Elvis Costello - The impostor of rock'n'roll

The fact is I was never an angry young man, I've always been an angry old man. I've always felt older and always looked older, so I was. There are things that can still make me really angry, and I'm afraid that, in those cases, my reactions don't exactly follow logic, nor calm, nor intelligence. It's a damn mechanism that can drive some people to violence. The fact is that I'm all of one piece, so I never get as far as feeling hatred and I don't let the vitriol pour out. At most, I express all my disgust. A lot of people think they know me, but that's not the case at all.

(Elvis Costello)

Intro

Towards the end of the Seventies.

It's hard being twenty if you're perpetually pissed off and waiting for the end of the world.

Sarcasm and cynicism run through your black veins. You call your girlfriend just to put her down.

The songs you hear around are full of rage and, often, don't amount to more than three chords, blasted out, spat out.

You look like Buddy Holly and you're named after the king of rock and roll. Old hat.

As a kid you liked "Song For Swinging Lovers".

Now all you know is that you don't want to walk down the streets of Chelsea. Very punk.

And yet you like Sinatra and the Supremes, and your wordplay makes you a refined singer-songwriter.

Echoes of Bob Dylan and Graham Parker in the England of 1977.

Maybe you already know you'll give yourself over to soul and country.

Maybe you already know that a certain Brodsky Quartet will lead you to study harmony and composition, and that you'll bring Shakespeare into twentieth-century chamber music.

Or maybe you just know that you're twenty years old now and you're pissed off. And you don't want to set foot in Chelsea.

After all, you've only got a strange name. Elvis Costello.

Waiting for the end of the world

Declan Patrick MacManus is born on August 25, 1954, in a hospital in Paddington, London.

The boy is the only child of Ronald "Ross" MacManus, a trumpet player, and Lillian MacManus, who owns a record shop.

Seven years later, the couple move to Middlesex, and while the boy attends Hounslow High School, they decide to split up.

At sixteen, Declan follows his mother to Liverpool, where he sits his school-leaving exams.

Surrounded by the new pop melodies embroidered by his parents, he starts falling for Sinatra's voice and buys his first record, the Beatles' "Please, Please Me" by the Beatles.

Among his earliest, most dazzling musical encounters are his father's swing via the Joe Loss Orchestra and, even more than the Jefferson Airplane, countless Tamla Motown records.

From Motown to his first compositions, it's not that big a leap.

In 1970 he puts together a folk duo - Rusty - with Allan Mayes, even performing live in front of an audience. But it's just a creative lark, because four years later Declan packs his bags and settles in Stag Lane, Roehampton, together with his two friends Mick Kent and Malcolm Dennis, with whom he shares a deep passion for Bob Dylan and the Beach Boys.

The three form a band called Flip City, inspired by bassist-friend Nick Lowe's Brinsley Schwarz. The group earns a decent local following, even opening for the pub-rock heroes Dr. Feelgood, but by the end of 1975 it splits up by mutual agreement.

This is the moment when he calls himself, for the first time, DP Costello (after his paternal grandmother's surname), beginning to perform as a solo musician. Money, however, is tight, and with a wife and young son to support, Declan takes a job as a computer operator at Elizabeth Arden.

So it is that on Wales Farm Road, a restless young man carries on, scribbling his odd ideas during breaks for the one thing he truly wants: a career in music.

Costello bravely picks up the acoustic guitar and records a demo that he sends off to a few record labels. No response. Even small live performances fail to draw any attention. The only one to notice him is Charlie Gillett, a BBC radio host, who even decides to fund out of his own pocket a first album titled "DP Costello".

Late 1976. The independent label Stiff Records places an ad calling for unreleased demos from artists eager to break through. Declan Patrick doesn't need telling twice. Dave Robinson, manager of Graham Parker, has just signed Ian Dury and Nick Lowe, while Jake Riviera senses the new hopeful's talent, agrees to manage him, and pushes him toward a brand-new name, riding on the starry trail of the King of rock and roll.

It's the first cry of Elvis Costello.

Stiff's svengali pairs his bespectacled lad with a Californian band called Clover (later known as Huey Lewis And The News), throwing them into London's Pathway Studios under the watchful eye of Nick Lowe.

In a rush, Elvis Costello's debut album is thus recorded, preceded by the single "Less Than Zero/Radio Sweetheart". The schizoid catchiness of the A-side, paired with a fifties-flavoured swing, doesn't bring the hoped-for results and even puts the album's release itself in doubt. Elvis leaves Elizabeth Arden, but money remains tight, even though the following singles, "Alison" and "Red Shoes", earn more than positive reviews.

27 May 1977. At London's Nashville, Elvis Costello plays his first show, opening for the Rumour. The audience applauds the performance, and that seems to be enough to convince the doubtful Stiff Records. In June, an ad appears in Melody Maker stating that the label is looking for a backing band for the musician.

The first to respond is drummer Pete Thomas (ex-Chilli Willi And The Red Hot Peppers), followed by Steve Nason, a student at the Royal Academy Of Music but, above all, a brilliant keyboardist of just seventeen. The bass, finally, goes to Bruce Thomas (ex-Quiver).

It's July 1977. Elvis Costello's Attractions make their stage debut.

My Aim Is True (Stiff, 1977) flirts with the fury of the punk cyclone, but doesn't consummate the relationship, thanks to a splendid, neurotic songwriting sensibility, intellectual and refined. While anarchy blazes across the kingdom, the new Buddy Holly seems a hybrid creature, torn inside between the war drums of "Waiting For The End Of The World" and the sixties Chicago sound of "Blame It On Cain".

Costello's anger is almost vicious, yet it's contained within an epileptic, frustrated sensibility, embodied by the "angry young man" who vents his thwarted sexuality amid the doo-wop harmonies of "No Dancing".

Clover are honest session men, but certainly more refined than the usual three chords churned out wholesale: hence the nostalgic, swing-tinged tones of "Sneaky Feelings". Elvis doesn't spit like Vicious and doesn't run through the streets like Strummer and Jones. "Less Than Zero" holds on to its tender electric nervousness, which turns, at will, into the psychotic pounding of "I'm Not Angry" or the heartbreak ballad "Alison". The romantic drama plays out in a biting silence, while in the background the words that give the album its title are recited with unusual sadness.

Costello can't stay still, and his punk attitude shows itself in an early knack for disregarding convention, hopping between genres as if browsing an old record shop. The brisk rock and roll aftertaste of "Mystery Dance" slides effortlessly into energetic boogie-blues numbers like "Pay It Back" and "Miracle Man".

A punk tradition, then, that welcomes an extraordinarily raw composer in his versatility, capable of drenching the shouted rock of "Red Shoes" in folk, or steering a schizoid mellotron through the reggae of "Watching The Detectives".

Non voglio andare a Chelsea

My Aim Is True earns good reviews, climbing the British charts thanks in part to the first hit, "Watching The Detectives".

Costello is hungry for fame, and so he starts pressuring Riviera to play, unexpectedly, in front of some Cbs managers visiting London. The manager goes along with the idea, which earns him an arrest, but, eventually, also a deal with the American label.

In October 1977, Elvis leaves Stiff, setting up a new label, Radar Records, with Andrew Lauder. Studio work with the Attractions begins here, on the eve of a long-awaited first American tour.

Two months later, Costello stops his band mid-song during an episode of Saturday Night Live, telling the audience he couldn't care less about the ban, imposed by the show's producers, on playing "Radio Radio", the furious new track aimed at the United States. The musician is consequently barred from future bookings on the show, but reaps a large and welcome amount of publicity in the process.

Elvis cultivates an aura of the tough rebel, fuelled by his decision to grant no interviews whatsoever. "My ultimate vocation in life is to be annoying. Not someone truly destructive, just a person who's irritating, who disorients. Someone who breaks the slow daily grind of life and manages to do it convincingly enough to leave some victim thinking that, perhaps, there's something more than the mere monotony of existence."

The result: My Aim Is True breaks into the US Top 40 and paves the commercial way for the next record, the first made with the Attractions.

The product of a more careful production, This Year's Model (Radar, 1978) is the decisive leap forward, steeped in a lean, nervy sound that updates the glorious 60s beat of Kinks and Rolling Stones.

Elvis Costello grows angrier by the day and, armed with sarcasm and melodic grit, launches his own personal war against everyone and everything.

The Attractions are real musicians, and they allow the leader's rock miniatures to raise a thunderous wall of sound, weaving - as on "The Beat" - textures of blazing guitars and Californian-beach Farfisa. Starting with the lightning-fast beat of "No Action", the album spills over into a sixties-flavoured pop nervousness ("This Year's Girl"), bearing witness to fresh psycho-sexual nightmares.

Punk gallops over the metallic jealousy of "You Belong To Me", but it also looks backward, revealing its proto-punk roots, when the blaze of "Pump It Up" detonates, a spew not unlike Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues". Costello battles ghosts of misogyny and insecurity, but to win he needs the tender melody of "Little Triggers" and gutsy pop choruses like the one in "Hand In Hand". What emerges, though, is a schizoid, unstable album, made of rhythmic fragments held together by a band equal to the task. The scornful twist-time repetitions of "(I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea" thus walk hand in hand with the rubbery bounce of "Living In Paradise" and the nocturnal organ march of "Night Rally".

Costello is, then, ready to bring his Kafkaesque persona onto the grand stage of new wave. The new Dylan-esque epileptic fit of "Lipstick Vogue" and the rhythmic force of the controversial "Radio Radio" are delirious gems from a boy-musician, future bard of pop.

This Year's Model boosts Elvis Costello's fame, reaching number five in England and selling well in the United States, where the frantic rhythm of "Pump It Up" becomes a hit.

Riding swiftly on the wave of their first success, the four set off, in the spring and summer of 1978, on a long North American tour.

Two Hearts and a Chart Position

Los Angeles, Hollywood High, June 4, 1978. The Elvis Costello & The Attractions show has just ended, after the usual barrage of notes. In the crowd is a certain Bebe Buell, a twenty-four-year-old model better known as a ravenous groupie in the male-dominated world of rock and roll. A joint eases the shyness of the strange guy with the glasses, and it's love at first sight.

