SHE'S full of surprises is old Tori. Hot from her appearance as a cover girl on a music magazine wearing nothing but gold paint, I was half expecting her to shimmy on to the stage Shirley Bassie style, her freshly gilded frame bumping away to the set's latest club anthem remix. In fact Ms Amos chose to don a sensible slacks and short-sleeved jumper combination, skipped centre-stage and sat herself down to play two pianos. At once. Side-saddle. At the end of the first number she invoked some crazy voodoo hand magic. This either meant she was calling on the karmic god of yodel to spread his love vibes among the good folk of the 'Dillo, or she was asking the sound bloke to turn up her twin joannas. Probably both.

Anyway, I'd always suspected Tori was as mad as a bucket of fish and now I was starting to believe it. The cooky between-song banter reminded me slightly of Phoebe, the hippy one from Friends, except none of Tori's tunes so far could hold a perfumed candle to Smelly Cat.

Eventually the backing band ''done a bunk'' and the dipsy diva limited herself to one piano. The result was a medley of delicately designed melodies which perfectly fitted this architectural showpiece venue.

Alas, then it was back to the dumb-screechy-dance-feedback nonsense that made up too much of the night.

Earlier the singer had tried to press the right buttons with the Glasgow crowd. ''You're so much nicer than those people down south,'' she told us. Well, if

she's going to get political about it I'm sure plenty Scots would prefer the north to remain a Tori-free zone.