One for the connoisseur this, featuring New York's most celebrated stepping stone between late 70s rock and punk, Tom Verlaine's Television. The band is in town for a rare reprise of their classic 1977 line-up, the four ageing musicians who wrote and recorded 'Marquee Moon', one of the most perfect and timeless guitar records ever committed to vinyl.
But first some guitar tuning - Verlaine's party piece - which does develop into '1880 Or So' but already has some folks worrying about excess noodling. It won't be the last time. There's polite applause and then absolute silence between songs as Tom stares at his feet and we shift in our seats - CBGBs this ain't - grateful when 'See No Evil' arrives and we can marvel at the musical interplay between these four modest souls. Only bass player Fred Smith seems to coast - his three pals doing their best to surprise and coax each other to greater heights.
'Little Johnny Jewel', the band's debut single features Verlaine's trademark weeping lead tricks and 'Glory' - probably the straightest pop song on offer tonight - is a reminder that there was life after 'Marquee Moon' with the often neglected 'Adventure' album. Surely no other band in the world could make a song based around one chord sound so majestic or play guitar solos that are so damned interesting. This isn't fast-as-you-can, leather trousers wankfest virtuosity. Rather it's tasteful-as-you-can with black jeans, tantric sex music for people who still have turntables and dust cloths.
It must irk the band that the songs from their debut album remain their best and most popular, but that doesn't stop them delivering a fantastically tight 'Prove It' and 'Venus'. There's room for the band to improvise within these songs and their live arrangements and boy do they take up that challenge.
There are times tonight, when the noodling carries on a little too far, when you can't help thinking about the World Cup quarter-final just a few hours away, but when it arrives courtesy of one note on Tom's guitar, 'Marquee Moon' is greeted with the kind of cheer that Beckham's penalty v Argentina generated. Its' classic nagging riff is swapped between Verlaine and Lloyd while solos of bewildering complexity and precision fill the air, as vital as they were back in '77. When the song reaches its climactic, ascending 'bad-a-dat, bad-a-dat' you fear your heart will burst - astonishing.
