Placebo - Royal Court, Liverpool

We were running late. What was supposed to be a quick drink—a pint of Director’s Cut, washed down with a couple of draught Budweisers at Fatty Arbuckles—ended up taking far longer than expected. But it didn’t really matter. After all, we were celebrating the first birthday of the newest Crudlet (my affectionate nickname for the kids).

Once we’d safely shipped the Crudlet and Fatman junior off to various in-laws, we set out for the Royal Court in Liverpool. The last time I’d been there was fourteen years ago, when I saw Lux Interior climb the PA stack, chuck wine bottles at the overenthusiastic bouncers, and entertain us with The Cramps’ wild music.

This time we had tickets for the posh seats in the balcony, and I made sure to warn Mrs Crud and Mrs Fatman about the severity of the balcony’s steep slope. They clung onto their seats like their lives depended on it, murmuring the Lord’s Prayer under their breath to fight off the creeping vertigo.

I never caught the support band’s full set, only their final three songs, but I have to apologise to them because they were seriously good. Even if they did pinch that riff from me — the very same one PSST stole from me eight years ago. Fatman and I agreed in the bar afterward that it was a real shame we missed the bulk of their performance.

Then came the bill: “That’ll be £12 please.”

Fatman helped pull me off the floor, waving his sweater at me to clear my head as I came to. For a moment, I thought the barman was charging £12 for two and a half pints of lager and a lemonade. Sadly, that was the reality, which explained why the bar was so quiet despite the venue being sold out.

And then, finally, the reason for living, the reason we exist, the reason man invented music itself: Placebo. I’d seen them two years ago in Manchester and bought their new album the next day. Back then, I knew every song they played live from that album, because they were just that good.

This time around, I flipped the script. I’d spent last night playing their freshly released Black Market Music album, so I recognised every new song they played. The album is just as brilliant as the last. Placebo have that rare gift for writing killer hooks that stick with you. If Special K doesn’t become a single from this album, I’ll kiss Ann Widdecombe—tongues firmly involved.

Sure, there were crowd-pleasers, but unlike some bands—like the Manics, whose gigs feel like a greatest-hits countdown—Placebo bring something more subtle, more nuanced. At one point, Brian Molko even slipped into a self-confessed Elton John mode, playing Peeping Tom behind the piano with perfect poise.

Their set list is growing in both size and stature, spanning early classics like Bruised Pristine and Nancy Boy, anthems like Without You I’m Nothing and Every Me and Every You, and fresh tracks like Black Eyed and Haemoglobin.

The show closed perfectly with Pure Morning, wrapping up a treasured 90 minutes. To play any longer would have spoiled the magic. Rule number one: always leave the audience wanting more.

Doctor’s orders? More Placebo, please.