I'm skulking near the back. Usually I thrive on proximity, I like to be so close as to see the droplets of sweat caress down the band's fevered brows, but here is just fine. A Barry Adamson gig is perfect to lounge in the shadows with a Scotch and secretly conspire to kill someone. Occasionally you have to peer through shifting heads, but no matter. It's like a criticism of the movie Rosemary's Baby I once read: the horror's most effective when it's lurking round the corner.

Before I stumbled in here I didn't know what to expect, but we have a full band in swing - frenzied organ, thick solid bass, trumpet, an orgy of sax, guitars and drums; a full, knock-you-down sound that gives Adamson enough freedom to ad-lib and act the lounge bar lizard showman. "Thanks for coming" he remarks, "we know you had a choice".

Adamson's back catalogue is think with songs concerning treachery, deceit, cheating and murder, that live are just a big ball of rampaging fun. The opening is packed full of sweet swinging vibes, even if their intention is malevolent. Jazz Devil can barely contain its comic-book japes. Onstage a little of its menace is lost, but it's more than compensated in sheer revelry. Adamson is clearly blessed a vivid knack for storytelling, and the crowd goes predictably ape as he slides the streets of Perth into his tale of ill-fated debauchery. The Shadow of Death Hotel affords a a chance for each of Adamson's able musicians a platform to flaunt their skills. It's vivacious bordering on frisky. I half expect Fred Wesley to lumber on and proclaim "swing and be funky". Straight 'til Sunrise could be the word of a classic crooner, were it not, like almost all Adamson's sweeter sounding work, loaded with a bitter subtext. But just when you're think you're getting too easy a ride of it, a wall of cacophony emanates, some guttural organ, a splurge of sound F/X with a guitar slicing in. We're plummeted into sleazy, desperate Parisian streets. Every song I either recognise of wish to God I did and this is one of them. It also features the classic lyric, "the invisible man walks down the street. Nobody sees him. Why? Because he's invisible". It's a cry of loneliness and we're truly into the sinister territory I hoped we'd be crawling. It's like a movie for the ear. From here on in the up-tempo numbers are spliced with ominous nuggets like Deja Voodoo. At the back of the stage gaudy red fairy lights radiate their sickly glamour as Adamson launches another candy-coated tirade against humanity.

There's an impression that they've been saving a few extra iotas of energy for the closer The Beaten Side of Town. On record it's restrained; in the flesh it's fiendish, delivered with all the adrenaline of a man standing on the brink. The horns wail as Adamson mimes losing a fist fight and the drums bring everything crashing down. We need a few seconds to recover for the encore, which consists of Sly & the Family Stone's Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again); an unexpected groovy treat slowed down just a touch to employ maximum grind. It's an inspired choice. On the surface it has a bouncy, frolicsome groove, but look inside the words and you'll find Sly fighting his demons. Personally I can't but help loose myself in the memory of listening to this in a diner in San Fransisco whilst eating some truly spectacular pancakes. The horns lay down some vicious funk as Adamson rolls his eyes like a dog in heat. Apparently he turned 50 only last week. "There's life in the old fella yet" he quips. Hmmmm....

Chronicled by ReverndChris