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The Woody Allen of rock — a galvanising blend of blazing zip-gun lyrics, Bob Dylan-Graham Parker vocal defiance and unassuming boy-professor looks — has struck again.
For sheer originality Elvis Costello's dazzling debut album, My Aim Is True, ditched '77's superstars in the dust. Now This Year's Model (Radar) will murder 'em.
It's infinitely superior and stakes a sound-of-the-Seventies status which Dylan did with Blonde On Blonde for the Sixties.
His band, the Attractions' prowess is ridiculously inspired — an object lesson in generating power-drama through perfected timing, steel-sinewed coordination and the subtlest of touches.
Costello's writing vehemently defies cliches. He turns standard perspectives inside-out while his relentlessly-shifting music's an irreverent and timeless synthesis of ripped-off phrases, hooklines, ideas, even whole songs. And Nick Lowe's production exploits all capabilities to the limits.
The breathlessly vitriolic surge of "Lipstick Vogue," spangle-jangle snap of "Lip Service," monstrously tacky shuffle of "(I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea" and ice-calm delivery of doomily stark society crack-up prophesies "Night Rally" hit you full-face from the very first play.
But the album's milestone quality is convincing, because repeated listening reveals no cracks, and instead brings forward each track in turn as a formidable highlight.
For "This Year's Girl," Costello takes Springsteen snarl over thumping bass-drum propeller and streaky organ stabbing. Seconds later, the Cliff Richard "Summer Holiday" mutation, for cop-song "The Beat" comes skewered on JA backbeat with carnival, piano and organ, jollity.
"Pump It Up" sizzles and snakes on urgent Dylan-style talking blues. Then gutsy "Little Triggers" shows how Elvis can cut articulate ballads too, in a moody Percy Sledge fashion, before more streamer-swathe organ hurls "You Belong To Me," a Stones' "Last Time" steal into the close of side one.
Peeping Tom jerk-jive "Living In Paradise" is further glory, both for its vast span of spare instrumental dexterity and sentiments which slice great chunks off the jet-set's tawdry veneer of luxury.
If you buy only one album in memory of 1978's rock summits this must be it.
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