete Thomas

* Long Live Rock Archive

[taxi-davis]

Prophet and Loss - Jonathan Bairstow

[spilladabalia]

St Vincent covers Brian Eno's Some Of Them Are Old @ The Steve Nieve Salon.

[scary-ivy]

Spirit Phone and This Years Model are on like the same level for me. Except for Spirit Phone has a little bit more social commentary and especially with all the bonus tracks it's a bit longer and kinda reminds me of All Things Must Pass in that regard. No, this does not mean This Years Model and All Things Must Pass have anything in common. Also the Attraction are unbeatable live band.

[mychameleondays]

Elvis Costello And The Attractions: Punch The Clock

F-Beat ZL25464/XXLP 19/ZL 70026

Released: August 5, 1983

[maeintree]

chapter i. | into the hollow

Summary: Your long-awaited vacation is cut short when Bill Randa drags you into a classified expedition. Now, you’re stuck in a room full of military personnel, a photographer, and a quiet but observant tracker, James Conrad. As Randa and Houston Brooks explain their Hollow Earth theory, you start to realize—this mission is more than it seems, and Conrad knows it too. Pairing: James Conrad x Field Medic!Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: Military themes, strong language, slow burn romance, suspense, mentions of injuries, canon-typical violence Author's Note: setting the stage for the expedition! this chapter introduces key players and builds up the tension before skull island, and it's a little short and i'm sorry! hope you enjoy nevertheless.

Masterlist | ← Previous Chapter ⋆ Next Chapter →

The room is stuffy and thick with the scent of old paper, burnt coffee, and sweat. A single oscillating fan hums from the corner, doing little to push the heat around.

The walls are lined with maps, aerial photographs, and classified documents tacked to corkboards, the kind of place where bad ideas are made to sound reasonable. 

You pause in the doorway, eyes sweeping over the faces gathered inside. Your sweater sleeve covers your nose, shielding you from the foul stench wafting through the room. Fucking smells in here. 

It sucks, you think. All these soldiers (as well as Landsat), just like you, were ready to go home—finally take a break, see their kids, and enjoy some peace after the war with Vietnam. But instead, you’re being sent off again, dragged into a mission with a bunch of maniacs convinced they'll find something on an island that will probably get them all killed.

The projector turns on, and a man starts speaking: "Hello and welcome. I'm Landsat Field Supervisor Victor Nieves." He points to a blond man at the front: "This is my colleague Steve Woodward, our data wrangler."

He continues, "Our expedition takes us to a place every nautical trade route known to man has avoided for centuries. As for our satellites show that the island is surrounded by a perpetual storm system, allowing it to remain hidden from the outside world; but with Colonel Packard's helicopter transport, we will be the first to break through to the other side." 

"We're also pleased to be joined, for the first time, by the resource exploration team led by Mr. Randa and accompanied by biologist Miss San, geologist Mr. Brooks, and Field Medic," he says your name. Heads turn toward Bill, Houston, and the biologist, while you remain at the very back, mostly unnoticed—except for Conrad, who glances back at you.

"Our focus will be on the island's surface, theirs, what lies beneath." He turns his head towards Houston, "Mr. Brooks," signaling for him to go to the front. 

"Simple really, we'll use explosives to shake the earth and create vibrations, helping us map the subsurface of the island." The projector switches to the bombing plan. "We'll fly in over the south shore and strategically drop seismic charges to better understand the earth's density."  

"You're dropping bombs?" Conrad’s British accent cuts through the room.  

Houston nods awkwardly. "...Eh, scientific instruments."  

A soldier chuckles. "You hear that, boys? We're scientists now!" Laughter follows.  

Woodward, a.k.a blond man grunts. "You guys are not scientists."  

"We'll land and set up base camp for ground excursions led by Captain Conrad." Conrad gives a slight nod. The speaker scans the room before calling out, "Major Jack Chapman."  

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a crisp military uniform steps forward, his presence commanding attention. His thick Southern drawl carries through the room as he begins speaking.

"Once on the island, the storm’s interference will cut radio contact with the ship. We’ll be on our own." The projector clicks again.  

