Club Capitol, Perth. 6th March 2007.

It's just over three years since I abandoned my homeland in favour of the former convict colony of Australia. Within less than a week of arrival I was watching Elbow do a rare, acoustic in-store performance at 78s. Short, but sweet; Guy Garvey's lungs filled the room, the entire room, all of it; every spare air pocket and cavity. It was an experience.

Three years later, and I'm stoked to find, against my expectations, that Station Approach has one of the most instantly recognizable percussion intros, as the crowd goes nuts. Guy thanks us our effusive greetings and for supporting them in this heat, although my house doesn't have air conditioning, so its actually less roasting for me to support them here. Guy announces its his birthday. There's cheers and fortunately no one sings 'happy birthday' (yet), but a lady hands from the audience hands him a shot. "She's the only one of you lot who has any manners", he reprimands, a sly grin poking out from behind his beard. The crowd is older than I'm used to, I'd guess mainly thirties with a strong British contingent (you can tell, we don't look as good as the locals) and fairly well behaved. I'm not ready for this mature shit yet, as it seems no one's about to set their hair on fire and run through the streets chanting the Song of Moses backwards. It's a bit more genteel, spliced with moments of tender regard such as Red and Great Expectations, which I discover is about getting married on a bus. She didn't know anything about, G explains, although it was wonderful. I know what I means, I can relate, the same thing happened to me almost. But all that's just a deep memory in some dark, slightly intoxicated recess of Cornwall. Fugitive Motel for me will always have an utterly specific memory, waking up in San Francisco, light falling through Venetian blinds, illuminating tiny particles of airborne dust. It's only dust, but somehow this morning sun from the other side of the world ignites this scene with a distant optimism. Guy's voice is at its most heart-breaching as he sighs for the moon.

Elbow didn't click for me immediately. On their debut album the was much talk-up of them as a new Pink Floyd. I don't recognise the substance of similarities between these two as anything more than slight - except, for one line in Pink Floyd's Time, "quiet desperation is the English way", which for me nails the spirit of Elbow with Lee Harvey Oswald-esque accuracy. Elbow are indeed, a quintessentially British band. Perhaps the hardest element to replicate of Elbow's sparse, hypnotic sound; would be Richard Jupp's vastly under-celebrated drumming, the only real comparison I can find being Laughing Stock era Talk Talk. A wide stage with high ceiling space would be ideal, instead he's penned into a back corner like some claustrophobic Cure video.

G is effusively, incontinently happy. Possibly the most happy front man I've ever encountered. I'm really not sure this fits in with their dour men of the North image. They're not the same awkward Elbow. It's almost like they're having fun for Christ's sakes. Merry heaps of it. Give the man some credit, almost every utterance he makes is inspired. And there are plenty of opportunities for that as instruments slide out of tune in the heat. He makes about 889 jokes about it being his birthday and thanks us repeatedly for the warm welcome. Personally I think everyone was relieved to see the end of the gruesome warm up music, Jet, Linkin Park - who chose this shite? We also get almost all of the "happy", relatively happy at least, third album. Even the songs about insane jealousy sound happy. G tends to hold his hands in their air like Jesus. He doesn't look a thing like Jesus (although my mate Adrian does, and he's just as nice). He gathers a generous length of microphone cord and wanders into the crowd, offering the mic up to anyone who knows the words to the chorus of Forget Myself and isn't afraid to take the moment. Alas I miss out, despite the readiness of my diaphragm.

As the encore begins, Guy is presented with a cake. It's chocolate, so given the heat, he magnanimously donates it to us: I miss out again. Damn. It's not like I'm sulking at the back. I'd say I was perfectly positioned given the speaker arrangement, about 8 rows back and centre. When Dinosaur Jr played here I was parked directly under one the main right hand big bastard, whereupon my ears were practically walking round the floor by the time they enacted their "lets generate as much static as inhumanely possible, then leave" trick. Calexico would have been good in this heat, it would have suited them down to the dust ridden ground, tortured under this remorseless sun; although they probably wouldn't have handed out cake.

It feels like a moment we've been building towards all night, but Newborn is so good, from the arresting, opening lyric of "I'll be the corpse in your bathtub", neo-fetal yet fatalistic, to the jet engine roar of its climax. Its the one part of the gig where they really apply some pressure. They push the button all the way down. And I'm vibrating. It's almost enough to want them to stop visiting nice places, stick to Salford and write more songs about getting out. They could bury us all.

Far away in my Fugitive Motel, part of my mind will always remain here.

Transcribed by Christopher H James