The curtain was drawn on a brilliantly lit astroturf lawn, topped with a white picket fence and push-mower and bike. Mark Mulcahy, shaggy hair and giant boots, looking like some blissful hippie hobo clown, ripped into that most glorious power pop theme tune that is imprinted in the mind of every misfit and latch-key kid of my generation. The sound was pristine and the band played flawlessly. The audience sat pinned to their seats not because the songs weren’t danceworthy, but more out of respect and awe for the music. That holy music! So gorgeous and achingly beautiful! The band grinned and rocked and bobbed as they stirred up the leaves of our tree-lined suburban childhood spirits. It was like some quiet sentimental orgy, Mulcahy’s rich and wavering voice striking the perfect frequency, activating our mid-90s nostalgia g-spots, and for an hour we radiated waves of sheer delight.