Great idea, Dave!

Lets go back in time a little here.......

Picture me being managed by an august English gentleman, a genuine solicitor, once sequestered behind an imposing walnut desk in a starchy, lemon pledge-smelling office in the depths of The City, now esconsced in trendy Notting Hill Gate and shepherding the likes of Yours Truly and a certain Neanderthal guitarist from the sixties, and this bow-tied, pin-striped manager who must surely have his finger on the very pulse of modern popular music, says to me, on the eve of the release of one of my rather dodgy '80's albums, "So Graham, what are we going to do about touring this time? After all, going out and playing the same old places is a bit like preaching to the converted, isn't it?"
"Um...yeah?" reply I, dreading a Big Idea from this John Steed-like personage.
"So what about that Costello chappie they're always comparing you with? Why not tour with him?"
"Uh....uh...doh..." I blather, which our leather-elbowed and tweed-jacketed (I kid you not) manager takes for acquiescence.
On the phone he gets, calling up Your El's manager. What reply does he get? A curt and paranoid "Too similar! Goodbye, I've got to get to the bank before they close, and I'll be laughing all the way."
Well, that was the end of that little exercise in openness. I've got to give the old bugger credit for trying, though.

Fast forward to a management-free later-eighties and I'm on the blower to Joe Jackson. "Joe," I say, not too excited, not too casual. "Why don't we do a tour together?" (There was more flesh and blood {is that a J.J album title, or what?!} to this question, it's true, but I of the elephant memory can't recall it.)
Young Joe became a tad edgy at this suggestion, it must be said. "Too similar," may have popped out of his mouth, but definitely the words, "I like my shows to be a real event like two hours long...." did emerge from the formidable and very able Jackson tonsils. The reticence, paranoia even, was there though, leaving me with a strange metallic taste in my mouth. (Let it be known that Joe is a friend, by the way.)

Fast forward, if you will, to the early '90's as I continue to come to grips with the awesome power of The Great Downhill. With a sudden rush of blood, I call up two of the artists you mention, M. Crenshaw and J. Shear, and ply them with a similar collaborative idea. This time, it's, "Why don't we all write three and a half songs each and do an album together? After all, we're not exactly gonna be all over MTV anymore, and lets be honest, as far as album sales are concerned, it ain' t gonna get any better, right? I mean, it doesn't matter if you do something great, it's not the point, right? It still ain't gonna sell Jack-shit, right? If we combine what we do, at least we've got a press angle and if we did a few gigs..." etc. etc.
I even had a name for us: The Losers (!) What a set up, I thought!
Unfortunately, I seemed to touch nerves of great recalcitrance and trepidation in both these sterling talents. The twitching and tooth-grinding were almost palpable and none of us ever mentioned those phone calls again.

Now, I would think that Joe's recent sales must by now have started to hit the old stink meter, and Jules and Marsh aren't exactly rocketing around the charts (Your El is not in this picture, I presume), but just you try getting anything of the nature your question suggests and you will come up against a wall made of very big bricks indeed.

Nice idea, Dave. In a different world though, I think.

From Patrick Curtis: