Redolent with the mastery of sonic manipulation, the barren barracuda-beat Bristolians flit onto the Apollo stage through a dryhumping carrion crowd, heavy-lidded through improper synapse-scraggling; and the theatre breathes in deeply, inhaling the tonal torpor, exhaling in serpentine sympathy.

Slowly and softly, leisured and layered, crumbled and snidely skinned, I am bound by this thorned silk of rhythmic snappery, of nonchalant narcotism, of fleshfingering friendlyfire; this angelbiting, anklesmiting mystique breaks my skin and heart with trembling, sativic salivations.

Immensity and intensity float round the venue, cackling memories of marbled nights past and yet to come. The Apollo is sweaty and sweetened by imagery and imagination, elfin introspection and the irredeemable cack-candour of the muddleheaded.

Massive Attack still have a heartflame that no pseudo-politic can ever fully extinguish; it’s all fuel to the feral fire and the knowledge of this is the knowledge of the fundamental power of music. As Sinead O’Connor warbles a beautiful nightmare, cheekbones reddened by a dwarfing, shimmering wall of eyescraping visuals, these seconds or centuries womb me back to a supplicant sprawl of eulogy from which I don’t recover until the house lights come on to reveal a leery, beery tosser trying to grab my girlfriend’s tits.