London Guardian, September 19, 1998: Difference between revisions

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As America swelters in the hottest summer in living memory, the temperature in Los Angeles is nudging the mid-nineties. Not that you would be able to tell from Elvis Costello's attire, which is more suited to an autumn evening in Dublin, his adopted hometown, than the midday heat haze of Sunset Strip: black leather jacket, black shirt, black trousers and black loafers. Atop his newly-shorn head sits an unlikely looking straw hat of the variety so beloved by an older generation of jazz hipsters. It is his single concession to the Californian climate. This is an outfit that betokens a man not given to compromise; one whose chosen career path has, of late, been as out of step with the thrust of contemporary pop as it was once so effortlessly in synch with the post-punk public appetite for articulate, acerbic songwriting.  
As America swelters in the hottest summer in living memory, the temperature in Los Angeles is nudging the mid-nineties. Not that you would be able to tell from Elvis Costello's attire, which is more suited to an autumn evening in Dublin, his adopted hometown, than the midday heat haze of Sunset Strip: black leather jacket, black shirt, black trousers and black loafers. Atop his newly-shorn head sits an unlikely looking straw hat of the variety so beloved by an older generation of jazz hipsters. It is his single concession to the Californian climate. This is an outfit that betokens a man not given to compromise; one whose chosen career path has, of late, been as out of step with the thrust of contemporary pop as it was once so effortlessly in synch with the post-punk public appetite for articulate, acerbic songwriting.  


Burt Bacharach, on the other hand, is hatless, and dressed head-to-foot in freshly-laundered leisurewear: white sweatshirt, white slacks, white sneakers and matching socks. It is an outfit that suggests this is a  
Burt Bacharach, on the other hand, is hatless, and dressed head-to-foot in freshly-laundered leisurewear: white sweatshirt, white slacks, white sneakers and matching socks. It is an outfit that suggests this is a man who has spent his life effortlessly unconcerned with the vagaries of fashion, at ease with himself, even more so now that the world has, yet again, rediscovered the music he made back when both he and pop were young — an adult, American music, stylised and sophisticated, redolent of a time long gone, yet also curiously timeless.
 




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{{Bibliography images}}
{{Bibliography images}}


[[image:1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend cover.jpg|360px]]
[[image:1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend cover.jpg|360px|border]]
<br><small>Cover.</small>
<br><small>Cover.</small>


[[image:1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend pages 10-11.jpg|360px]]
[[image:1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend pages 10-11.jpg|360px|border]]
<br><small>Pages 10-11.</small>
<br><small>Pages 10-11.</small>


[[image:1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend photo 01.jpg|360px]]
[[image:1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend photo 01.jpg|360px|border]]
<br><small>Photo.</small>
<br><small>Photo.</small>


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*[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Guardian Wikipedia: London Guardian]
*[http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London_Guardian Wikipedia: London Guardian]
*[http://www.flickr.com/photos/littletriggers/14944518848/ Flickr: littletriggers]
*[http://www.flickr.com/photos/littletriggers/14944518848/ Flickr: littletriggers]
*[http://www.elviscostello.info/articles/d-g/guardian.980919a.html elviscostello.info]


{{DEFAULTSORT:London Guardian 1998-09-19}}
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Revision as of 04:16, 22 September 2015

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London Guardian

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Kings of America


Sean O'Hagan

Burt Bacharach had his first hit when Elvis Costello was in short trousers. Costello had hits of his own when Bacharach's star was waning. Now, the musical sophisticate and the post-punk idealist are making their music together.

As America swelters in the hottest summer in living memory, the temperature in Los Angeles is nudging the mid-nineties. Not that you would be able to tell from Elvis Costello's attire, which is more suited to an autumn evening in Dublin, his adopted hometown, than the midday heat haze of Sunset Strip: black leather jacket, black shirt, black trousers and black loafers. Atop his newly-shorn head sits an unlikely looking straw hat of the variety so beloved by an older generation of jazz hipsters. It is his single concession to the Californian climate. This is an outfit that betokens a man not given to compromise; one whose chosen career path has, of late, been as out of step with the thrust of contemporary pop as it was once so effortlessly in synch with the post-punk public appetite for articulate, acerbic songwriting.

Burt Bacharach, on the other hand, is hatless, and dressed head-to-foot in freshly-laundered leisurewear: white sweatshirt, white slacks, white sneakers and matching socks. It is an outfit that suggests this is a man who has spent his life effortlessly unconcerned with the vagaries of fashion, at ease with himself, even more so now that the world has, yet again, rediscovered the music he made back when both he and pop were young — an adult, American music, stylised and sophisticated, redolent of a time long gone, yet also curiously timeless.





Remaining text and scanner-error corrections to come...


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The Guardian Weekend, September 19, 1998


Sean O'Hagan profiles Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach.

Images

1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend cover.jpg
Cover.

1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend pages 10-11.jpg
Pages 10-11.

1998-09-19 London Guardian Weekend photo 01.jpg
Photo.

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