"Three days later, the refueling team meets us here." Chapman points to the north end of the island. "That may be our only safe departure window."  

"So, tip for everybody—don’t miss it. Please."  

The supervisor wraps it up. "Alright, back to your places. We fly in the morning. Good luck."  

You’re the first out, escaping the awful-smelling room and into the cold, salty air. The meeting was exactly what you expected—reckless plans wrapped in scientific excuses. Pulling your sweater tighter, you descend the metal stairs, boots clanking against steel. 

"Goddamn suicide mission. Why am I in this? Why, dear Lord, why?" you whisper to yourself. 

You flip through the file Randa gave you again, hoping for some kind of reassurance. The words blur together, refusing to sink in no matter how many times you read them. Everything happened too fast—too sudden for the gravity of it all to truly settle.  

Just yesterday, you had stormed into Randa’s office, furious at him for going back to the senator. And somehow, Senate Willis agreed to this insanity. Jesus Christ. Probably worried about competition, afraid the Soviets would find something first. But still—goddamn.

The ship sways gently beneath you, the deep hum of the engine vibrating through the deck. Around you, soldiers linger in small groups, their laughter and conversation blending with the distant crash of waves.

You weave through narrow corridors, the dim overhead lights flickering slightly with each shift of the vessel.

Eventually, you find your way down to a storage unit, stacked high with crates stamped with military insignias and Landsat labels. Equipment—cameras, geological tools, radios—piles upon piles of supplies meant for an expedition that feels more like an invasion. 

As you scan the room, a faint shimmer of light catches your eye from the far corner. Curious, you step closer.  

Conrad stands near a stack of crates, the small flicker of a lighter illuminating his face in the dimly lit storage bay. Shadows dance across the sharp angles of his jaw as he reads the labels, his expression unreadable. At the sound of your footsteps, he turns, brows furrowed.  

"What are you doing down here?" he asks, his voice low, steady.  

You lean against a crate, arms crossed. "I could ask you the same thing." The air smells of wood, metal, and a faint trace of oil. 

Glancing at the boxes, you feign casual curiosity. "Why does a geological mapping mission need explosives?"  

He tilts his head slightly, watching you. "You weren’t listening in class. Seismic charges for the geological survey."  

You walk past him, fingers trailing over the rough wooden crates, scanning the stenciled labels. Landsat Equipment. Seismic Survey. Your lips press together. "Uh-huh. You believe that?"  

"I didn’t say that," he replies simply.  

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shift gears. "Have you met Colonel Packard yet?"  

Conrad nods. "Yeah."  

You scoff. "The guy's wound pretty tight."  

Conrad shrugs, flicking his lighter open and shut. "Well, the man's a decorated war hero. That’s the package they come in." His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he asks, "And you? Isn’t one field medic on a jungle mission a step down for medical?"  

You narrow your eyes. "I didn’t choose to be here," you say, tone edged. Then, arching a brow, you add, "Are you doubting my credibility? Safe to say, I think I’m a damn good medic."  

He smirks faintly. "And being here doubles the small pay you have."  

You huff a quiet laugh. "Huh. Okay, Captain Conrad, what about you?" You tilt your head, challenging. "How did British Special Forces get roped into this?"  

"Just Conrad," he corrects. "I’m decommissioned."  

"Mhm."  

"They offered me money," he says as if that explains everything.  

"Ah, right. Just like the small pay you mentioned earlier." You mimic his words with a smirk, catching the slight flicker of amusement in his expression. "You don’t strike me as a mercenary."  

He meets your gaze, unreadable. "And you don’t strike me as someone who’s seen war."  

You hold his stare. "Government field medic," you clarify. "I don’t do war."  

The ship creaks, metal shifting with the waves. For a moment, silence stretches between you, something unspoken settling in the air. Then, a sharp click—a sudden flash blinds you.  

"Sorry, documentation," a voice chimes. You blink, turning to see Mason—Weaver, or whatever her name is—grinning slyly, camera in hand. "Also, both of you are being called."  

You clear your throat, glancing at Conrad before nodding toward the stairs. "You coming?"  

