Seconds ago he was still. Stood silently, occasionally fiddling with some bit of equipment or other, his bandmates offering the only chatter coming from the stage. In an under-populated room (blame schedule clashes across town), said discussion – turn this switch up, a little extra in the monitor please – echoes like the dome of St Paul’s. Then, with little warning bar a pre-rock stance and a handkerchief thrust untidily into a back pocket, John Congleton snaps.

“I want your head,
I want your wicked parts,
I want to wring out your evil thoughts,
I want to eat out your bitter heart.”

Say what you want, it’s all been said before – pAper chAse mainman still has issues.

Jerking wildly across the stage like a newborn foal plugged into the mains, he spins, spits and convulses as if he’s living every word that comes flying from his razor-sharp tongue. His supremely accomplished bandmates do likewise, cellist aside (lest we forget in all this hoo-ha regarding Congleton’s innermost thoughts that he is but part of a band, not a solo performer). He is quite the performer, though; dropping to his knees when his self-penned words say so, and pointing accusingly at all in the front row when he sees fit. Make eye contact and you’ll be scarred for life. Listen too closely to what he has to say, likewise.

“Let them die while some decent music plays.”

We escape tonight with our lives, but somewhere, probably across the ocean, someone’s ears are burning. To be in their shoes would be to live one step closer to the end.