The decision is immediate and unanimous: he will leave his wife Mary, she will leave Todd Rundgren.

Back in England, the two find themselves at the centre of a tabloid media storm, hounded practically everywhere they go. The relationship is, therefore, very public, but it ends suddenly and bitterly, undone by insecure jealousy and legal wrangling.

Deeply depressed, Costello decides to throw himself headlong into his music, returning to the studio with the Attractions to work on his third album. While back home the single "Radio Radio" cracks the Top 20, the band sets off on tour again, first to Australia and then back to the United States.

Packed with metaphors and wordplay, Armed Forces (Radar, 1979) broadens Costello's sound, pushing it towards an ever more alluring blend of genres.

Again produced by Nick Lowe, the album winks at socio-political themes steeped in shattered, desperate love. The grandiose instrumental flourishes of "Chemistry Class" are, in effect, an X-ray of a sensitive, intellectual musician gradually shedding the frantic rage he once had. Significant changes, then, that give birth to a record balanced perfectly on the knife-edge of several different musical souls.

Costello still has plenty of sarcastic aggression to spare, but for the first time he doesn't let it explode in every direction. Still, there's ammunition left in the chamber: the martial refrain of "Goon Squad" and the bleak synthesizer of "Big Boys". Provocation turns into anthem. "Two Little Hitlers" is his reggae-tempo "Rebel Rebel".

The overall rhythm expands, spiraling into new experiments rooted in the Sixties. "Busy Bodies" recalls Beach Boys-style harmonies, while psychedelia wraps around the waltz of "Sunday's Best" and the rave-like accordion of "Moods For Moderns".

Neuroses that nonetheless make room for a sweet pop heart, refined and never cloying. The tender dark side of Elvis Costello. "Accident Will Happen" is a postcard lifted straight from "Abbey Road". "Oliver's Army" is pure Tamla-soul. The Attractions splendidly back both the funk marches ("Senior Service") and the sunniest pop-rock ("(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace Love And Understanding").

All the way to "Party Girl", a second, courtly masterpiece for the new Alison, Bebe Buell, who whispers Beatles-esque echoes over the words "I could give you everything, except the time".

And time seems to have a very specific plan for Elvis Costello.

The multifaceted moods of Armed Forces meet with great commercial success, reaching the Top 10 in the United States and, with the single "Oliver's Army", number two on the UK charts.

Throughout 1979, Costello and the Attractions embark on a long tour, setting England, Europe, and the United States alight once again. The strain shows, and combined with his troubled relationship with Buell, it drives Elvis to drink more than usual.

At a Holiday Inn in Ohio, a thoroughly drunk Costello gets into a brawl with Stephen Stills' entourage after they provoke him by claiming the clear superiority of American musicians over British ones. Elvis is accused by some newspapers of racism towards African-American artists (despite openly anti-fascist lyrics, such as the attack on Oswald Mosley in "Less Than Zero") and is consequently forced to apologise publicly at a press conference.

The American leg of the tour is thus cut short, triggering a widespread and conspicuous drop in esteem, sealed by a promise never to set foot on Columbus's land again.

Columbia Records then adds to the trouble, deciding not to release the single "Peace, Love And Understanding" and even weighing a possible termination of the contract.

Riviera advises Costello not to give interviews, but the tabloids go wild once again after the affair with Bebe, who, in the meantime, decides to leave him for good and go back to Todd Rundgren.

Overwhelmed by the media frenzy, Elvis returns to England to his wife Mary, but above all to Eden Studios to record his fourth album. The new arrangements leave him unsatisfied, however, forcing him to backtrack in a provocative search for a Black, multiracial sound.

With Get Happy!! (F-Beat, 1980), Costello sheds his identity as the man angry at everyone to embrace a new guise, softer and more melodic. For the first time, then, wordplay and vehement lyrics are channelled into the service of more polished, carefully crafted arrangements.

The usual blend of organ and guitars underpins "Black And White World", which tries to settle the score with the US press's shameful accusations of racism. Elvis, in short, leans hard into a record built on Black music that pays homage to Black genres. The harmonies of "Love For Tender" are his personal bow to Motown, reinforced by the soul minuet of "Secondary Modern".

It's a nostalgic key that dusts off sounds from the attic of memory, handing out aged postcards as in the backing vocals of "High Fidelity" or the sixties beat of "Beaten To The Punch". Costello aims for a certain authorial refinement, shaking together the Beatles-esque dance of "New Amsterdam" and the funky pop of "B-Movie".

Continually embroidered by Steve Nieve's atmospheric keyboards, the album unfurls a pop soul with a reassuring aftertaste. The frenzy is still alive on "Man Called Uncle", but it's melodic pleasures like "Opportunity" and "Possession" that truly define Elvis's intentions.

A flood of seductive hooks pours over songs that aren't always fully in focus. Get Happy!! is a generous record that, at times, sounds a bit confused and scattered.

The ska dissonances of "The Imposter" alternate with the repetitive catchiness of the Sam & Dave cover, "I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down". The urge to do more ends up turning into the risk of overdoing it, and so "Temptation" is a bland imitation of Booker T, drenched in melodramatic sunshine alongside the reggae of "Human Touch". Luckily Costello has a solid band behind him, letting him stage the pop funeral for keyboards that is "Riot Act", a finale of striking impact.

Fine authorial work, then, but a more conventional record compared with the schizoid rage spewed out up to this point.

Get Happy!! rides the good reputation of Armed Forces and makes the UK Top Ten, but is practically ignored in the United States, where the hostility toward Costello continues unabated.

The Road to Nashville

1980. Shortly before the start of a new European tour, keyboardist Steve Nieve is injured in a serious car accident. Costello temporarily replaces him with second guitarist Martin Belmont, pursuing a more powerful sound in the style of seventies David Bowie. The experiment ends in the summer of the same year, when the Attractions return to their usual lineup and continue the tour in Canada.

The band decides to carve out a space of its own, releasing the album Mad About The Wrong Boy (Demon, 1980), which, however, is met with little enthusiasm from critics.

Later, surprisingly, American Columbia decides to release an anthology of rarities and b-sides, Taking Liberties.

The album, even more surprisingly, sells well and is thus followed by its English counterpart.

Ten Bloody Marys And Ten How's Your Fathers (F-Beat, 1980) is the first intelligent anthology in the Elvis Costello manner. Not a simple collection of hits, then, but a varied microcosm of unreleased tracks, rarities and b-sides.

After just four albums, the time has come for Elvis to put an exclamation point on his mental and sonic blueprints, retracing different styles and scattered influences. A musician in flux, trying to stitch together the schizoid pieces of a sonic mosaic.

At the root of the earliest Costello, then, lies beat music, abrasive on "Clean Money", scorched by Californian sun on "Big Tears" (with Mick Jones on guitar). His love for "beach boys" and "pepper sergeants" takes shape in the marching-band psychedelia of "Talking In The Dark", turned into fanfare on "Dr. Luther's Assistant". The epileptic neuroses of a boy with odd glasses accompany the punk cyclone that sweeps through the speed of "Crawling To The Usa" over the notes of a deranged little organ ("Wednesday Week").

Costello, however, has a deeply nostalgic heart that lets him go further. The pop harmonies of "Tiny Steps" pair with the pleasures of country ("Stranger In The House") and well up in tears in the cover of the classic "My Funny Valentine". Out comes the son of Tin Pan Alley, writing songs for the sheer pleasure of it. The Dylan-esque sketch of "Hoover Factory" and the soul crackle of "Gettin' Mighty Crowded". Right through to the closing nursery rhyme, "Ghost Train".

More than just a simple collection, this is a way to understand the b-side of a musician climbing the ladder of art.

Shortly after the release of Ten Bloody Mary's, Costello returns to Eden Studios to record, together with his trusty Nick Lowe, a new album of original material. At this point, the two look for a different sound, shelving the synthesizer and occasionally adding the extra guitar of Belmont, a sort of fifth Attraction.

On Trust (F-Beat, 1981), the instrumental volume rises noticeably, giving freer rein to Steve Nieve's piano. Costello registers a now mature artistic awareness, bringing together two seemingly distant sonic souls. The Bo Diddley-style tribalism of "Lovers Walk" and the pulsing rock and roll of "From A Whisper To A Scream" are fresh flashes of a primal punk fury.

The album thus chases the neurotic spontaneity of the early days, between a fierce rockabilly ("Luxembourg") and a schizoid carousel set to a beat tempo ("Fish'N'Chip Paper"). Elvis, however, is refining his craft and seems to develop a particular taste for the tough job of sound architect. The beat rhythm thus turns into a heartfelt piano lament ("Clubland"), giving way to the instrumental baroque flourishes of "You'll Never Be A Man" and the dear soul ballad "New Lace Sleeves".

Rather than epileptic neuroses, what greets the listener now are the chant-like refinements of "Different Finger" and martial nursery rhymes like "White Knuckles". The psychotic little organ of "Pump It Up" finishes a course in good manners and accompanies, steady and classicizing, the scornful spiritual of "Watch Your Step".

Costello, in short, craves instrumental excellence and the refinements of a pop master. The melodramatic suite of "Shot With His Own Gun" ultimately reveals the sense in which Trust evolves toward another form of life.

The new album charts in the UK, but the two singles ("Clubland" and "From A Whisper To A Scream") turn out to be flops, disappointing expectations built on Elvis's popularity.

In 1981 the "English Mud Tour" kicks off, an acclaimed run through the United States and England. Costello, however, grows ever more dissatisfied with his current musical path and, in a final twist, decides to take his band to Nashville to record some country covers with veteran producer Billy Sherrill.

Almost Blue (F-Beat, 1981) is a bolt from the blue that throws a scrawny, prickly English punk onto the highway to Nashville, Tennessee.

