Ok, so it`s not my favourite venue in the world, but I`m willing to give it a go. I stand on the main dance floor amongst a collection of friends, family (presumably), fans and happy wanderers waiting for the interminably bad, production line dance music to finish and musing on why the two preceding support acts even bothered ` the 4/5s were ok, but a bit samey and clich`d ` when a non-descript gentleman dressed in black with a similarly coloured guitar takes to the stage alone to rapturous applause. Mark Tait isn`t the biggest man in the world and the lack of any band members only serves to emphasise this. That is, until the show starts.
In the seven years since I last ` and first ` saw him play, Tait has lost none of his nervous, ferocious energy or enormous stage presence. He stalks the boards like a hungry predator, his black guitar cutting swathes of angular white noise through the steady rhythm of his backing tracks. His plaintive vocals soar from fits of melancholy to furious vitriol as the diminutive dervish urges his audience to new heights of reckless abandon with his passionate performance and wanton equipment destruction.
A brief interchange with an impatient DJ, followed by a blazing rendition of eponymous single `Ticketty Boo` draw the night to a close. The crowd seem a little shell-shocked, as though they`re not quite sure what just happened to them. If they`re anything like me, they probably can`t remember the last time they went to a gig and instead witnessed a true performance.
I wonder for a moment if anybody else notices the inebriated youngster with the manic grin still tracing lazy circles in the air with his hands; a manic, drug fuelled grin plastered across his face as the last echoes die away to be replaced again by the sterile DJ fodder.
Stand up for the champion.