Gig review: Texas at First Direct Arena, Leeds

“Bloody hell, Leeds,” Texas frontwoman Sharleen Spiteri exclaims, craning her neck up to the packed rafters at the city’s First Direct Arena. Decked out in sparkling black, with a glittery green guitar wedged to her hip, she squints.”What the f*** is this? You just look like hands.” As the twinkling, widescreen soar of Halo kicks into overdrive, there is a roguish grin. “Welcome to 35 years of music.”

Celebrating three-and-a-half decades since they first emerged onto the chart scene, this is the chance to take stock of where the Glaswegian guitar-pop veterans have come from, and to see what they have become now.

After all, a greatest hits tour does not necessarily always chart a path from the past to the present, and this too swerves the cul-de-sacs of those early records that failed to ignite commercially for Spiteri and co-founding bassist Johnny McElhone.

But from the bluesy acoustic intro that accompanies late-Eighties-born opener I Don’t Need a Lover through the power-pop rush of encore cut Inner Smile – co-penned with New Radicals mastermind Gregg Alexander – this two-hour performance offers a splendidly ebullient trip down memory lane with a handy reminder that there was always more sonic flavour to their hooks than pure MOR dismissals from their critics, delivered with slick panache and style.

Spiteri, still distinctly recognisable by her trademark jagged black-bob and giddy propensity for sailor language – every swear word is dutifully, rightfully treated as if she has whipped a free-kick into the top corner at Wembley Stadium – remains a fantastic frontwoman too, still possessed of a knockout contralto now tinged deeper with her native brogue.

The jubilantly brassy Black Eyed Boy catches her accent across its Motown sound, The Supremes by way of Strathclyde; Insane meanwhile slinks through its sultrier trip-hop beats with magnetic self-assurance.

A late-stage acoustic foray – a seemingly obligatory standard for the modern-day enormo-dome show – coaxes the bare melodic threads out of Put Your Arms Around Me with disarming results, before the whole group locks back in for the home straight, topped by an inevitable bellow-along to Say What You Want, sadly minus a Wu-Tang Clan cameo.

But Spiteri has got one more trick up her sleeve; a raucous cover of Suspicious Minds, complete with the ’68 Special leather catsuit. “I always wanted to be Elvis!” she hollers; the crowd though seem delighted she became who she was instead.