Elvis Costello leaves behind neurosis and schizoid rhythms to wander off, mellow and melodious, between melodies and country laments. A mawkish sadness that, on “Sweet Dreams”, rests its head on orchestral layers and pedal-steel textures. Prime material fit for the likes of Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn. The Englishman playing at being American thus drops the mask, declaring his visceral devotion to Gram Parsons and his refined, melancholy brushstrokes (“I’m Your Toy” and “How Much I Lied”).

The experiment, at the dawn of the new decade, is decidedly bold, steeped as it is in the “hick” romanticism of “Brown To Blue” and in overwrought ballads like “Too Far Gone”. Costello teases with the opening western-and-roll of “Why Don’t You Love Me”. “Good Year For The Roses” is a gentle tribute to Jerry Chesnut, harmonized by the vocal group the Nashville Edition.

The rickety punk thus plays at being a country crooner, tenderly defeated as in the melodic twirl of “Sittin’ And Thinkin”, halfway between Charlie Rich and Tom Waits.

The whole thing might also seem the fruit of a refined sonic research, but one too many affectations inevitably lie in wait for the album. “Colour Of The Blues” is merely an instrumental exercise, with Nieve’s piano galloping over a typical barrelhouse groove on “Tonight The Bottle Let Me Down”. An alien spontaneity, then, that dances to the waltz of a depressed saloon on “Success” and mixes with fifties blues on Big Joe Turner’s “Honey Hush”.

Costello thus brings to a close a personal monograph on the Nashville sound, too “impure” to please the purists, too rooted in tradition to get the Eighties dancing.

The release of Almost Blue divides opinion.

The first single, “A Good Year For The Roses”, goes down well in England and Australia, where it quickly charts. The United States, by contrast, turns up its nose: a bespectacled Englishman can’t play country. Most of the critics tear the record apart, and many longtime fans are left disappointed by the change of direction.

Costello then decides to take a period of creative downtime, producing the album “East Side Story” (A&M, 1981) for Squeeze.

An Imperial Bedroom

Late 1981. Elvis Costello’s musical mind now seems ready to take the decisive step forward. Twenty are the pieces of the new puzzle, to be put together with the trusty Attractions and a new sound engineer, one Geoff Emerick, who had already worked with a band called Beatles. There’s a gathering to hold at Air Studios in London, because this time the project is decidedly ambitious. Hard work for at least two months in a cottage in Cornwall.

Imperial Bedroom (F-Beat, 1982) is the album that cements Elvis Costello’s definitive artistic maturity, as an ambitious songwriter in the decade just beginning its ride.

Far behind, then, are the mawkish country and the amphetamine-fuelled schizophrenia. The former bespectacled kid becomes a true songwriter, refined and cultured, stitching together a symphonic pop of elegant penmanship.

The acoustic sound of “Pidgin English” boasts a lavish instrumental richness, heir to the most brilliant Beatles-esque production techniques. Sound engineer Geoff Emerick helps Costello in the slow, methodical construction of architectures that would delight every sergeant pepper the world over, ready to (re)listen to tracks like “…And In Every Home”.

Imperial Bedroom, however, is not merely a bold tribute to England’s past glories, but the cohesive result of personal sonic sketches, steeped in Steve Nieve’s never overblown orchestral arrangements. Orchestral like the hammering of “Little Savage” or the airy piano of “Boy With A Problem”. Costello still looks to psychedelia (the waltz of “You Little Fool”) and to old theatrical nursery rhymes (“Human Hands”), but strides forward in his songwriting at a fast pace. The Dylan-esque Hammond organ turns majestic on “Man Out Of Time”, which, together with the liturgical soul prayer for strings and horns “Town Cryer”, is one of his finest ballads. A musical versatility that lets Elvis move with utter ease from the pop twirl of “The Loved Ones” to the 1940s after-hours jazz atmospheres of “Almost Blue” and “Kid About It”.

His mental bedroom is like the heterogeneous sonic attic of the white album: it feels as though four different people were writing it, when in fact it’s just one. Reconciling the nocturnal tango of “The Long Honeymoon” with the acid dance of “Shabby Doll”; the romantic sway of “Tears Before Bedtime” with the soul-searching cut-up of “Beyond Belief”.

The punk impostor reaches his point of no return, crafting his own “Sgt. Pepper” or, if you prefer, his own “Pet Sounds”.

Imperial Bedroom is greeted with great enthusiasm by critics, who are quick to trot out more or less obvious names like Beatles, George Martin, Burt Bacharach and Cole Porter. The album, however, turns into a commercial flop, with the two lead singles “You Little Fool” and “Man Out Of Time” failing miserably. Costello doesn't seem to mind, caring only about a new artistic life beyond commercial success.

The new songs (along with much of “Almost Blue”) find their rightful intellectual space across two London shows with the Royal Philarmonic Orchestra. The band then sets off on tour again across England, the United States and Australia, and Greil Marcus of “Rolling Stone” publishes a finally peaceable interview titled “Elvis Costello Repents”.

The summer of 1982 proves to be a confused period. Costello releases a couple of cover singles (Smokey Robinson's “From Head To Toe” and “The Words Of Broken Hearts”, a 60s hit) and writes the dreadful “Party Party” for the equally dreadful, self-titled Terry Winsor film.

Pressured by the poor sales of Imperial Bedroom, Elvis decides to head in a catchier direction, releasing the crowd-pleasing single “Pills And Soap” under the pseudonym The Imposter. The track wins over everyone, critics and audiences alike, and paves the way for the release of the new studio album.

Punch The Clock (F-Beat, 1983) reverses the grandiose vision of its predecessor, landing on far safer pop shores. Costello recruits a horn ensemble - the TKO's - with the clear intent of sailing toward a more digestible sound, one capable of satisfying less refined and demanding palates. Motown soul and pop are thus skilfully blended, whipped up and served in the glasses of “Let Them All Talk” and “Boxing Day”.

The album is a relaxed, cheerful microcosm that aims for the horizon with the synthetic sparkle of “Everyday I Write The Book”, marching to a funky beat on “The Greatest Thing”. There are few echoes of the previous orchestral metaphysics, scattered through the sixties pop of “The Element Within Her” and the splendid jazz lushness of “Shipbuilding” (originally by Robert Wyatt), enriched by Chet Baker's scene-stealing touch. Tracks like “Love Went Mad” and “King Of Thieves”, however, run on contrived pop rhythms, culminating in the breezy horns of closer “The World And His Wife”.

Costello seems torn between disillusioned temptations and the beguiling calls of self-satisfied sirens. The bored pulse of the bass on “Charm School” against the pop pageantry of “Mouth Almighty”. The dark tension of the single “Pills And Soap” against the melodic theatre of “The Invisible Man”.

Underlying confusion? A clever sellout?

The relaxed tracks on Punch The Clock, produced by Clive Langer and Alan Winstanley, work very well on the radio. The infectious novelty of “Everyday I Write The Book” climbs the charts, dragging the whole album along with it, which becomes Elvis Costello's first UK number one.

In mid-1983, after producing the Special AKA's “Free Nelson Mandela”, Elvis goes back on tour across Europe and the United States, where he rekindles his relationship with Bebe Buell. The troubled love affair is, however, doomed to sour once again after unexpected pregnancies and the usual obsessive misunderstandings. Costello thus needs to return to songwriting, shutting himself away in his office with the clear intent of writing better, decidedly more restrained songs.

Described by Costello himself as “the worst album with the best songs”, Goodbye Cruel World (F-Beat, 1984) is a none-too-convincing step toward more adult sonic and lyrical themes. The radio-friendly lightness of Punch The Clock gives way to an underlying disillusionment, fuelled by the second breakup with Bebe Buell. “Room With No Number” thus lays bare Elvis's new thoughts, set against a skipping R&B backdrop.

These are indeed more restrained and reflective songs, the fruit of an almost painstaking effort in the name of genuine pop songwriting. “The Comedians” is a composed, quirky spin in 5/4 time, while “I Wanna Be Loved”, featuring Green Gartside of Scritti Politti, breathes pop-reggae atmospheres.

The first to suffer, however, are the Attractions, buried alive under a bland production weighed down by the clichés of the moment. The band's refined power is smothered beneath the synthesized blanket of “The Only Flame In Town”, and they're forced to wade through bitter ballads (“Home Truth” and “Lovefield”) and cynical ones (“The Great Unknown”) that say a lot but offer little in the way of originality.

Sampling the arrangements of “Joe Porterhouse”, one can easily sense an eighties syndrome that cheapens Costello's good ideas, as he moves sinuously through the night of “Inch By Inch”, intoning the hypnotic lullaby of “Peace In Our Time”. Too mechanical, however, is the Presley-esque rockabilly of “Sour Milk-Cow Blues” to convince the ear to keep listening, and above all to prove that the mass-appeal interlude is over.

Received with mixed reviews, Goodbye Cruel World sells far less than Punch The Clock, but is followed by the compilation The Best Of Elvis Costello: The Man (Telstar, 1985), which reaches number eight on the UK charts and goes gold.

The King of America

Between late 1984 and early 1985, Elvis Costello surprisingly decides to part ways with his faithful Attractions, recording one last song in the studio - "I Hope You're Happy Now" - dedicated to his ex-wife Mary.

Swept up in the folk-punk whirlwind of Shane MacGowan's Pogues, he produces their second album "Rum, Sodomy And The Lash", joining them on tour and growing increasingly close to nineteen-year-old bassist Cait O'Riordan.

Around the middle of the year he embarks on his first solo tour, taking in Europe, the United States and Australia, and wrapping it up alongside T-Bone Burnett, with whom he records a track - "The People's Limousine" - credited to the Coward Brothers.

At Wembley Stadium in London in July, Bob Geldof's gigantic Live Aid takes place: Costello performs a cover of the Beatles' "All You Need Is Love".

After a long stretch on the road, Elvis once again feels the urge to return to the recording studio, and moves to Los Angeles with his new friend and collaborator T-Bone Burnett. The basic idea is fairly clear: set the Attractions aside and hire American musicians to make "American" music. Elvis Costello changes mask and, behind the round glasses, becomes once again Declan Patrick Aloysius MacManus, solo musician, steeped in the sonic tradition of the Stars and Stripes.

