Dublin Castle, London, England

So it's come to this. From selling out every popcorn-bleeding enormodome in the States, Ian Astbury (formerly of comedy-metal combo The Cult) finds himself in a dingy north London broom cupboard. It's a nice idea. And if one man can pull it off, it should be Astbury. After all, he has spent the last decade laughing in the face of irony, pretending to be a Red Indian and remaining completely unaware that any of his actions might be construed as ridiculous.

Because in the midst of this preposterous return to humble beginnings, there are still flashes of his undeniable genius. He whoops, "Yay-air" at every available opportunity, introduces his bassist as "the new Sid Vicious" and plays his tambourine with a zealot's gusto.

Wearing a baggy basketball vest and an old beach towel gives the wrong impression that after the pie carnage that was life in The Cult, this is all that fits him. But if Ian's waist has become a mite bloated, that's nothing compared with his music.

"We don't want to see any pogoing or spitting," states Astbury at the start of the set. An unlikely eventuality, since the first dollop of sludge-boogie hits the stage then slowly congeals. Still, things pick up a little when Astbury locates his maracas. In the ensuing excitement, he urges people to "jump, jump", plays his best songs (She and Space Junkie), before promptly declaring in a broad northern accent that he is, in fact, "the firestarter". Unfortunately, the Holy Barbarians are the fire brigade."

James Oldham - NME