They say the further up north you travel the more grimy and desolate it becomes, so the Blank Canvas fits in well with this mythological viewpoint. We’re talking a disused warehouse here with a potato-shaped ceiling situated next to a canal featuring possibly the worst toilets in the world... EVER (the ones in the bookmakers in 'Trainspotting' have nothing on these unhygienic dens of inequity), a visually unidyllic setting it seems for the immaculately presented clientele, as foxy chicks reared on a diet of Westlife concerts and freshly squeezed orange juice battle for pole position to the left of Robert Turner's mic stand with an array of Ben Gautrey and Carl Barat lookalikes. This could be Camden Lock on a Saturday night, the exception most likely being that the stimulant of choice is inhaled rather than digested which ensures a feeling of serenity rather than nepotistic hedonism engulfs the venue. Can you feel the love in the room 'man'? not 'alf mate, not 'alf.

At first no one seems to notice when Kasabian take to the stage, and their Campag Velocet on mogadon repertoire starts to become a little tiresome until the epic 'Reason Is Treason' is unleashed with all the ferocity of a seismic tidal wave, like an illegitimate half brother to the Coopers' 'Let's Kill Music' that makes us forgive them for the fact they come from Leicester and seemingly feel enamoured in playing neo-baggy that went out of fashion the last time Shaun Ryder swore on live television.

The last time I saw a BRMC live show it left me cold and empty to the point where I felt I might as well have stayed at home and just listened to both albums back to back. Granted, their musicianship cannot be faulted, but the fact they seemed to have all the stage presence of a pickled egg left me perplexed as to why they (or I for that matter) had bothered to turn up in the first place.

So imagine my delight at seeing what looked like a rejuvenated trio hit the stage eschewing a selection of rockstar action poses ((c) Pete Townshend) whilst sounding like the six-legged RAWK beast they'd always threatened to become since 'Whatever Happened To My Rock'n'Roll' first blew away the vile stains of new acoustic dyssentry some three years ago.

'Spread Your Love' takes Bowie's 'Jean Genie' before shaving its balls and inserting a cock ring, while 'Six Barrel Shotgun' and 'Rise Or Fall' contain more revved up energy than a row of Subarus at a boy racer convention, with the dynamicism between Robert Turner and Peter Hayes belittling any previous suggestions that BRMC were severely in need of a charisma bypass, the latter punishing his Fender seemingly oblivious to the fact that his broken thumb has consigned his band to an early trip back home.

Unfortunately the pace diminishes somewhat mid-set, and for about 20 minutes it proves to be more enlightening counting the lightbeams flickering from wall to ceiling and back again, as BRMC's tendency to resort to a spot of navelgazing noodlery becomes about as frustrating as the sight of Gareth Taylor getting caught out by the linesman's flag for the 1000th time and maybe, just maybe, Kerry McFadden on the box was a more appealing entity after all.

Gradually BRMC manage to redeem themselves thanks to a euphoric rendition of 'Heart And Soul' but by the middle of the encore things start to get progressively weird.

Robert Turner mumbles something about disappearing drummers and before you can say "PETE SALISBURY!" the ex-Verve sticksman appears onstage to play out the set, with the seemingly AWOL Nick Jago nowhere to be seen.

Add that to the spontaneous bursts of purple-clouded smoke emanating from behind the two mic stands and you have the perfect ending to a spoof documentary about some fictional rock'n'roll band. Just don't tell Eric Idle I actually said that...