King Of America (F-Beat, 1986) is Costello's second plunge into the vast ocean of American music.

Where Almost Blue chased breathlessly after the spirits of Hank Williams and Gram Parsons, this record revisits the codes of that tradition, fully absorbing them into the author's own stylistic signature. Elvis thus becomes Declan Patrick MacManus, an intimate folk singer steeped in a mature fifties aura. A sincere, authentic return to his roots, built around a core of popular acoustic ballads like "Indoor Fireworks", embellished with rustic mandolins ("Little Palaces") and fragments of organ ("I'll Wear It Proudly").

Without the sonic schizophrenia of the Attractions, an underlying Americanness can surface in all its obsession with the sturdy rock-and-western of "Glitter Gulch" and "The Big Light". The delicate country-rock of "Our Little Angel" is just a brief aside on an album that is more original and refined, played by sharper musicians, ranging between a tex-mex serenade for hammond organ and accordion ("Brilliant Mistake") and the woozy marimba of the melodramatic version of "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood".

The safe harbour now is New Orleans, where you can waltz to "American Without Tears" and return to the raw blues of J.B. Lenoir ("Eisenhower Blues"), never losing sight of jazz melody, as in "Poisoned Rose". Costello is full of himself, lording it over with David Hidalgo on the unsettling rockabilly of "Lovable" or mourning the Northern Irish tragedy on "Sleep Of The Just". As for his old band, all that's left is to look back on times gone by, tuning up the sixties-style guitar of "Suit Of Lights".

A record, then, steeped in a successful personal flair that revitalises a gifted artist, capable of shedding his skin and putting himself back in play without masks.

The instrumental Americanism of King Of America is well received by critics, but fails to chart, unleashing the fury of Columbia Records. The likely hit "Blue Chair", in fact, is left off the record: the risky decision convinces the label to refuse Costello a new contract.

Newly married, Elvis tries to mend the rift with the Attractions, returning to a gutsier sound designed to win back Columbia's trust.

Created to placate both band and label, Blood And Chocolate (F-Beat, 1986) is the other face of King Of America, a spontaneous eruption of clattering, distorted rock.

Costello thus reverses his solitary, introspective direction and returns to the roots of a tribal beat, steeped in sixties-style melodies as on "Uncomplicated" and "I Hope You're Happy Now". The album is recorded almost live, if only for the pleasure of firing off "Honey Are You Straight Or Are You Blind?", a revisitation of the psychedelia of "This Year's Model". Milestones of a nearly decade-long career flow by on the sturdy, Dylan-esque chords of "Tokyo Storm Warning" and amid the instrumental vertigo of "Next Time Round".

No masterpiece of originality, then, but a pleasant, flowing sound that doesn't shy away from the pop ballad ("Home Is Anywhere You Hang Your Head") or bittersweet soul flavors ("Blue Chair"). There's no longer the personal intimacy found in the ramshackle pop of "Crimes Of Paris", but rather a greater attention to aesthetic pleasure, between the Spector-esque heart of "Poor Napoleon" and the gospel prayer of "Battered Old Bird".

Elvis, however, doesn't forget that he has by now become a mature, refined singer-songwriter, and once again decides to carve out a small but significant space for his own menacing pains. Towering above all is the sexual psychodrama of the seven-minute "I Want You", one of the most harrowing ballads in his entire catalogue.

Blood And Chocolate sells poorly, especially in England, relentlessly fueling the artist's negative period.

Billed as The Confederates, Costello and the Attractions set out on a new Anglo-American tour with major additions such as Jim Keltner on drums, James Burton on guitar and Jerry Scheff on bass. 1987 is thus a year spent mostly "on the road", interrupted only by a soundtrack and another anthology of unreleased material.

With Out Of Our Idiot (Demon, 1987), Costello once again takes it upon himself to bring order to his overcrowded sound archive. This second compilation installment is packed with gems and various curiosities, perfect for fans and lovers of a certain brand of auteur pop-rock. The musician's eclectic flair thus emerges with no set direction, piling together tracks from different eras and styles. Here, clear contrasts collide, the offspring of ideas more and less successful.

"Turning The Town Red" and "Heaten Town" thus revisit the synth-pop of Punch The Clock, while "Flirting Kid" and "Black Sails In The Sunset" are steeped in a classicism not unfamiliar to Elvis's output. The schizoid mood of "Walking On Thin Ice" (written by Yoko Ono) aptly represents a sprawling record that aims at genre contamination. The rock and reggae of "Seven Day Weekend" and "So Young" reaches out to Jimmy Cliff, while "Big Sister" dances to ska and "Baby's Got A Brand New Hairdo" to 50s-style rock and roll.

Dispersion, then, that still amounts to a worthwhile anthology, a logbook of a more recent folk intimacy ("Withered And Died"), paired with carefree country-western numbers ("The People's Limousine" with T-Bone Burnett and "Shoes Without Heels"). Above all, though, stands the spoken-mariachi of "A Town Called Big Nothings", embellished by the trumpet of his father Ross.

These aren't essential tracks for understanding Costello, but together they make up a bold record that goes beyond the classic conventions of a "best of".

A Rose for Juliet

Late 1988. Costello calls T-Bone Burnett back in and, after a rather turbulent artistic period, prepares to set to music a sudden flood of ideas. Elvis is now fired up, a golden contract with Warner Bros. in his pocket. Recording of the new album thus begins in Dublin, continuing in the States, where a pop magic show materializes alongside "his majesty" Paul McCartney.

The first album of this new chapter, Spike (Warner, 1989) attempts to showcase the full musical eclecticism of Elvis Costello, drawing in illustrious guests and a range of different styles. A sort of pop auteur blockbuster that nevertheless ends up suffering from an underlying lack of focus that overshadows the quality of the individual songs. On "Deep Dark Truthful Mirror", old-school R&B becomes cinematic, shot through with Allen Toussaint's piano and the New Orleans sound of the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. The careful attention to arrangements certainly catches the ear, as in the stately theatrical guitar cadence of "Let Him Dangle" (with Marc Ribot) and the submerged, rockabilly nightmare à la Tom Waits of "Pads, Paws and Claws".

Costello seems to crave oddball fanfares ("Chewing Gum") and Pepper-esque vaudeville turns ("Miss Macbeth"), but ultimately gets lost in the whirlwind of his own ideas. Perhaps out of sheer self-indulgence (the orchestral swing of "Stalin Malone"), perhaps out of one imitation too many (the Springsteen-like drive of "This Town"). Not even the untamed sensuality of Chrissie Hynde's (Pretenders) voice on the pop ballad "Satellite" is enough: the album drifts into flamenco-jazz territory ("God's Comic") and, above all, into Celtic laments complete with harp ("Tramp The Dirt Down" and "Any King's Shilling").

Too much going on at once ends up burning and losing its flavor, as in the instrumental romanticism of "Last Boat Living", amid bells and mandolins. What's missing, then, is the spontaneous gesture that is only rediscovered after the encounter with "Macca", the melody genius who, slipping on his dark glasses, writes "Veronica", as simple as it is refined a piece of beat-pop. A craftsman's humility that would have made Spike a great record.

Propelled by the single "Veronica", Spike climbs the charts, going gold and effectively becoming Costello's most successful album since Almost Blue.

Riding the wave of unexpected commercial success, Elvis goes back on tour with the Confederates and assembles his old hits on Girls Girls Girls (Demon, 1989), a lavish double LP/CD anthology. 1990 is, then, a year off for the musician, who recharges his batteries ahead of further creative leaps.

Mighty Like A Rose (Warner, 1991) is another kaleidoscopic jumble of sounds and ideas. Costello veers further toward carefree musical shores, boldly venturing into more complex arrangements, embellished by Mitchell Froom's baroque production. Another pop kolossal, then, that opens looking backward with the sunny keyboards of "The Other Side Of Summer", a tribute to the genius of Brian Wilson. The record is thus drenched in blinding light, ringing melody in the Californian soul of "Georgie And Her Rival", pop catchiness in the Dylanesque "How To Be Dumb".

Elvis's aim seems to be to combine the lush arrangements of Imperial Bedroom with the intimate eclecticism of King Of America. On one hand, then, the chamber psychedelia of "All Grown Up" and "Harpies' Bizarre"; on the other, the acoustic haze à la Leonard Cohen of "After The Fall" and the spectral minimalism of "Broken".

The plot, however, suffers from temporary lapses: the mariachi leaps of "Invasion Hit Parade" and the orchestral falsetto of "Sweet Pear" end up as classic fish out of water. Beautifully integrated, on the other hand, is the pop refinement of "So Like Candy", co-written with McCartney and played with the pure talent of Marc Ribot, who in turn embroiders the apocalyptic dissonances of "Hurry Down Doomsday", far from sunny but extremely effective.

The film reaches its epilogue and, to close the circle, Costello returns to America, destination New Orleans. "Couldn't Call It Unexpected No. 4" thus dances a cheerful waltz, a sign of an artist who has, by now, found himself.

Mighty Like A Rose sells very well in England, driven by the video for "The Other Side Of Summer", which shows off a hippy-style Costello, with beard and long hair.

For the upcoming new tour, the Rude Five are formed, with Marc Ribot on guitar, Jerry Scheff on bass and Pete Thomas on drums. Elvis, however, is harbouring a deep weariness with rock and roll and, in his spare time, indulges in performances by the Brodsky Quartet, a string ensemble made up of Michael and Jacqueline Thomas, Ian Belton and Paul Cassidy.

Costello loves the Brodsky, but, above all, the Brodsky loves Costello. During a 1992 concert, the quartet invites the musician up on stage as a surprise, but he quickly realises he's unable to read the notes on the staff, having always relied on his ear. Elvis thus throws himself into it heart and soul, and, after cutting his beard and hair, starts studying music so he can write parts for strings.

Around the same time, a newspaper article catches his attention: a professor in Verona is spending his time answering letters addressed to Shakespeare's Juliet. "We'll have to bring the Brodsky in on this too," Costello immediately thinks.

