Elevated to the status of grizzled grandfather of Americana, John Prine took to the stage, with his two associates, looking spruce and ready for action. Upright bass and electric guitar bolstered Prine's primarily acoustic touches, adding just the right amount of light and shade to the songs. The overwhelming and palpable feeling from the show was that Prine was glad to be back in front of an audience following a convalescence period. The feeling was mutual.

It's difficult not to be impressed by material of such high quality and elegance. All bases are covered with expert ease and skill, from dry humour and spiky lyrics to the type of sharp social irreverence it's virtually impossible to find these days. Prine writes and sings songs in such an effortless manner that you occasionally wonder why he has never garnered the kind of success that lesser songwriters permanently lunch out on. If the gig itself didn't ignite in the way it perhaps should have done, there was more than enough smouldering going on to compensate. Ultimately, though, this was one of those rare concerts where, after a settling-in period diligently checking for leaks, cracks and mishaps, you deposited your critical faculties at the house safe and just sat back and enjoyed the show.