Thankfully he's got a veritable arsenal of freakish Motown fusion pop nuggets to pluck from that brain of his, currently hidden beneath peroxide split ends, to authorise such egocentricity. If an opening gambit of Oceans of Weep and Helen is somewhat languid (despite the intricate and ingenious chord progression of the latter enchanting), it's the introduction of Before Today material in the form of shimmering surf rock number Bright Lit Blue Skies that sets the psychedelia to spin before pixelated washes of projected colour and shade. Inarguably centric physically if not musically, Rosenberg stands at the thudding heart of the night, every instrument and amplifier directed towards his waiflike figure as he is freed from the shackles of musical apparatus, left to yelp and croon, shriek and swoon. Intermittently however he looks as though he's on the verge of losing it entirely: he's "tired", and has to restrain himself from tearing first into keyboardist/ guitarist following a spot of hesitation, and later into ceiling-mounted projector, a red mist descending in the foreground as a zonked DVD Video welcome message bemuses in the background. Facing the music, Bristol's fair share of dancing is done, led by the clacking of Ariel's clogs: Friday Night (Nevermore) comes across as Robin Gibb's unnatural falsetto irreversibly stained with King Crimson in tumbling sonic washing machine, whilst the Stevie Wonder-indebted Round And Round, in Emajor, is majorly wonderful. Rambling nonsensically between shards of retrospective splendour, the whacked-out puns of Beverly Kills beguile prior to a Flying Circles-shaped lull, bolstered by guitar lines beamed in from F-Zero X, that's soon shuddered into reanimation by the typically hypnotic, drone cyclone of Menopause Man. One On One follows, Rosenberg disappearing in backstage shadow, soon reemerging, fag in hand, before the plug is pulled. At this point, the customary shit-fit is thrown, as the Californian troupe are already fifteen minutes beyond curfew, encroaching on 'Wobble', allegedly 'the deepest midweek dubstep, drum and bass and generally wobbly beats' this side of Croydon. Not one to play to anyone's rules but his own, Ariel guides his motley crew through a rabid Thespian City, despite the PA already having been murdered, before storming off tempestuously, lambasting those that want to "dance to fucking Lady Gaga on repeat". If his bandmates seem shaken and stirred every time they step a fraction out of line, you've got to harbour a smidgen of sympathy for whoever has to face up to Rosenberg tonight as he continues to struggle to fully reconcile his antipathy, or at least aversion to the rigorous touring schedules required to keep most contemporary bands quite literally on the road. Best hope Ariel keeps on trucking, huffing, puffing and haunting...
