Well, there you go. It's just as well I'm not a betting man. I was convinced the double whammy of Donald Trump and a cancer scare would revive the angrier, punky side of Costello. I was expecting to hear his snarling, spitting vocals raging against the dying of the light (his own and the free-thinking world's generally). But no. Much of the planning for this album occurred last year, while he toured a set largely made up of songs from Imperial Bedroom, and that album provides the template for this one. This is the polished songsmith, the artisan who follows in the tradition of Burt Bacharach (who co-writes three songs here) and the…
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