Day 321. Prove it. (17/11/13)

Manchester again. Twice in four days now. And before my Mancunian friends start pointing out that Salford isn't actually Manchester, separate city of its own and all that, let me point this out; I'm from Bootle, it's all Manchester to us.

In fairness, I like Manchester. I'm probably not supposed to say that but there you go, it's out in the open now. I blame my recently discovered paternal Salfordian family line for this affinity but it has good music and everybody that I know from Manchester I like. Their football teams are shite though.

Reason for Manchester this time?

Television. Legendary 70s New York band, hauling from the same CBGB scene as Talking Heads, The Ramones, Patti Smith and Blondie. Even if you've never heard Television you've heard their legacy in a million indie bands; intricate, chiming, intertwining guitars, plaintive vocals, ineffable cool. If you've heard The Strokes then you've heard Television. Great as The Strokes were initially, their influences were blatant.

Three albums since 1976, the second and third are good but the first is legendary. Marquee Moon. When every rule said no long songs, no guitar solos Television made an album whose centrepiece and title track was ten minutes long and brimming with carefully unfolding lead lines.

Marquee Moon has been a staple in my life for nearly thirty years now, J had a theory when we lived in Leeds that any tape left in the car for long enough would turn into Marquee Moon as every time she inserted an unmarked cassette into the stereo the beginning of 'See No Evil' would kick in.

The band have been inactive for much  of those three decades, a reformation here and there that seemed to treat London as an English tour, a Glastonbury appearance on the same weekend as the reformed Velvet Underground which I obviously didn't attend (I don't do festivals, we've covered this) so tonight is the first time that I've seen them play live.

I am stupidly excited. I am also ten foot from the small stage in an upstairs venue that seems insultingly insufficient for an act of such stellar critical standing. The room is fairly packed, the stage bare; no dazzling light show, no pyrotechnics, merely a row of red lights sat adjacent to a similar row of blue, a drum kit and two Vox amps which will undoubtedly be joined by Fender Jaguars in short time.

The evening will not need flash and sizzle and choreography, it will survive on a musical genius that has survived for over 35 years.

Meanwhile X Factor is on ITV.

This room wins.