Tower blocks and police cars, filmed by a shaky camera on scratched film, are the backdrop for a slower, wailing number. Then there's another song backed by an endless loop of a dog running towards and away from the camera. It lasts ten seconds at most and is meaningless to anyone except, perhaps, the credulous die-hards here tonight, who would probably give a warm, nodding reception if Godspeed came on and banged yoghurt pots with teaspoons. They don't do themselves any favours with some long, drawn-out passages comprising one or two simple phrases repeated over and over, and often walk very close to the line between unconventional transcendence and a load of art students pissing about. Sometimes it looks like the Emperor might just be naked.
Tonight is as perfect as the records, all the more astounding for being right there.
The timpani rumble. The guitar wails and shudders like tectonic shifts. Jonsi sings those high, swooping notes with all the effortless, natural grace of a bird in flight a mile above the ocean - he's absolutely in control. A silent crowd look at each other in disbelief.