Ian McCulloch is standing at the front of the stage, staring out a member of the crowd. The problem is McCulloch has his trademark dark glasses on and his victim is paying little attention to his displeasure. It's a no-win situation and McCulloch finally heads back to his microphone. "Unfortunately, we're not doing that one," he says.
It's a situation Echo and the Bunnymen are used to. When you've been in a critically acclaimed, publicly adored band for 20 years, you've got to expect to compete with your back catalogue and its vocal supporters. Formed in the post-punk wilderness of 1979, Echo and the Bunnymen took a devotion to apocalyptic psychedelia, a love of the Doors and a penchant for military charity-shop chic to the charts. They defined the sound and atmosphere of the early 1980s with their sullen songs, and most of the crowd seem content to wallow in nostalgia. But after resurfacing in 1997 the band won new fans, who seem to be wondering what they're doing at a gig with people who look like their dad.
McCulloch himself remains ever youthful and unfeasibly cool, and oozes a bumptious charm. He takes a long drag on his 100th cigarette and mooches around the stage as the foreboding drums of the moody classic The Killing Moon start. Handing over a verse to the crowd, he revels in the moment.
But this is no greatest hits set. With a new album, Flowers, out soon, it's a chance to showcase the future, and McCulloch is excited. Very excited. "There's a new one coming up called Buried Alive," he enthuses, gesticulating wildly. "Wait till you hear it! It goes do-do, do-do." Following the beautifully sparse Nothing Ever Lasts Forever, he sighs, "What a fantastic song." He's a man in love with his work, and shifts from an uncanny Jim Morrison impression - complete with yelps and desperate urgency - to the weary everyman voice of recent years. He's also quite mad. During the droning guitar frenzy of Do It Clean - think Morrison stylings backed by sweeping 1980s synths - he suddenly stops to sing bits of Tommy Steele's Little White Bull, a selection of Frank Sinatra songs and the Beatles' Ticket to Ride. Finally, he smiles. "All these songs I try and do, they're not as good as this one," he says, howling as the guitars build to a climax. He's almost right.