The Juliet Letters (Warner, 1993) vastly expands the chamber pop of "Mighty Like A Rose" and becomes a poetic, symphonic experiment. Costello thus puts on his Sunday best, transforming into a string-section Frank Sinatra in service of the eternal drama of love. In place of the dazzling Hollywood String Quartet there is now another quartet, the Brodsky, which fully embraces the epistolary fragments addressed to the Capulet girl and, above all, a new spirit—celestial, quirky and sophisticated—born of the fusion between pop melody and classical music.

"The Birds Will Still Be Singing" is the poignant final example in a delicate series of small chamber lieder, direct heirs to the atmospheres of Vaughan Williams and the ensembles of Shostakovich. Minor-key instrumentals ("Deliver Us") and touching, melancholy passages ("Dead Letter" and "Last Post") adorn a coherent work that is, at the same time, a work with a soul, pastoral and vibrant as in "Taking My Life In Your Hands".

Costello's anarchic chaos thus enters into a kind of spiritual retreat, with a voice never so in tune ("For Other Eyes") and so instrumental (the violin-as-voice in "Expert Rites"). The album is a continuous spiritual dance, led by the hand through the ternary virtuosity of "Swine" and through unspoiled moments of joy, such as "I Almost Had A Weakness" and "Who Do You Think You Are?", the only track in which pop decisively takes over.

The unbreakable unity between Costello and the Brodsky allows for sudden shifts and elastic changes of tone. The drama fades into "Jacksons, Monk And Rowe", which colours the sound with a Broadway tint. In "The Offer Is Unrepeatable" and "Damnation's Cellar", the tragicomic turns the opera into operetta, as Rodgers & Hammerstein or Gilbert & Sullivan might have done.

The Juliet Letters is, then, a thoroughly successful record, as presumptuous as it is skilled at getting its hands dirty with intelligence. An album to be read as much as listened to (perhaps on a midsummer night), with the notable merit of leading an unshakeable pop heart by the hand into the presence of her majesty chamber music. The twentieth-century avant-gardes pass through here too, in their own small way.

The musical collection of letters climbs the charts, immediately dividing critics over the idea that an ex-punk has contaminated both himself and the purity of the Brodsky. The album sells reasonably well and spurs Costello to dig back into his catalogue, ready to churn out another "best of", this time with a surprise in store.

In the box set 2 1/2 Years (Demon, 1993), the real gem is the inclusion of the rare promotional Live At El Mocambo, recorded in Toronto back in 1978.

On the first live album of his recording career, Elvis Costello puts back on his old angry-musician glasses to let loose a rock and roll built on punk. The moment the incendiary R&B of "Mystery Dance" and "Welcome To The Working Week" kicks in, it's immediately clear we're light years away from the symphonic refinement explored with the Brodsky Quartet.

Going back in time, then, there's no Shostakovich, just a band of eccentrics called the Attractions. Above all, there's his old love of the 60s riff ("The Beat" and "(I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea"), which explodes in the pyrotechnic finale of "Pump It Up".

On stage, the band is at its best, with Steve Nieve stealing the show and a rhythm section as precise as a Swiss watch. Costello is thus free to spit out words and chords (the controversial "Radio Radio" and the insinuating "Less Than Zero"), making his first two superb albums burn even brighter.

That's the backbone of the performance: a tribal celebration of a beat revisited through a new wave lens, pleasing nostalgics and newcomers alike.

Brutal youth and useless beauty

In March 1994, Costello begins work on a new album to be titled "Idiophone". For the occasion, he invites drummer Pete Thomas to the same studio where My Aim Is True was made, recording some tracks with Elvis in an unprecedented multi-instrumentalist role (bass, keyboards and guitar). The experiment only half works, so keyboardist Steve Nieve and producer Mitchell Froom are brought back in, with Froom in turn insisting on recalling Bruce Thomas.

Elvis Costello thus finds himself right back where he started, almost twenty years earlier.

A family reunion with the Attractions, Brutal Youth (Warner, 1994) is a revisited take on Blood And Chocolate, another dive into the angry new wave of his early days. After the symphonic banquet, Costello picks up the dusty guitar again to rediscover the old martial rhythms of "Pony Street" and "Just About Glad". Age seems a pretty relative factor for the whole band, who still have fun letting loose on beat-pop romps like "Kinder Murder" and "My Science Fiction Twin" or exploding on vibrant garage leftovers like "13 Steps Lead Down".

The youth of the record, however, drags along looking over its shoulder, drawn to the faded charm of the twist groove of "Clown Strike", the angry rockabilly of "20% Amnesia" and sinuous grooves like that of "Sulky Girl". In short, they're chasing sonic impact, but Costello's inspiration seems rather thin after the efforts of The Juliet Letters.

"You Tripped At Every Step" doesn't go beyond the usual Dylan-esque harmony, just as the melancholy country of "Still Too Soon To Know" or the danceable soul of "All The Rage" come across as bloodless. Once again, then, that mix of power and melodic refinement which, this time, fails to find a clear direction, caught between an electro-acoustic ballad ("This Is Hell") and a liturgical piano piece ("Favourite Hour"). What saves it from the flatness is the rain-drop piano of "London's Brilliant Parade", which, beyond a romantic sixties-style mannerism, manages to grab attention with a strong authorial identity. Costello sings: "Mi sto divertendo molto o qualcosa di veramente simile". Listening to Brutal Youth, it's easy to believe him.

The new record is a hit with the public, who send it to number two on the UK charts, propelled by the catchy single "Sulky Girl". Satisfied, Costello decides to take a breather and spend all of 1995 on a break, releasing an album of covers alone, recorded in Jamaica back in 1990.

Recorded at Blue Wave Studios in Barbados, Kojak Variety (Warner, 1995) is less a proper album than a playlist of beloved songs. Caught up in a craving for fun, Costello forgets he's primarily a musician and carves out an odd role as DJ for his own audience. "Remove This Doubt" even digs into one of the Supremes' lesser-known albums, confirming the "connoisseur" angle the Englishman wants to give the record. The problem is that Elvis can't quite paint the picture he wants, settling for a handful of soulless blues numbers like "Strange", "Hidden Charms" and "Leave My Kitten Alone".

The Confederates – with Marc Ribot and James Burton on guitar, Pete Thomas on drums – are a tight, above all clean band, but they're wasted on a senseless hodgepodge of songs. Kenny Rogers' "Running Out Of Fools" turns to honey, just as the raucous rock and roll of "Bama Lama Bama Loo" is downright embarrassing. There's a (bland) tribute to Dylan ("I Threw It All Away") and a faithful cover of Mose Allison ("I've Been Wrong Before"), but a bit of light only appears when Ribot starts studying the history of Burt Bacharach ("Please Stay").

For the rest, Costello seems absent, an intellectual, detached DJ smoking one cigarette after another behind the decks while everyone dances on the floor without even knowing why.

In the summer of 1995, Costello was chosen to curate the artistic direction of the city of London's Meltdown Festival. It was the perfect opportunity to broaden his eclectic musical tastes, but above all to perform at Southbank with jazz guitarist Bill Frisell.

Deep Dead Blue (Warner, 1995) is a small live record, built entirely around the dialogue between Frisell's spare guitar and Costello's romantic voice.

Elvis thus becomes a crooner out of another era, ranging between his own songs and bizarre stage experiments. "Weird Nightmares" is an intimate meditation on Mingus's genius, while "Gigi" steeps the old Lerner/Loewe Broadway musical in jazz. The Spectorian arrangements of "Poor Napoleon" are swept aside without half measures in favor of an instrumental languor that dominates tracks like "Love Field" and "Baby Plays Around".

Costello has fun with latin jazz ("Shamed Into Love" with Ruben Blades), but the fundamental problem with the whole performance (album) is a constant tedium that flattens Frisell's otherwise excellent arrangements. Monotonous, one-note songs, then, drenched in the honey of a voice that ruins the fine idea behind "Deep Dead Blue", emblematic of the spirit of the collaboration.

After Meltdown, Costello goes back on tour with the Attractions, trying out a series of new songs on stage. Geoff Emerick, already the producer of Imperial Bedroom, decides to get back to work with Elvis, who, with more than forty songs in hand, is thinking of making a double album. Warner, however, doesn't appreciate this prolificacy, especially when followed by such poor sales. The musician thus has to revise his project, selecting material that favors, above all, ballad-style catchiness.

With All This Useless Beauty (Warner, 1996), Costello manages the magic trick of summing up an entire album with a simple title. Geoff Emerick's genius, this time, spins its wheels, and the lush elegance of the old Imperial Bedroom turns into a "useless beauty", indeed, resembling an extraordinarily attractive woman who is nonetheless hopelessly empty of spirit. Aesthetics and ethics thus play hide-and-seek among the grooves of a record that belongs neither to Elvis (the forty songs he had in mind aren't there) nor to the musicians around him (the Attractions, but above all the likes of Johnny Cash, Roger McGuinn and Paul McCartney).

The cornerstones of this split are, above all, the tender ballads "All This Useless Beauty" and "I Want To Vanish", which, amid refined descending arpeggios and string chromaticism, show themselves off in all their extreme beauty. Beauty, as noted, for its own sake.

Costello returns -- perhaps out of necessity -- to the languid pop harmonies of "The Other End Of The Telescope" to venture into a soul-pop strong enough to sedate an elephant ("Distorted Angel"). Steve Nieve plays the fragile friend with the churchy piano of "Little Atoms" and the cocktail-jazz lament of "Why Can't A Man Stand Alone", but the freshest moments come from the rockabilly horror of "Shallow Grave" and the shared western feel of "Complicated Shadow". Which isn't saying much, given that "Poor Fractured Atlas" apes "Al chiaro di Luna" and Bonnie Raitt has to make do with the symphonic rock and roll of "It's Time".

Costello, then, seems ill at ease with an album that's as beautiful as it is fleeting, one that forces his prolificacy into a corner in the name of ruthless market logic. The care shown on The Juliet Letters seems, in short, to have evaporated in favor of a headlong rush to release material, even when it amounts to bland covers (the pointless Kojak Variety). "Starting To Come To Me" doesn't go beyond glossy keyboards and beach-party backing vocals, just as "You Bowed Down" fails to broaden its melody à la Byrds.