He hesitates, flicking his lighter one last time before pocketing it. His gaze lingers on the crates as if considering something. Then, with a small nod, he exhales.  

"Yeah."

You and Conrad barely make it a few steps toward the stairs before the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the storage bay. The dim overhead lights flicker as the ship sways, casting long shadows over the crates.

Turning your head, you spot Bill Randa, Houston Brooks, and San Lin making their way toward you. Randa looks as intense as ever, his gaze sharp behind those thick glasses, while Houston appears more at ease, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

San Lin moves with quiet curiosity, eyes scanning the stacks of equipment.  

“There you are,” Randa says, adjusting his glasses. His voice carries that same urgency he’s had since the beginning of this mission. “We were looking for you both.”  

Conrad tucks his hands into his pockets, glancing briefly at you before replying. “Didn’t realize we had a curfew.”  

Houston chuckles under his breath as he steps past, running a hand over one of the crates. “Impressive setup, huh? Landsat really went all in.” He tilts his head at one of the labels.

Geological Survey Equipment. Seismic Imaging.

“This stuff could map the entire island in incredible detail… or, you know, do a hell of a lot more than that.”  

San Lin examines a set of carefully sealed containers, each marked with biohazard symbols and research tags. “I assume you two weren’t just down here sightseeing?” she asks, her voice calm but pointed.  

“Sightseeing’s not really my thing,” you reply, crossing your arms.  

Randa exhales, clearly uninterested in small talk. “The mission briefing is over, and I need you both focused. There’s a lot you don’t understand yet.” He turns toward the crates, pressing a palm against one as if grounding himself.

“Everything we need to confirm our theory is right here.”  

You exchange a glance with Conrad, who looks just as unconvinced as you feel. “Right,” you say, voice dry. “A theory.”  

Houston gestures toward a nearby set of steel doors at the back of the bay. “Come on, since you’re down here, might as well take a look at the other storage areas.”  

Reluctantly, you follow as he pushes the doors open, revealing another section of the ship lined with rows of metal shelves and stacked crates. Inside, floodlights hum overhead, casting a harsh white glow over the neatly organized equipment.

Maps and geological charts are pinned to a board near the entrance, displaying rough sketches of Skull Island’s terrain. A few scientists are inside, cataloging supplies—mostly radios, first aid kits, and survival gear.  

Near the back, a weapons locker sits against the wall, its steel doors secured with heavy-duty locks.

Inside the mesh barrier, you can make out the unmistakable shapes of rifles, handguns, and stacks of ammunition. Next to it, another container is marked with a bold red symbol—explosives.  

You glance at Conrad, who doesn’t seem surprised.  

“Seismic charges, huh?” you murmur, voice laced with skepticism.  

Randa ignores you, stepping further inside as if absorbing the weight of everything stored here. “We are on the brink of discovery,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.  

Houston, ever the optimist, claps a hand against one of the crates. “Let’s just hope we live long enough to see it.”  

You shiver slightly as a draft creeps in from somewhere, the cold steel walls doing little to keep out the ocean’s chill. Folding your arms, you take a slow step back toward the door.  

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Let’s hope.”

The spare bedroom is small, barely enough space for the two cots squeezed into opposite corners. A single overhead light flickers, casting a dim yellowish glow over the metal walls. You drop your bag onto the cot closest to the wall, exhaling as you finally sit down. The air smells faintly of salt and oil, but at least it’s better than that god-awful meeting room.

Mason sets her camera bag down by her bed, stretching her arms with a tired sigh. “So,” she starts, glancing at you with a knowing smirk, “what were you and Conrad doing down there?”

You huff a quiet laugh, kicking off your boots. “Sightseeing.”

She raises a brow. “Right. Sightseeing in a dark cargo hold full of explosives and classified equipment?”

“Hey, I wasn’t the one with a lighter and a suspicious amount of curiosity,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “Conrad was already there when I showed up.”

Mason hums, clearly unconvinced but amused. “Mm-hmm. You two seemed cozy.”

You scoff. “If by ‘cozy’ you mean questioning the sanity of this mission, then yeah, sure.”

“Seriously, though,” she says, shifting to face you. “What do you think’s really going on with this mission?”

