Expecting MORE of a response from the Word community re: Mr John Grant, I ended up going to Bristol on my own (cue: violins) having not had a single response to my call for 'spare tickets!'. I, helpfully, parked 50yds up from the venue on Great George Street and retired to Nandos for some hot chicken livers and some cold comfort.

At the appointed hour, I wandered up to St Georges and caught a quick coffee in the Cafe Bar. It was 'full to murmuring' of pseuds, humous stain-ed Boden waistcoats and inappropriate (for their age) head-gear. I was happy to take my seat for the support act (Sea of Bees), for fear of being absorbed into a conversation about Pinter or Mung Bean Casserole, otherwise.

Here's what I hacked into my phones' text app as the eponymous Mz Bee strummed and screeched for 30 mins:

"Awkward - lovely acoustic tinkles and sprongs. Counts herself (and her imaginary band) in with an airy wave to the gallery. Haircut like my Mother-in-law, dresses like my father-in-law and a voice like Cerys Matthews under attack from a cattle-prod. Stumbling, embarrassed spoken interludes and introductions. Much more expressive/coherent in song rather than conversation.

Says 'like' and 'Ummm' a lot.

Thought a roadie had come on early to tune up for John Grant - turns out to be 'the band' (3rd song in).

Sweet. Best song: Fire"

At this point, I had contacted an old pal via Facebook status updates and realised he was a) in Bristol himself (working away) and b) about 5 mins from the venue! One FREE ticket (and an OJ & lemonade) later, we were settled for the arrival of the main man himself.

As soon as that great, melancholy bear began singing it really showed up the support act for the rather average affair that it was.

Grant was fearsome! Bold and tender! His voice: a mighty cudgel wrapped in those heart-breaking, velvety melodies. Words of loss, nostalgia, anger, need, romance, bitterness and frustration. That bloody Grand piano - what a goddamn sound! Pounding and caressing - sharply cut by the honks and tweets of the synth. No encore (JG felt guilty at the pretension of the off and on again) - we had 90, full-to-bursting minutes of verdant music interspersed with stories and smiles.

At the end of a quite overwhelming 'TC & The Honeybear', I wanted to cry out 'play it again!', as one would do upon discovering a favourite popping up on the iPod. Curse my 'hibitions'!

I may miss out on a few Word podcasts over the next few weeks (at least, delay them) in favour of playing QUEEN OF DENMARK over-and-over...lest I forget such a wonderful evening.