Under the Midas wing of Brian Eno, Talking Heads juggle African genres with Western experimentation and innovative digital play.
There is a remarkable confidence to the record that you wouldn’t usually expect from a debut, which is a testament to Costello’s immense musical capabilities.
An ambitious, splintered record. Glammy schizoid pop rubs shoulders with tightly wound, rather despairing cud chewing, but the two styles never truly mesh.
It’s like Frankenstein in a dinner jacket. Gothic synth rock sounds like a recipe for disaster, but it sounds delicious when The Cure does it.