Gig played on 13/06/05

In the grand tradition of Cheech & Chong, the international mega brand of S-N-Double-O-Pee has been built on a potent blend of hydroponic antics and casual misogyny. It seems such a simple routine but, as tonight's audience attests, it's one that pulls in a demographic to make a marketing man weep. A cross section of suburban life, from the hooded denizens of Blair's Britain to the trustafarian pot-heads of Hoxton, is here. Snoop preaches an inclusive kind of hip-hop lifestyle to them all. Unless, of course, you happen to be female.

For the ladies there's a guide to this peculiar worldview in the form of a filmed prelude to the main event. Shot in glossy Hollywood style it tells the tale of a girl and her friend, kind enough to entertain Snoop in (where else?) their Vegas hotel room. The girl turns out to have (what else?) deceived our hero and, as shadowy figures circle, Snoop pulls out his gun and blows her head off.

Whilst enough gun shots to make John Woo wince ring out around the tent and a couple of Cultural Studies students at the back turn and flee, the rest of Wembley Pavilion is whipped into frenzy. Is a stoned rapper really going to be enough for these people, you wonder? Surely they want blood.

Despite simply floating out on a wave of thick sensi smoke with arms outstretched, like Christ the Redeemer on a Rio hilltop, the lanky messiah before us is in possession of the star quality needed. Atop a precarious frame sits the anubis head that will forever be part doberman pincher. Squint and you can see it morphing as it once did in the video for "What's My Name?" In and out, Snoop-pincher, Snoop-pincher.

For all his sins, the Doggfather genuinely wants to entertain. He cranks out a set to remind us why he is, even to his own amazement, bigger than Kurtis Blow, and rarely breaks a sweat. More than can be said for the band behind him, hammering away at their instruments like its music class at the special school. With "R&G" - an album that achieves the impossible and equals his debut - still fresh in the mind, the sense of celebration can't be dampened by either by their cacophony or Wembley's dismal sound. The devastating "Pump Pump" is audible enough to thrill us all, even those who by rights shouldn't be able to remember it. The absence of Justin Timberlake can't dampen the disco brilliance of "Signs", nor Pharrell on the old skool body-poppers like "Drop It Like It's Hot".

That's Snoop, then, utterly unacceptable and yet strangely irresistible. And, just in case anyone was taking that gangsta-pimp sh*t seriously, the four bodyguards positioned at each corner of the stage throughout surround him as the show closes to form a human shield. It's now safe to leave the stage, Sir.

by James Poletti