Just what is it about Jamiroquai, and Jay Kay in particular, that seems to wind people up so much? From music press carping to individual anecdotal evidence, it's clear the chap, and his band, inspire some intense feelings of less than whole-hearted support. Whether it's a knee-jerk response to unpleasant acid jazz memories or irritation at the celebrity girlfriend/Heat'n'Hello lifestyle, probably only Jamie Oliver is subjected to more instinctive and seemingly heartfelt abuse as the Ferrari-loving funkateer.
You wouldn't get far peddling that line to the thousands here tonight, obviously. An audience a little longer in the tooth than you'd find at most chart stars' shows - average age approximately 28 - these are devotees. And the fact that Kay and his band have so many of them is proof enough that they must be doing most things right.
The show is instructive. Kay gives his all, drenched in sweat by the end of the third song beneath his Aztec warrior from outer space headgear. Dancing like an angular b-boy uprocking before a floor move, Kay's energy level hits an early peak and stays there for an hour and a half. He's some performer.
The current incarnation of his band is essentially a rock group that funks, rather than a dance outfit rocking out. This is particularly effective on a seismic 'Deeper Underground', replete with Zeppelin-sized guitar solos and a pulverising bass sound that shakes this usually decibel-absorbing barn to its foundations. And the stage set - the pyramid of one of those ancient pre-Columbian civilisations - is pure Spinal Tap. So while Jamiroquai's musical roots are firmly embedded in the soils of late '70s funk and the set shimmers like a misty mirage seen reflected in a million mirrorballs and sweat-stained early disco dancefloors, the overall impression is of the confidence and sense of scale that only the best stadium rockers - and the Prodigy, another rave-influenced reference point - have mastered.
Kay takes a few moments mid-set to berate the Brit Awards judges for ignoring him yet again. "I know the only reason I go there now is for a good dinner," he quips, suggesting that he'll get his Lifetime Achievement gong when he's "70, and the last nail's already gone in". But the delivery is wry and endearing, not conceited or egotistical.
You're left to conclude that his detractors are just jealous. That's nothing new. There's nowt us Brits like better than to bitch about someone who works hard, succeeds and then has the temerity to conspicuously enjoy it, especially if they're working class blokes getting "above their station". One expects Kay thinks it's all pretty funny. Certainly, he'll be the one laughing last, longest and loudest. More power to him.
