Imagine yourself lying back on the grass, feeling the individual blades rustling between your fingers, and watch your shadow elongate with the dying sun. Its like watching your life slip gradually away, fading with the greatest of ease and without regret. Now it's dark. There's a half human / half machine tremor rippling through the topsoil. Nothing like a vocoder, nothing robotic, something softer or would be so were it not amplified to a point where the earth is shaking.

Before becoming one half of Air, Nicolas Godin studied architecture and when asked what was the difference between being a musician and being architect, he replied that they're essentially the same. They're both involve creating shelters. My relationship with Air goes back about as far as you can go without being in the band or related to them. Today I can still lovingly fondle my Casanova 70 EP which came to me during a confused time in London in the mid 90s. Some of those early records were shelters for me. I can still remember sunlit dust falling through the air in a basement room as Soldissmo span on the turntable. At some point though you have to emerge from the shelter and stagger around in the noise of the city, but I still trace their movements with intrigue, always with expectation that something, an indefinable something, special will manifest.

Naturally I have delicate and somewhat specific memories associated with Air. There's always a fear that when you return to a place you left as a child you'll find acutely smaller and stripped of all glamour. I'm inclined to drift, but the mix here tonight is not only full, it's borderline confrontational. Nothing is ambiguous, there's no sense of space. Bass that used to be soft and warm is now punching me in the solar plexus. Venus could almost remind me of a time when I possessed an almost infinite supply of hope, were the snare not ripping my ears out. There's a miscue at the start of Talisman as the keys and bass don't quite sync. Napalm Love is banged out. Remember sounds clunky but charming. They're obviously indebted to Serge Gainsbroug to some extent and I can't help but feel his introduction, ignoring the fact of his death, would liven this up a bit. Sure he'd probably get drunk, expose himself and call us all pig fuckers in beautifully phrased French (so beautiful we'd probably cheer his every word, lapping it up like dogs) but at least I might feel like I'm getting to the heart of the matter, the pin of white light at the centre of it all. (Disclaimer: heirs to the estate of Mr Gainsbroug should note that my perceptions might not tally exactly with the real life human being - but then reality is often a disappointing experience). No matter if they're slightly off-cue or unbalanced, the wealth of their catalogue will always keep them afloat. And it is a greatest "hits" set; only two songs from the new album, possibly because this is their first time in Australia. Why its taken them this long... who knows? Maybe their vintage 70's synths and modules can't handle long haul flights. Perhaps Air can't handle long haul flights? Jet lag, perhaps?

Playground Love inspires outbreaks of kissing all over the park. It'd sound corny, but how many gigs do you go to where this happens? It doesn't happen at your average rock show, and I'll wager it doesn't happen at a Robbie Williams concert (although I'd rather have my spleen removed than actually explore the possibility). The ante really picks up with the soaring arpegiated trip that is Mer du Japon and the winding Don't Be Light. Kelly Watch the Stars has swathes of ravers on their feet, exhibiting some truly excruciating dancing, it'd hemorrhage embarrassment on any city where the inhabitants actually knew how to dance. When the beat stops the excuse for a woman in front of me 'symbolically' wobbles to the toward the ground as each note descends. Its at this point I have to move and deposit myself to a more enthusiastic and mostly better co-ordinated section just to right of the stage. Its odd, but Air manage to stand exactly as their respective ice statues do on the Pocket Symphony cover. You could identify them just by silhouette.

There's always been a subtle, rarely understood it seems, sinister underside to Air. I still seem to be one of a slim handful aware that Sexy Boy is inspired by the skin dancing serial killer from Silence of the Lambs. There's seems to be some hippie virus infecting the popular conscious that maintains slow to medium paced electronic music ought to entirely to consist of "nice", insipid chill out music, devoid of subtext or anxiety, fit for frolicking around in a field and advertising life insurance but ultimately innocuous. These people need a reality check. There's no doubt the crowd has their priorities in order however as they abandon wildly all civilized notions in single minded pursuit of the groove. A girl raises her hands to photograph her two monkeying male friends and spills beer all over her wrist. This is followed by Femme D'Argent, which is so good its hard to fathom, especially as after six or seven minutes when it transmogrifies into an epic trance-inducing prog-out, replete with all sorts of Dr Who sound F/X and insanity. As a single piece of music it manages to capture pretty much the full gamut of human emotion. There's no limits for anyone who can pull this off. It defies explanation and I'd stagger like a pretentious wanker were I to try.

Playing with Air is different to playing with most other normal bands according to Phoenix, a former backing band. Whereas most band leaders would comment "yep, you'll nailed that" or "that part's not quite right", either member of Air would offer illuminations such as "tonight your bass was like a beautiful carpet". Air strike me as a largely philosophical pair. I'm not sure where our relationship goes from here. I wouldn't say tonight was like a beautiful carpet. Although I certainly felt alive running my fingers through the grass.

Transcribed by Reverend Chris