Refined songs, certainly, and crafted with skill, but the Englishman could do with catching his breath a little, the better to nurture his own originality.

Despite Warner's precautions, All This Useless Beauty doesn't climb past number twenty-eight in Britain, the worst chart position Costello had ever reached. Costello goes back on tour with the Attractions and, in the United States, carves out some time to perform live as a duo with just Steve Nieve.

Costello & Nieve: For The First Time In America (Warner, 1996) is the carefully curated souvenir of five American concerts from that spring, presented as five separate long-player discs, gathered in a prized limited-edition box set.

As a duo with his finest collaborator -- Attraction pianist Steve Nieve -- Costello is free to set aside the old rock and roll clatter and slip into something minimal and sinuous. It's a stripped-down, essential "on the road" (from the stage in Los Angeles to the one in New York City) that reinterprets an entire repertoire in acoustic form, from the recent aching melodies of All This Useless Beauty to the glories of the past, with the inevitable "Alison" and "Red Shoes".

There's no shortage, either, of the usual connoisseur's covers, above all "I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself", which paves the way for the most successful collaboration of Elvis's career.

The maestro and Elvis

During the spring 1996 tour, new-old tensions resurface between Costello and Thomas, prompting Costello to disband the Attractions for the second time after their final Japanese concert in September.

By the end of the year, the contract with Warner expires, and to mark the close of a chapter now in the past, a new anthology is assembled.

Extreme Honey: The Very Best Of The Warner Bros. Years (Warner, 1997) abandons the anarchic approach Elvis was fond of, instead being put together from Warner-era classics revolving around the undisputed hit “Veronica”.

Costello, however, doesn't skip new material. “The Bridge I Burned” – with his son Matthew on bass and Danny Goffey of Supergrass on drums – draws so heavily on Prince's “Pop Life” it's almost a cover. “My Dark Life” is a collaboration with Brian Eno for the compilation “Songs In The Key Of X”, directly inspired by the TV series X-Files.

Starting with his covers of “Please Stay” and “I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself”, Costello amply demonstrates his admiration for Burt Bacharach's melodic orchestrations. His first encounter with the maestro comes during the recording of Spike in 1989. Bacharach forms a positive impression of Elvis, and when the producers of the film “Grace Of My Heart” ask him to write a song for its soundtrack, he enthusiastically responds by proposing to do it together with the bespectacled Englishman.

The two begin working together in quick sessions at Atlantic Studios, and the results soon surface. “God Give Me Strenght” turns into a worldwide hit, even winning a Grammy Award. It doesn't take long to put two and two together: together they can create something significant, a whole album of new material.

Words and voice by Elvis Costello, arrangements and orchestrations by Burt Bacharach: Painted From Memory (Mercury, 1998) is the unusual, captivating summit meeting that aims straight at reviving the golden age of the Brill Building and the noblest pop craftsmanship.

On "What's Her Name Today?" the alchemy reveals its more or less secret formula: Bacharach's classicism welcomes Elvis's pop voice, cross-pollinating without either losing its nature. The master embraces his most talented pupil over the weeping piano notes of the title track, torn open by swells worthy of the most emphatic Broadway. And the pupil isn't afraid to outdo the master when he calls in the former mad organist Steve Nieve to dictate the keyboard rhythm of "The Sweetest Punch".

A well-constructed game, then, which in “The Darkest Place” brings together intimate orchestration, soul choruses and small jazz detours, seasoned with a honeyed, perfectly-pitched voice already proven winning on The Juliet Letters. It's a rich, erudite sound, tremendously sexy in its ever-present melancholy, blaring with trumpets on “Toledo”, a vibrato-laden psychodrama on “This House Is Empty Now”.

The album is one of those where everything seems to work perfectly, an acoustic miracle of swelling lyricism (“I Still Have That Other Girl”), of romantic soul harmonies (“Such Unlikely Lovers”). Bacharach's keys seem to erase the recent melodramas of Costello (see All This Useless Beauty), bringing with them an old-fashioned pop flavour that gets licked by the raindrops of “Tears At The Birthday Party”.

It's a wonderfully old-fashioned way of making music, somewhere between a vintage chamber ballad (“My Thief”) and Broadway-style horns (“The Long Division”). And yet Painted From Memory comes across fresh, a freshness ripened through two rich and refined careers, exploding in the jazzy finale of “God Give Me Strenght” to crown one of the most successful collaborations of recent decades.

Costello and Bacharach's album is met with huge critical enthusiasm, charting very well, despite reservations from PolyGram, who would have preferred a more jazz-oriented record featuring Bill Frisell.

The Sweetest Punch (Universal Classic, 1999) is indeed released to revisit Painted From Memory in a jazz key, featuring Frisell's guitar talent and the voice of Cassandra Wilson.

The two new pop heroes take their songs on the road across the United States, before Costello sets off on the Lonely World Tour, once again solo with Steve Nieve.

Meanwhile, Universal decides to put together a new double greatest hits.

The Very Best Of Elvis Costello (Universal, 1999) includes “She” (a Charles Aznavour hit), which commercially carries the whole record thanks to its presence in the box-office hit “Notting Hill”.

Once the world tour wrapped up in Japan, Costello talks things over with his new label and decides to take another break.

Between October 2000 and January 2001, Elvis Costello's talent fulfils, in a recording studio, two of his last remaining dreams: to embody a feminine voice in his art, and to release a record on the legendary Deutsche Grammophon label.

The “Costella” who makes this latest feat of contamination possible is Anne Sophie Von Otter, the Swedish mezzo-soprano and great virtuoso of Bach, Mozart and Stravinsky.

On Anne Sophie Von Otter Meets Elvis Costello – For The Stars (Deutsche Grammophon, 2001), the crooked pop singer talks the classical performer into betraying her own artistic essence, letting herself be guided through a repertoire that is alien yet tremendously down-to-earth. This time Costello steps back from the front line, staying very much present in the shadows and leaving the field open to Von Otter's vocal virtuosity (the tragic “Go Leave” is a fine example).

It's meticulous, tailor-made work, one that puts his artisan's touch at the service of a classicism with no intention of ruffling the feathers of the original pop mood. Gone are the overwrought vocal flourishes and conservatory stiffness: the singer wraps the pop songs in a rubbery cloak, closer to Joan Baez, then, than to Katia Ricciarelli.

The Beatles-esque “For No One” mirrors this approach, vocal grace accompanied by a postmodern string quartet, the Fleshquartet. As usual, the selection is cultured and curious, with particular attention to the Beach Boys of “Pet Sounds”: the Gershwin-esque aftertaste of “Don't Talk” thus pairs with the preciousness of “You Still Believe In Me”. Costello works on refined arrangements, occasionally playing piano and guitar, and – with humble intelligence – limits himself to guiding Von Otter through his own songs (“Baby Plays Around” and “No Wonder”) or those of other earthbound artists (Tom Waits's “Broken Bicycles” or Ron Sexsmith's “April After All”).

The trespass is thus kept in check, in the name of a harmonious complicity that, nevertheless, doesn't always manage to avoid the odd bit of excess sentimentality. That, perhaps, is the price to pay for bringing intelligent experiments like For The Stars to light.

After the lyrical interlude with Von Otter, Costello decides to get back to work in Dublin in mid-2001. For the new album, drummer Pete Thomas and the ever-present Steve Nieve are called back in, while Davey Faragher replaces Bruce Thomas on bass.

Thus the Imposters are born, the new incarnation of an old band that, by now, has no chance of rising again.

When I Was Cruel (Island, 2002) marks the eternal return to the most immediate strain of rock, almost ten years on from Brutal Youth. After the pop craftsmanship with Bacharach and the lyricism with Von Otter, Costello feels a new urge: to come back with his (almost) constant band to vent all his rough-hewn musician's imperfections.

So it is that “45” revives a catchy rock'n'roll feel, while “Dissolve” puts a harmonica to work over gritty rock-blues. Above all, a primal sixties spirit returns (the beat of “Tear Off Your Own Head”), manipulated at will by the Imposter, who samples Mina and slots her into “When I Was Cruel No. 2”, a languid ballad built on programmed rhythms.

Elvis has never lacked courage, and of course he can't limit himself to the usual three chords. “15 Petals” is an orientalising saraband for horns and Hammond organ, while “Episode Of Blonde” goes oddly Latin, complete with a vocal delivery spat out à-la Dylan.

There's no doubt this is a refined record (just listen to the jazz tribalism of “Spooky Girlfriend”), but the author's prolificacy is starting to become a real Sisyphean boulder. Costello can't quite avoid a certain repetitiveness, dredging up already-familiar melodies (“Tart”) over the same seductive guitar rhythms (“Dust 2...”). It's not a matter of mediocrity, but of an underlying self-referentiality, evident in the stammering “Alibi” or in the electro-acoustic ditty “My Little Blue Window”. True, there are some fun, carnivalesque distortions (“Daddy Can I Turn This?”), but the album constantly teeters on the edge of tedium, stumbling over the pointless effects-laden rhythms of “Soul For Hire” and the exhausting melancholy of “Radio Silence”.

When I Was Cruel is, then, undoubtedly a successful record, but it's impossible to ignore the more weary side – for all its extreme creativity – of Elvis Costello.

The album does well in the United States, prompting Costello to embark on yet another tour with the Imposters.

With Cruel Smile (Universal, 2002), Costello returns to the alternative compilation format, but the "commercial" flavour of the record is too strong on the ear. A forced operation, then, riding on the success of When I Was Cruel, with this collection cast as a kind of small soulmate to that album.

Cruel Smile, on the other hand, is a rather incoherent grab-bag of live performances (the classic "Almost Blue" in its electric version from Sydney, and the more recent "Spooky Girlfriend" from KFOG radio station) and more or less successful reworkings of recent songs (the cosmic-pop detour of "Revolution Doll").

