Vibe: Warm reception laid on for the band by capacity Yorkshire crowd. Enthusiastic singing from audience throughout set. Much sporting of band T-shirts and purchasing of fanzines – general atmosphere that of large-scale Radiohead love-in.

Sound: Pretty much as per CD. Boisterous bits suitably grungy. Low-key bits suitably smooth _and creamy. No bum notes. No obvious fuck-ups. Professionalism incarnate! Revoke their ‘indie-licence’ at once!’

Highs: Superb songs, full of passion and variety, given extra live books. ‘Creep’ sends massive shivers down the spine. Thom sings it rubbing forehead blearily in semi-disbelief; crowd go bonkers at chorus and leap up and down (not easy considering ambling pace of song). By the end of ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ everyone is going for it, disappointed by the reluctance of band to do the same. They do, however, take full advantage of ‘My Iron Lung’, accelerating blitzkrieg chorus into frenetic moment of mosh-mania. Thom stops at one point to request water for parched-looking people in front row. Your caring, sharing Radiohead.

Lows: First heckle of tour – “You’re a vegetable, you ginger git!” – cause of much merriment onstage. Consummate musicianship of group leads to slightly safe feeling; no real chance of endearing disasters mid-set with band only just breaking sweat. Even guitar changes executed with Formula One pit stop efficiency. A manifestly smooth evening out, really.

Myopic’s eye view: After first number, Thom discards fab horn-rims on flimsy grounds that he “can’t see a fucking thing” with them on. Suddenly sees band in whole new light.

Quote: “This is the chord of E minor.” Brrang. “Thangow very much...”

Spooky goings-on: Someone down the front keeps making ‘T’ and ‘M’ hand signals in the air followed by two peace-signs. Obviously either Transcendental Meditation devotee or fan of lead singer who can’t quite manage middle letters of name. Later, backstage, three absolutely identical Oriental girls await autographs with weird politeness and restraint. Regulars, apparently.

Worth it? Er, it’s up to you. Great songs, well performed in front of appreciative crowd. It just depends on how raw you like it, really.

Merch: Short-sleeved T-shirt, 12 quid. Foortball shirt, 16 quid. Fair enough. Badges, four quid? Just how ace would a badge have to be to merit four quid? Extremely bloody ace.

Support: Sparkle Horse. Despite the name-suggestive of four key shoegazing undergraduates from Canterbury, they, take stage replete with double bass, muted trumpet and stetsons. Sound like Radiohead in their more low-key moments, only marooned in middle of Nevada desert. Bloke on left-hand side of stage fiddles with weird electronics in search of Portishead atmospherics. Mildly grungy when they can muster up energy (not often). Polite. Unassumingly punctual.