This is the new temple for the disaffected youth. Metal just ain’t as cool with the kids any more because Slipknot foolishly took off their masks. And they’re American. Good Charlotte got fat. They're American. And everyone knows that ain’t cool. Lostprophets aren’t metal. They probably never purported to be. They haven’t taken their masks off and only have American accents on stage. But that’s cool, like Friends. This, however, is the show they always promised with a metal staircase lavished upon the stage, leading up to the Drum Riser and a small platform to be elevated into another dimension, all illuminated by the lightshow to end all dance floors.

Ian Watkins lets rip his floundering feel-good tunes for the entire set, sporadically punctuated by Jamie Oliver’s wonderfully overblown faux-hardcore posturing and guitars being worn by Lee Gaze like the massive, red rock shapes we have all come to love over the years. Watkins the Diplomat executes his role with surgical precision and peppers his moves with the euphoric conversation so necessary at this level, with this sort of incoming adulation. There is no new material on show tonight but the people dressing like a LostProphet tonight are here to sing along to everything they know already and they do. Everybody’s dancing. Everybody’s so sure. Everybody’s having the time of their lives. And then it’s over.