Perfectly imperfect: Evan Dando, at Islington Assembly Hall, reviewed

‘Can I have a photo with you, please?’ It’s the most embarrassing question you can ask of someone you’re interviewing. But I had to. Not only because Evan Dando is one of my favourite songwriters. But also – vainly – because years of on-off drug addiction (mostly on) mean Dando is no longer quite the beautiful young man he was when he became famous in the early 1990s. Back then, I’d have looked like a troll standing next to him. Now, not so much.

It was a night of beautiful imperfection – the kind that feels truer than a thousand arena shows

He still, however, looks better than he has any right to, and in the evening he proved that he sounded better than I had dared to hope. Better still, he was fully present – not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Back when the Lemonheads were the hunks of alternative rock, Dando’s progressively deepening problems resulted in him playing some of the worst shows I’ve ever seen – desultory to the point of insulting.

I was slightly anxious before the show. It was just him and an acoustic guitar and, though he’s been sober for two years, without a band to provide a bit of oomph and cover for any vagaries in Dando’s delivery, it might have been a high-wire act. That said, I would be lying if I told you it was perfect. Dando’s vocal cords have clearly been affected by the years of what has gone into his lungs. His voice used to be bruised, sad and lazy, but with a toffee-ish depth. Now it’s thinner, a little whispery, occasionally cracking. But it was good enough; good enough for the songs and good enough to restore our oft-tested faith in him.

At times it was ramshackle. Plenty of numbers stopped and started; he replaced the guitar solos on the originals with a kind of semi-scatting; there were random fragments thrown in then thrown away. I wanted a bit more than 30 seconds of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Spare Me a Little of Your Love’. It was eccentric. His setlist was painted on a large canvas propped up beside his mic stand, and there seemed to have been a raffle for someone in the crowd to take it home.

Above all, however, he was a delight. His catalogue is slender but rich. His best songs boil down to maybe an hour’s worth of material, most of which stems from three of the eight albums of originals he has recorded. ‘My Drug Buddy’, ‘Rudderless’, ‘Confetti’ and ‘It’s a Shame About Ray’ were perfect evocations of stoned, twentysomething uncertainty and ennui, set to melodies so indelible and warm it was like walking into a boulangerie when the bread’s just been taken out of the oven.

He revisited his earlier hardcore-punk days with the title track of the first Lemonheads album, Hate Your Friends. It was daring given hardcore is rarely melodic enough to survive the loss of its primal roar. And he threw in cover after cover – by Tim Hardin, Michael Nesmith, Gram Parsons, Joni Mitchell, Elvis Costello, Teenage Fanclub and more.

In the end, he was so present that his tour manager had to cut him off to avoid breaking the curfew. Even then, he didn’t leave the stage. He stepped into the crowd and had them join in on ‘Frank Mills’, from the musical Hair. It was a night of beautiful imperfection – the kind that feels truer than a thousand arena shows.

The Cult are among rock’s great survivors. Goths turned psychedelic-flavoured hard rockers turned AC/DC tribute act. But from these elements they’ve synthesised a unique identity, and they’re still filling the Albert Hall more than 40 years on. They sounded great – better than I ever thought they did when I was young.

Singer Ian Astbury was perfectly serious and ridiculous in his black smock and skirt, continually holding up his hand for a fresh tambourine to be thrown to him from the wings. Guitarist Billy Duffy – biffing out riff after riff – now has the look of a northern gangland kingpin in a BBC1 Sunday night thriller. Together they are one of the few great remaining rock’n’roll frontman/guitarist pairings.

There was no flab in their 90-minute show. And any band that can fashion a set that builds to a climax with ‘Rain’, ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ and the magnificently ridiculous ‘Love Removal Machine’ is going to make me smile. My life was not changed – but it was rocked.