Music

THE elves at the bottom of Julian Cope's garden are hopping mad, and

not only on account of the noise. They reckon he's been tampering with

their dandelion and burdock. Some even report seeing spaceships. They

are glad he's away on tour, and so are we.

Julian's idea of a night out is to play what many regard as a full

set, then rest the band for 45 minutes while holding the stage with as

many songs as he can remember, plus a few scatty poems.

He brings back the band for another hour, surfing straight into the

encore, because he can't be arsed to leave the stage. If, towards the

end of the third hour, one's delighted grin becomes a little frozen,

it's because you can have too much of a good thing, although a stomping

Reward is just that.

So how does this -- not blend exactly, more random explosion -- of

whimsy, angst, laughter, and thundering epic psychodelia, with its links

to the late sixties Underground, relate to the robotic nineties?

Precisely as an answer to the spreadsheet culture. Here is a camp,

lanky, elf king in electric tights and high floppy hat, striking

mock-heroic poses, flashing his beautiful superstar smile, and

descending startlingly into the audience to embrace and bestow cases.

And when he rocks, his synthesisers do not thump like constipated

metro-gnomes. No, Captain, they go whee and whoosh, which is the best

way to achieve the perfect liftoff.