After a short break, it was time for Brown’s suitably grand and theatric entrance starting with a furious fiddle volley from his wondrously talented accomplice Nick Pynn, who also played acoustic guitar and brilliantly orchestrated the loops which layered the two acoustic sounds with a bass rhythm. The lovely Erella escorted a masked Brown right past our table and onto the stage, his tall and slender figure clad in an open black robe. One could imagine his eyes peering through the mask as he boomed, “Where have you been?” Pounding a huge walking staff on the stage floor in 4/4 time, his chorus rang out “A hard, hard, rain is gonna fall.” At the end of the opening song, he raised the staff behind his shoulders in a crucifix pose and began shrieking in a piercing falsetto.

He then revealed his face to the small but rapt audience for the first time; long locks flowing and bald on top, with the tiniest of eyes and goatee, the resemblance to Jesus impossible to ignore in light of the theatrics from moments ago. Breaking into a spoken word verse, and then into utterly primal howling, he jumped and gesticulated wildly about the stage to the accompaniment of a classic Brit-rock guitar riff from Pynn. He mimed the plunging of a dagger into his chest, removed his robe to reveal a shimmering sequined disco suit, and then danced a hearty Irish jig.

By this point it was clear that this not merely a concert but an improvised rock opera, every bit as much performance art as music that drew from Brown’s original creative calling in the theatre. While Pynn tweaked the loops and sampling setup, Brown sat down for a minute or two of wry observation over a glass of wine at the candelabra-adorned table stage left. Apparently, he was warming up for his first acoustic guitar foray of the evening. The song was entitled “Angels in My Mind”, his rich baritone pouring out the chorus “I would sing with a voice of love the stories yet untold.” It was the first of several meditations on love, and such poignancy from a man who so clearly relished living on the edge of sanity increased its power all the more.

Brown then introduced his “Lecture on the Movement of Body Parts and the Sexual Saving of the Planet.” An oblique reference to Buffy and the Vampire Slayer, a staccato chirp building into a deep roar, dancing like a tripped-out showgoer from his heydays — all set to another brilliant bit of guitar virtuosity from Pynn — led into a hilarious vignette of a circle-jerk amongst Tony Blair, George W. Bush and the Pope. At the end, he fell dramatically to the ground with a cry of, “Let me out!”

He rose and walked over to his dinner table, beginning a rumination of the state of his hotel room, the wealthy misery of the executive, and groupies. As if on cue, one of Lula’s fetching servers walked past the stage, catching Brown’s lascivious eye; he deadpanned, “I thought it was a groupie,” to a roar of laughter from the crowd. He lay down on the stage, recited a short poem and instructed Pynn to “Wake me when the set’s over.”

From speaking of the devil, Brown segued into another meditation on love “as the spirit that will never die”; the song with Pynn’s alternating guitar and fiddle was straight out of The Who’s vintage years. Brown introduced Pynn for “a little fiddle music” which my colleague Roger identified as the classic “Orange Blossom Special”. It was, as Brown sardonically pointed out, particularly impressive as “he’s not even Irish.”

The final song was a driving rock number called “Gypsies of the Road”, Brown’s voice belting out as he provided the percussion with his dance steps on a wooden board. At the end, he placed it between his knees while Pynn scratched the frets of his guitar. “That’s the end of another cockroach,” mused Brown as the two exited the stage to the crowd’s amused and enthralled applause.