John Cale

He's the best ad for chronic drug taking you'll find this side of the Betty Ford clinic. Years of dogged abuse have failed to make a dent on the chiseled body and soul of John Cale, or maybe it's the acid trips that have pickled him forever more, leaving a vinegared visage and leathered torso as its calling card.

Cale's visits here are few and far between, so expectations run high when he decides to drop in. The bar closes for the performance, every seat in the house fills up, and a heady air of anticipation awaits his arrival on stage.

And yes, he lived up to his reputation - and then some. Watching and listening to John Cale thrash through his back catalogue, routing piano and guitar in all manner of obtuse directions, it's hard not to feel injustice on his part that, of all the VU grads, Lou Reed honks loudest for attention.

He kicks off with a blistering version of 'Soul Motel' and the ebony and ivory is tingling after the first verse. Cale sings and squawks about the less sexy subjects with aplomb. Not for him the 1-2-3 of 'Perfect Day'. No, Cale's pulse quickens to a different beat, one fuelled by Dylan Thomas' poetry ('Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night' and 'Wedding Anniversary' segue painfully, beautifully) and screwball flop movies ('Things You Do In Denver When You're Dead').

Cale ultimately favours dissonance over delicate melodies, chafing over cosiness. This was music to challenge, not to console. A perfect night.