Elvis Costello is Angry and Convincing: This Year's Model Fulfils Every New Wave Expectation
Fred Schruers, Circus, 22 June 1978
IT'S 1:30AM IN the Bootlegger Lounge in Syracuse, NY. Elvis Costello, the one with the owlish stare and the spitting mad vocals, the man whose songs may be the worst thing that's happened to feminism since Jack the Ripper, is leaning solicitously towards an elegant brunette in a low cut black dress.
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