You exhale, staring at the ceiling. “Nothing good. Randa’s desperate, Packard’s got that war-hungry look in his eye, and those ‘seismic charges’ aren’t fooling anyone.”

Mason nods. “Yeah. Feels off.” She fiddles with her camera. “But at least we’ve got front-row seats.”

You watch her adjust the lens, her fingers moving with practiced ease. “You believe in all that—exposing the truth, showing people what they don’t want to see?”

She shrugs. “Someone has to.”

You smirk. “Lucky us.”

A pause lingers between you before you smirk. “Alright, journalist. If we live through this, first round’s on you.”

Mason laughs. “Deal.”

The ship groans as another wave rolls beneath it, but for the first time tonight, the tension in your chest eases just a little.

funny how she said she doesn't do sightseeing then says she does to mason.. kinda weird, anyway that was chapter one! i used most of the script from the movie itself to actually feel like you're in it. hope you enjoyed, lots of love from me! (sorry if it was too short, the chapters will be much more longer later on!)

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

[kdo-three]

Elvis Costello and The Attractions - Beaten to the Punch (1980) Elvis Costello from: "Get Happy!!" (LP)

R&B | Neo R&B | New Wave

Tumblr (left click = play) (320kbps)

Personnel: Elvis Costello: Vocals / Guitar The Attractions: Steve Nieve: Keyboards Bruce Thomas: Bass Pete Thomas: Drums

Produced by Nick Lowe

Recorded: @ The Wisseloord Studios in Hilversum, Netherlands during October of 1979

Released: on February 15, 1980 F-Beat Records (UK) Columbia Records (US)

[dustedmagazine]

Des Demonas — Apocalyptic Boom! Boom! (In the Red)

A late year banger comes from DC’s Des Demonas, a band of friends powered by squalling farfisa, pummeling drums and political rage, poetically expressed. “The Duke Ellington Bridge” is one of 2024’s very best songs, wheeling in on a blare of organ, pursuing a rock ‘n roll grove that circles rather than progresses. It would be very, very good, just in musical terms, but the words are top-notch as well. Atop it all, one Jacky “Cougar” Abok reads the scriptures in a Kenyan cadence, unspooling visionary rants about all the things he is (“a necromancer,” “a black dictator,” a “head tranquilizer,” a “D.C. sniper”).

This is only Des Demonas’ second full length, following a 2017 self-titled debut, but its members have long histories in DC punk, Abok in the Foul Swoops and Thee Lolitas, guitarist Mark Cisneros in various Kid Congo outfits, the Make-Up and the superlative post-punk Hammered Hulls. Paul Vivaree, whose wailing Farfisa is so integral to this band’s sound, plays with Benjy Ferree and drummer Matt Gatwood is a member of Two Inch Astronaut. So, while not a supergroup on the level of, say, the Hard Quartet, these are seasoned hands, and you can hear it in how tightly, hard and selflessly they play.

You can hear all manner of classic punk influences in these songs, the dub-touched anthemry of the Clash in “Fascist Discotheque,” reeling Steve Nieves’-style keyboards in “Restructuring,” the stinging offbeats of two-tone ska in “Angola.” The title cut slithers ominously a la certain African Head Charge cuts, resounding with thunderous bass. Rhythms clank and groan ponderously, then cut whip switch turns, gloriously heavy, furiously agile.

Still no matter how great the rest of the band is—and make no mistake, it is pretty great—the spotlight rightly falls on Abok. His rough-cut poetry comes in an incendiary stream, touching on arts, politics, activism and revolutionary economics. He spits out phrases, howls disjointedly and sometimes hazards a wandering melody in an acrobatic vocal performance.  It goes pretty fast, and a lyric sheet would be helpful to decrypt the words, but even snatches caught on the fly illuminate and provoke.

These songs careen wrecklessly, bouncing off music history and rebounding to the present. Song titles nod to Arthur Lee, Miles Davis, Elvis and Duke Ellington, bringing the rage and resistance and creative resilience of the past into the now, where it slaps as hard as it ever has. Fucking A.

Jennifer Kelly