The live mix of "Watching The Detectives/My Funny Valentine" is intriguing, but it's not enough to justify a record that may prove excessive even for the most devoted fan. Pointless, then, to try to sweeten the deal with the jazzy swing of "Smile" (the Japanese A-side), because this is clearly a cynical move, one that an artist as intelligent as Elvis Costello could easily have avoided.

A Punk on Deutsche Grammophon

At the end of 2002, Costello and his wife Cait O'Riordan decide to end their relationship after more than fifteen years together. In truth, the Englishman has secretly been seeing jazz pianist Diana Krall, whom he met at a Grammy Awards ceremony in New York.

The new relationship fuels Elvis's creativity (he writes several songs for "The Girl In The Other Room", a hugely successful album for Krall), and once again he shelves the Imposters to record a solo album centred on the theme of love.

North (Deutsche Grammophone, 2003) is Costello's second outing for Emile Berliner's prestigious label, and this time the pop lyricism takes on a jazz tint, the autumnal essence of a romantic Western metropolis. Likely inspired by the sensual pianism of his new partner Diana Krall, Elvis strings together a series of intimate, refined sonic gems, caught between the bitterness of a love slipping away and the euphoria of a feeling just being born.

The string prelude of "You Left Me In The Dark" lights the way into a piano confessional, scripted down to the smallest detail through cinematic glimpses such as "Fallen" and "When Green Eyes Turn Blue".

Costello once again sheds the rough-edged rocker persona to dine, in evening dress, by the candlelight of "When It Sings", the epitome of New York jazz-club romanticism. Manhattan thus becomes his new personal and artistic nest, welcoming in the lunar symphony of "I'm In The Mood Again", which will suit perfectly anyone who hasn't forgotten certain Woody Allen films. Above all, it's in the guise of the tear-jerking crooner that he's overwhelmed by his own feelings, unable to explain them except through the closing brass of "Someone Took The Words Away".

The album plays skilfully with light and shade, moving between the rhythmic colourings of "Let Me Tell Her About Her" and the cheerful rise and fall of the chorus in "When Did I Stop Dreaming?". One could certainly point to a certain self-important mannerism lurking in the grooves, steeped in forced classicism (the Brodsky Quartet again, on "Still"), but the spare melodic magic of "You Turned To Me" makes a sensible point: self-importance is a strength when it's carried off with class. And it's class, pure and simple, that comes to mind when Marc Ribot picks up his guitar for the gorgeous, bashful samba of "Impatience".

Once again, then, Costello's brutal rock-and-roll youth is balanced out by a bold, mature spirit. Perhaps the bespectacled Englishman ought to listen to the latter a little more.

Shortly before the release of For The Stars, Elvis Costello stated in an interview: "Earlier this year I received an invitation to attend a performance of Aterballetto's 'Paradiso' and to consider taking part in their next production, an adaptation of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Truth be told, I had absolutely no knowledge of the world of dance. Recently, when a serious newspaper asked me who my favourite dancer was, I honestly answered Cyd Charisse. Be that as it may, that evening I was completely swept away by the feeling of being in the same room as the Aterballetto company. Writing this score was an incredible experience. It's by far the most substantial instrumental score I've ever written. It was conceived for an orchestra of more than sixty musicians, with special attention paid to some of my favourite instruments: bass clarinet, harpsichord, vibraphone. After all that writing, I don't think there's a single pencil left in the house".

With Il Sogno (Deutsche Grammophon, 2004), Costello pushes the classicism of For The Stars to its extreme, composing a grandiose work for the ballet "A Midsummer Night's Dream", a project born out of a collaboration with Aterballetto of Reggio Emilia. The entire score reveals itself as an essence of modern dance, impressionistic in its emotions, with more or less faint echoes of George Gershwin and Igor Stravinsky. Vibraphone and cimbalom lead orchestrations à la Prokofiev, used to spin out characters and plots, fed through an old, crackling record player.

From "The Jealousy Of Helena" to "Oberon And Titania", the record is a sensual carousel spinning to a jazz rhythm, but the supernatural enthusiasm often gives way to a whirl of ideas that aren't brought properly into focus. Michael Tilson Thomas's London Symphony Orchestra steers the various narrative climaxes with real expertise, but the heart of the project feels more Hollywood than symphonic.

Granted, Costello is no longer afraid of anything, and the pop-classical pairing probably owes him a real debt, but the magical world of Oberon and Puck might soon uncover the catch.

As if to vent a more aggressive side, Elvis returns to the studio with the Imposters, and with it, his original love for blues, country and folk.

The Delivery Man (Lost Highway, 2004) is a Southern record, born from the guts of America's deepest regions. Costello sets aside symphonic duets and Shakespearean interludes to emerge once again as a country-rock strummer: raw, aggressive, melancholic.

The syncopated melody of "Country Darkness" and the rustic pounding of "There's A Story In Your Voice" (featuring Lucinda Williams on vocals) pave the way for a record that feels like King Of America bound to When I Was Cruel. Elvis openly defies monotony, opening with the rock'n'jazz saraband of "Buttom My Lip" and carrying on through Southern boogie ("Monkey To Man") and swirling blues ("Bedlam").

The Delivery Man is no longer thunderous rage, but a stepping stone on the path toward pop maturity. You can slow dance, cheek to cheek, to the lovers' gospel of "Either Side Of The Same Town", or spin happily to the mongrel whirl of the title track. Only "Needle Time" manages to draw a nostalgic smile, with Steve Nieve's psychotic piano vortex. Here, then, Costello lingers a touch too long on preciousness, softening the tone with "Nothing Clings Like Ivy" and "Heart Shaped Bruise", tender ballads featuring Emmylou Harris's warbling voice. It's the projection of a now sedate style that, after the churchy hymn of "The Judgement", unfurls a fairground ukulele ("Scarlet Tide").

The bespectacled man is still there, but is he starting to lose his sharp eye?

The Delivery Man is well received by most critics and sends Costello on tour for the whole following year. Elvis's two souls coexist on stages around the world, between orchestral performances of the music from "Il Sogno" and his more classic pop and rock repertoire.

With the double album My Flame Burns Blue (Deutsche Grammophon, 2006), the Londoner colors in yet another facet of his noble eclectic spirit, relying on his trusty Steve Nieve and the MetropoleOrkest led by Vince Mendoza. Recorded live at the North Sea Jazz Festival, Costello unveils a sumptuous orchestral jazz for a sophisticated show, opened in grand style with Mingus's "Hora Decubitus" in pure Broadway fashion.

Presented as the record that "explains what I've been doing for the last twelve years when I didn't have a guitar in my hands", My Flame Burns Blue dons a rather formal evening gown, weighed down by the melancholic symphony of "Favourite Hour" and by certain musical-style romanticisms like "Upon A Veil Of Midnight Blue" and "Put Away Forbidden Playthings". Mendoza's orchestra closes ranks, seeking a hybrid path between dated New York lights ("That's How You Got Killed Before") and the eccentric Latin American inflections of "Clubland".

What emerges, however, is a general confusion that fails to tie the languor of Almost Blue (complete with trumpets and cellos) to the Caribbean funk of "Almost Ideal Eyes". The old reggae-wave of "Watching The Detectives" vanishes among the alleys of Woody Allen's Manhattan (the title track), before a candlelit dinner with "Can You Be True?".

It's a nostalgic calm that only works in fits and starts, smothered under layers of orchestral honey, but which finally finds its redemption in the masterpiece "God Give Me Strenght", a perfect fit for an evening like this one.

The bonus disc of My Flame Burns Blue contains a shorter version of the operetta "Il Sogno" which, however, comes across as aimless and directionless, groping in vain on stage like something out of a Beckett play.

The impostor's return

In the winter of 2005, Elvis Costello is the first musician to return to work in New Orleans after the terrifying devastation of Hurricane Katrina.

Recorded with pianist Allen Toussaint and produced by Joe Henry, The River In Reverse (Verve, 2006) gathers, in almost an hour of music, the tears and hope of America's "most unique" city. Costello sheds the robes of the sophisticated conductor for a new pop collaboration, in the name of a rediscovered melodic spirit.

With symphonic blockbusters and jazz scores filed away, the Englishman can allow himself a creative holiday, returning to the sensual R&B of tracks like "On Your Way Down" and "Six-Fingered Man". New Orleans's magnificent musical spirit thus lifts its head again, driven by the choral saraband of "Tears, Tears And More Tears" and the horn-fuelled party of "Who's Gonna Help Brother Get Further?".

Allen Toussaint knows his home turf well and gives the album a genuine tone, especially on the piano gospel numbers “The Sharpest Thorn” and “Freedom For The Stallion”. It's perhaps this very Black musical heritage that keeps the whole record fresh, which would otherwise risk being tempted into out-of-place classical detours (“Ascension Day”) and Clapton-esque soul bordering on the saccharine (“Nearer To You”).

New Orleans is a city that wants to laugh after tragedy, and so the brass-band intimacy of “Broken Promised Land” gives way to the vent of the barrelhouse groove on “International Echo” or the Philly sound of “Wonder Woman”.

Sure, The River In Reverse isn't among Costello's best collaborations, but it brings a good gust of fresh air to a catalogue that was starting to get a little spoiled.

With Momofuku (Lost Highway, 2008), Costello closes out a “return” quadrilogy that began fourteen years earlier with Brutal Youth. Having reassembled the Imposters, Elvis rediscovers his guitar and, with it, a certain rock craftsmanship, painted with the usual variety of sonic colours. After Mingus, then, the hard-rock riff of “Stella Hurt” turns up on stage decidedly unexpected.

The album is fresh and dynamic, and unlike some of the mannerisms of When I Was Cruel, it reveals a rock and roll path that's never truly been lost over the years, despite the symphonies and jazz arrangements. Credit, as usual, goes to Steve Nieve's shields, which turn “American Gangster Time” into a rave for beach-side accordion and make “Go Away” a fresh psychedelic beat flash.

