Bass gallops. Guitars wail. Drums pound. At the centre of it all, Bruce is a ringleader on mischievous form, whether carrying off some absurd sunglasses, riling up the seating sections one letter at a time, pondering the exact electricity it'd take to send a DeLorean the wrong way through the space-time continuum, explaining the meaning of a "Dystopian future" or simply taking the piss: "I don't want to wear you out tonight, with too much cheering and having a good time…"
The songs are brilliant. Of course they are. The Time Machine. The Prisoner. Can I Play With Madness. Heaven Can Wait. An epic Death Of The Celts even comes with an awkward assurance that it's meant to be fantasy rather than wishful thinking. "There's a lot if you out there," Bruce tells the army of Scots piled in front of him. "You're not extinct at all!" Then an astonishing Alexander The Great, still on its first handful of plays, ever, bowls the whole room over.