Never underestimate the damage caused by putting a foot into a mouth. In 1997, Crispian Mills's band Kula Shaker were the (clown) princes of Britpop. Some unfunny comments about Adolf Hitler later (even joking about burning swastikas on stage was an extremely bad idea), and Kula Shaker's career went down faster than a lead parachute. Three years on, the controversy is more or less forgotten, but also, it seems, is Mills.
The nation's penchant for retro psychedelic pastiche was not long-lasting, and the appeal of actress Hayley's son is - in Spinal Tap terms - "more selective". Even the Leadmill's staff have trouble remembering who he is - the ticket office advertises "Crispin Hunt".
As the crowd huddle together to keep warm, Mills bounds on stage with arms aloft. It's hard to know whether to laugh at his foolishness or applaud his determination. Apart from the fact that several hundred thousand Kula Shaker fans are in denial, little else has changed. Mills is still haunted by haplessness. When he announces that the drummer "is going to do a hi-hat solo", the PA system blows up in horror. Less hilariously, Kula songs form two-thirds of the set, and the rest - with such Spinal Tap-ish titles as One Louder - sound exactly like Kula Shaker.
Leather jacket sprayed gold, flaxen hair inherited from Hayley, Crisp is still a bonkers caricature of one of those 1960s rockers Mum will have told him all about in childhood. The house of Mills seems particularly rooted in the past. He may well have recently started listening to late-1960s David Bowie. Even the cover versions - Hawkwind's Hurry on Sundown and Deep Purple's Hush - are left-overs from Kula Shaker days. What can the poor boy do except play in an olde-worlde rock 'n' roll band?
Despite everything, Mills is hard to dislike. With his Tommy Steele manner and fascination with knights and Arthurian legends, he would make an excellent, eccentric curator at the British Museum. Sadly, his pop career is going the way of his interview technique, lost in a psychedelic fog.
