Review: Tricky*****

Sometimes it must be tricky being Tricky. Like when there's a smoking ban. His highness arrives on stage at the Leadmill preceded by a strangely reminiscent orange glow from what looks like it could almost be a cigarette. Inevitably someone has a word.

On we go with a hypnotic wah-wah version of You Don't Wanna giving way to a brooding Past Mistake and then Love Cats (yes, that one) followed by Puppy Toy.

Throughout Tricky is his usual self, growling and jigging at the mike in between manic James Brown antics. He even air-conducts his-five piece band and latest muse, Franky Riley. Before long though he exits, leaving Franky on her own on Maxinquaye vocals. He's soon back after indulging in the height of rock and roll – having a roll-up outside.

I wouldn't have blamed him if he had stayed there. Not many more than a hundred or so people had turned out to see the last true spiritual punk hit town, on a Thursday night at 15 a ticket with the ghetto-tastic Terry Lynn in support.

Tricky's new album, Mixed Race, is his best since Maxinquaye and, remarkably for him, totally dud-free. He lives in Paris now and, from the size of tonight's audience it's easy to understand why.

But the musical magpie is just too talented not to put on a show, and after the break he throws himself through highlights such as Black Steel, last single Murder Weapon and Really Real. Motorhead's Ace of Spades brings everything to a crescendo.

However, the orange glow has returned and the set

ends after barely an hour with an apt Franky vocal, I Sing for the Joker. Someone has had another word and the prospects of an encore have gone out of the hazy window.

It wasn't Tricky's fault the joint wasn't quite jumping. The pleasure was all mine and too few others.