He came out punching, flanked by a team of bully boy session musicians. Tinted glasses like the cover of Trust. Tainted worldview, not dimmed by years. Quit playing ‘Watching The Detectives’ just when it got interesting, spacey and surreal because a fan yelled out the refrain. Launched straight into a version of ‘Riot Act’ that lacerated, shred, fingers a fistful of greed and anxiety. Sand blasted. Scouring. Scathing. The Costello of old. The Elvis of legend. Later spat the words to a new one, “He looked like Elvis” with a bile rooted in insecurity. First half, shouted. No room for subtlety - like he was playing to 50,000 people, not 1,500. Finished the set with two abysmal new songs, one the lowest form of rhythm and blues (ie: chirpy Cockney knees-up) with lyrics concerning a monkey. Advice? Drop it. The other, noise and indulgence for no sake except their own. Not in an affirming Oneida way.

Pedals kept cutting out. Slapstick developed: you knew Elvis wanted to do the slapping. “He’s cranky,” Charlotte remarked. (I’m paraphrasing.) Steve Naive was exceedingly annoying: flashy and bearded like every wannabe pro male musician in a guitar shop’s wet dream - adding keyboards where they just didn’t go. Ruined a perfectly decent reading of ‘Good Year For The Roses’; Elvis by this time had succumbed to the Brighton Dome’s charms (it’s the city’s finest venue, bar none: intimate and sensual and designed for maximum listening pleasure). Nerves? Hope so. Sort it out. Back to Elvis with his rediscovered sensitivity, singing off mic and out the spotlight. “Radio Radio’ was genius, as ever. ‘Pump It Up’ ruined by the worst sort of band introductions (all band introductions are the worst sort). ‘Shipbuilding’ just devastated. Venue in reverential silence.

Other new songs played: most overwrought, pompous. Elvis was over-compensating. First night of new tour. New album to promote. The usual. Sometimes he looked like he’d deliberately hidden himself deep within the welter of noise: powerful and lonely in the unforgiving spotlight. Others, it was torture, boredom. I felt sad, almost nostalgic for any series of moments except these series of moments. I never like to feel like that. Someone clapped, excruciatingly off time. Hardly anyone, though. ‘(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love And Understanding?’ was still brutal, stunning in its incisive albeit somewhat simplistic message.

Whatever. Dude, we stayed for two fucking hours - me and my pregnant wife who didn’t even grow up handicapped for social interaction by a love for the first six Elvis Costello albums. It’s our future baby’s first concert since he developed hearing. Let’s hope it doesn’t handicap him too.