Chopping violently at an acoustic guitar, gulping out the lyrics in a charged, headlong rush, John Cale leaves little doubt that the burning furies that have sustained his career still rage fiercely.
He opens with a new song, Soul Motel, and all of the trademark elements are in place: the strange narrative twists, the unexpected progressions, the wry disdain for obvious or simple hooks.
The one-time Velvet Under ground inspiration and punk innovator occupies a lofty position in rock's ageing pantheon, primarily because he has always gone against the grain. As he butterflies through a 30-year back catalogue, you appreciate again the unexpected perspectives offered by the roads less travelled.
Not that this always makes for a fun show. This is a solo effort, with Cale alternating between piano and guitar, and everything is shot through his rainy Welsh sensibility. It's almost all shade, with little light, and sometimes the performance veers dangerously close to sermonising.
The venue isn't ideal. There's something about being in the austere surrounds of the City Hall that makes you feel you've been transported back to Soviet Russia for a lecture on collective farming. (And of course with J. Cale, you would never know.)
There are high points and low. Another new song, Things You Do In Denver When You're Dead, is a truly lovely piece, but then we get the worst version of Heartbreak Hotel imaginable.
On balance, though, he pulls it off and he encores, very sweetly, with Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah.
At times, then, this show was underwhelming and at times it was a very rare pleasure.
Incidentally, given that Cale is an artist who once famously slaughtered a chicken live on stage, we would like to point out that no animals were hurt in the course of this production.