From Plant to John to Costello – what is it about singers of a certain age that makes them turn to T Bone Burnett (who, if he spreads himself any thinner, will have to change his name to Minute Steak)?
This is Costello in King of America mode: assorted players of calibre (Marc Ribot, Buddy Miller etc), 11 days in the studio and, presto, an album. It's a mixed bag, with nothing to trouble the anthologists and nothing to curl the toes. It proves that for all the genre-hopping, Costello's best is filed under unclassifiable.
Register for free to continue reading
Registration is a free and easy way to support our truly independent journalism
By registering, you will also enjoy limited access to Premium articles, exclusive newsletters, commenting, and virtual events with our leading journalists
Already have an account? sign in
Join our new commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies