HOW our heroes are, if not fallen, then come to difficult times.

John Martyn, the golden and wayward experimental folk singer of the Seventies, hobbles on stage with a large stick, having lost part of a leg.

He is more than a little overweight and makes an introductory joke about how he is thinking of becoming a one-legged sumo wrestler.

Much of his banter is virtually impossible to comprehend. Yet the audience is indulgent and soon in the mood after the singer and his three-piece band strike up Smiling Stranger.

What follows mixes frustration with joy. At times the songs are swamped in avant-garde noodling that doesn't do them many favours. Yet Martyn can still shine. This is especially so when he puts down his electric guitar and is handed an acoustic - "ah, a wooden one!" - which he plays beautifully, at once tender and aggressive, in a solo rendition of that favourite old song, May You Never.

The band returns in a more upbeat mood for a sparkling Sunshine's Better. After a rambling story, Martyn gives a rich and resonant interpretation of the old blues number, Rock, Salt And Nails. My, he really can sing, husky and low, soaring and high. This is the voice of a man who has lived life and perhaps flirted with losing it.

He played for 90 minutes, an achievement in itself.

Updated: 11:16 Friday, November 19, 2004