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With a subtle hint of charm and an introspective smattering of arrogance, the man who constantly gives the impression of wishing to bite the hand that feeds him came home last night.
While Elvis Costello's days as a distinctly low-key angry young man may have long since departed, he still looks every inch the artist out of his time.
For all intents and purposes the diminutive balladeer come ballroom rocker is still at odds with both the business he illuminates with his rare genius and with his surroundings.
He never looks truly at ease. He rarely, if ever, seems content with his chosen role in life even when transfixing the legions of converts who were astute enough to spot the dormant magic within his anguished frame back in the days of three minute heroes and safety pins.
Lyrically he is without equal and while his gut level protestations about everything from apartheid to squalid love may occasionally have been lost last night amid the swirling rhythm of Britain's most proficient backing band, he still managed to exert an uncanny control during a hugely satisfying two-hour show.
While hardly charismatic in the conventional sense, his tortured delivery allied to an almost anti-fashion profile resulted in a spectacle spellbinding in its intensity.
As a performer Costello has matured immeasurably since he nervously trod the boards at the celebrated Eric's Club a decade or so ago. He oozes professionalism and stylish power.
Elvis Costello is not only our greatest songwriter and arguably our finest vocalist, he personifies all that is good about rock music in the Eighties.
He plays the Royal Court again tonight and if you are, at present, without a ticket, beg, steal or borrow one but make sure you are there.
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