Rock for grown-ups, perhaps, fuelled by an intellectual, sinuous soul (“Flutter And Wow” and “Pardon Me Madam, My Name Is Eve”) that spills over into the romantic ballad “My Three Sons”.

And yet Momofuku has its childlike side too, enamoured with the ramshackle nursery-rhyme of “Mr. Feathers” and the little folk-blues frame of “Dream And Bone”. Therein lies the game of the whole record, which wisely manages to dodge Costello's usual temptations, caught between a latin-jazz number (“Harry Worth”) and a glittering soul-pop one (“Song With Rose”). Better, then, the simplicity of “No Hiding Place”, an impactful melodic country and roll, or the choral blues of “Turpentine”.

After so much fanfare, the impostor's return is something that makes you rub your eyes in disbelief.

Nashville has always been a “buen retiro”, an illustrious refuge for all the eccentrics, if not outright sinners, of great music. After years spent devouring and exacerbating styles and musical textures, Elvis Costello rediscovers the road South, the one of corn-belt country and barn dances. On Secret, Profane & Sugarcane (2009) he reclaims his roots and that thread linking his youthful London to the ever-blooming magnolias along the New Orleans-Mississippi-Clarksdale axis.

Produced by T Bone Burnett, the album has all the radio fragrance of 1940s/50s small-town America, with voices from the stars-and-stripes world of country music set against the unforgettable aroma of Johnny Cash, which pervades every corner. Costello picks up his Gibson J-50 and a piece of history, a tile of "Americana" falls back into place with all its aching "old spirit", somewhere between the West and Jack Daniel's Old No. 7.

Infatuated with a 19th-century story about a Swedish opera singer, Jenny Lind, lover of American showman P.T. Barnum (the circus one), Costello retraces her story and its weave, using her vicissitudes to uncover the parallels, merits and virtues of old-country-era America (“Red Cotton”, “How Deep Is The Red?”, “She Handed Me A Mirror”, “She Was No Good”), and from there unfolds the journey of a record that alternates ballads, country-swing, square dance, little waltzes and whatever else is rattling around in the drawers of times gone by, smelling of dreams and hay. Standouts include the field ballad sung with Emmylou Harris (“The Crooked Line”) and “I Felt The Chill Before The Winter Came”, a duet with Loretta Lynn, alongside a cover of a Bing Crosby tune (“Changing Partners”) and a tribute to the Man In Black, Johnny Cash (“Complicated Shadows”).

This is a return to a “first life” for the fifty-five-year-old Costello, proud of its old-style sermon preached by a modern American. There was a thirst for something new, and he quenches it with the well-aged diversity of the frontier's reconciling sound, which once crossed all the way in, offers a landscape of great songs.

Late spring 2013 saw the realisation, not exactly heralded, of a project handled together with popular soul band The Roots. The album Wise Up Ghost And Other Songs becomes Costello's chance to comment on the state of 2013 Britain, riding a vintage soundtrack that blends funky, soul and hip-hop cues into a finely crafted singer-songwriter dish.

The singer-songwriter and his big band manage to light up, with urgency and enthusiasm, the insolent funky hip-hop of “Refused To Be Saved” as well as the soul-reggae of “Wake Me Up”, but also the gruff spoken-word delivery with wah-wah guitar and gospel echoes of “Stick Out Your Tongue”, or again the restless, whispered ballad (in the vein of “Boy With a Problem”) of “Tripwire”. Costello turns by turns into a tightrope walker and a loudmouth, while around him a syncopated, broken rhythm builds, clavinet-style keyboards punctuate the mix and the tuba's sousaphone blows in New Orleans mode, between “Come The Meantimes” and “(She Might Be A) Granade”, before carrying the blues mood into Latin territory on “Cinco Minutos Cos Vos”, poised militantly between the Robert Wyatt of “Caimanera” and the Working Week of “Vencemeros”.

The record comes across as tense, vibrant and imaginative, useful as background listening, as the soundtrack of the moment, but also as a tool for social critique. A fine result, caught between fiery dance numbers and aching ballads.

After five years of recording silence, the musician returns to the scene of the crime with the album Look Now, celebrating the twentieth anniversary of his praiseworthy collaboration with Burt Bacharach.

Elvis Costello fires up his perfect pop machine from the glory days once again, assembling a collection of songs that's not only credible, but downright captivating. 

Indeed, there are many tracks that grab your attention even during the most distracted of listens (while you're chatting, or watching the tenth rerun of some Focus documentary); this happens not only because of the style's familiarity—the album is almost a cross between Punch The Clock e Imperial Bedroom, but above all because of the evident quality of the songwriting.

Costello renews his partnership with Bacharach on no fewer than three tracks ("Don’t Look Now", "Photographs Can Lie", "He’s Given Me Things"), which, though built with the usual pop textures in an orchestral and jazz key, are not without his old creative spark.

There are not just musical self-references in Look Now: for the opening "Under Lime", the author brings back to life one of the many characters from his songs (Jimmie from "Jimmie Standing In The Rain"), celebrating his return with a delightful baroque-pop-beat.

Sacred and profane once again coexist in the apparent contrast between the vehemence of "Mr. & Mrs. Hush" and the r&b sensuality of "Burnt Sugar Is So Bitter" (co-written with Carole King), but it's only an illusion: both tracks are the fruit of Costello's constant love for the roots of American music.

Among the twelve tracks (sixteen on the deluxe edition), it's easy to find at least a couple of songs worthy of joining Elvis's classics: whether it's the touching lyricism of "Stripping Paper", the gloomily resigned, impious tone of "I Let The Sun Go Down" (Costello vs Brexit) or the delightful Sam Cooke-style soul of "Unwanted Number", it hardly matters.

The constant impression that accompanies a listen toLook Now is of an artist who seems to have rediscovered not so much his inspiration (which, in truth, he never lost) as the ability to deliver a cohesive and compelling whole.

Having restored his most typical and distinctive compositional hallmarks, the London musician also reactivates that refined stylistic eclecticism that has taken him from punk to jazz, from country to soul, from England to America, reaffirming with the albumHey Clockface that intellectual and cultural curiosity that has always underpinned his best projects.

Feeding this renewed creative diversity is also Elvis Costello's choice to record the album in three different cities, Helsinki, Paris and New York, without relying on his usual musicians and collaborators, except for Steve Nieve, who was tasked with choosing the members for the Paris sessions.

The result is disorienting and stimulating. Hey Clockface is an album possessed by a restlessness that leaves its mark: the vigor of "No Flag" and the originality of the sparkling disco-boogie of "Hetty O'Hara Confidential" force their way into the songwriter's catalogue, an album made even stranger by the Arabesque orchestral flow of the opener "Revolution #49" and the jazz-pop-soul dissonances of "Newspaper Pane", one of the most original pieces on the record.

A skilled narrator of human incongruity and empathy, Costello seems animated by a nonchalance and disenchantment worthy of Randy Newman and a bohemian spirit worthy of Tom Waits; the anxious counterpoint of sax, violin and guitar on "They're Not Laughing At Me Now", the mournful, funereal New Orleans tone of "I Do (Zila's Song)", and the mix of swing, pop and blues of "Hey Clockface/How Can You Face Me?" are all exemplary in this regard.

In the multicolored puzzle of Hey Clockface there's also room for the most solemn melodic flourishes: not only the by-now familiar nod to Burt Bacharach on the passionate, nostalgic "The Whirlwind", or the elegant structure typical of the torch song that animates the lascivious "The Last Confession Of Vivian Whip", but also that sublime, timeless and placeless art of songwriting that has illuminated the path of only a few writers (Jimmy Webb, Fred Neil, Harry Nilsson), which Elvis Costello reaches effortlessly on the splendid "Byline", a perfect closer for an album destined to enrich the already considerable catalogue of this histrionic songwriter.  

The release of an EP featuring six songs from Hey Clockface sung in French, La Face De Pendule A Coucou, and a bizarre Spanish-language version of This Year's Model, titled Spanish Model, sent fans and the public into a panic, convinced that the positive chapter opened by Look Now was about to close again. 

Unexpectedly, the musician takes the boldest and most difficult step, namely reworking the youthful energy and vehemence of his early days, a conceptually simple operation but one not without its obstacles.

The Boy Named If (2022) renews the fury and drive of This Years Model ("Mistook Me For A Friend"), the sophisticated dissonances of Blood And Chocolate ("What If I Can't Give You Anything But Love?"), the romanticism of Painted From Memory ("Paint The Red Rose Blue"), the baroque virtuosity of Imperial Bedroom ("The Death Of Magic Thinking"), and the self-awareness of King Of America ("Mr. Crescent").

So Costello does Costello: he quotes himself, reproduces himself, performs a kind of symbolic parthenogenesis, but without any trace of self-celebration.

The thirteen-song set of The Boy Named If is indeed familiar, yet also fresh and vigorous: the drive and vitality of the whole can be felt in each of the thirteen tracks.

Having gotten his hands on This Year's Model for the Spanish-language version gave the English musician the chance to recapture the rock'n'roll spirit of Buddy Holly, resulting in one of Costello's most powerful songs in a long while, "Farewell, OK". A verve that also infects his vocal timbre, sharp and biting once again, and which is likewise the real strength of the album's other cornerstone, "Magnificent Hurt", a punk'n'roll number marked by a rougher guitar sound and the delightful tone of the Farfisa organ.

A routine record? Perhaps. Elvis Costello proves he can still have fun in the role of musician and writer of pleasantly frivolous songs: take as evidence the circus-like verbal and instrumental carousel of "The Man You Love To Hate", the ska-pop of "The Difference" and the crooked power-pop of "Penelope Halfpenny" (a new "Veronica").

The Boy Named If finally dispels the doubts of those who, after the burst of life that was Look Now, had taken Hey Clockface for an interesting stylistic exercise: these thirteen new songs from the Englishman are without a doubt the most convincing set released in the new millennium. 

Contributions by Massimo Sannella ("Secret, Profane & Sugarcane"), Davide Sechi ("Wise Up Ghost And Other Songs"), Gianfranco Marmoro ("Look Now", "Hey Clockface", The Boy Named If") 

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