Echo And The Bunnymen delight with an impressive, if bolshy, performance

Irrepressibly grumpy singer Ian McCulloch has been helming the Echo And The Bunnymen's ship for over 30 years, as is testified by the galaxy of thinning hairlines from the front row back. With age comes wisdom, supposedly, but also impatience. The sizeable crowd the second stage headliners have drawn over The Kooks are not happy to be kept waiting, as the band's starting time comes and goes. A collection of scurrying roadies bear the brunt of their dissatisfaction, one poor soul receiving a pretty accurate bottling.

When McCulloch and his not-so-merry men finally do make it onstage, they receive a hero's welcome. Of all the indie godfathers still strapping on their guitars, Echo have got to have one of the most cult followings.

The 1st part of the band's set is peppered with an array of early material that, while unfamiliar to large parts of the crowd, still goes down well. It's not until a magnificent 'Nothing Ever Lasts Forever' that things really gather steam. It's a performance that brings the best of the song to the surface, establishing it as one of the ultimate tunes you know by heart which you thought you didn't. And it all goes a bit karaoke towards the end, mutating into a well-judged cover of Lou Reed's 'Walk on the Wild Side' that gets the whole tent swaying along in (near) unison.

Throughout, the smoke machine is turned up to 11 along with McCulloch's banter, which never shies from controversy. During the course of the set he has a random stab at footballer Christiano Ronaldo, gives a shout out to the scousers in the tent (apparently there are some), and tells a hapless roadie to fuck off. Most foolhardy is his declaration that Michael Jackson is a 'tithead. A legend, but a complete tithead'.

Unsurprisingly, this doesn't prompt many cheers. It leaves you wondering whether someone spiked his herbal tea backstage. It would all be very diva-ish if McCulloch didn't make it seem so natural- but somehow he gets away with it.

It's the last part of the set that sees the classics coming to the surface. Wrist-slitting standard 'Killing Moon' is frustratingly cut short when McCulloch decides he wants to play 'The Cutter' instead, but thankfully it gets a full outing afterwards, and in searing style. A sublime 'Lips Like Sugar' gets the whole crowd gyrating, bellowing back the chorus at the stage en masse. Hearing a mob of forty-somethings screaming "sugaar kiss-es!" at the top of their lungs should be vaguely disturbing, but somehow it verges on a strange euphoria.

By the end, the preceding madness has been subsumed in the abundance of hits, only adding to the overall character of an impressive, if bolshy, performance that has clearly delighted the hardcore down the front.

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