Richard Thompson, (Olympia, Dublin)

It was Thompson and Thompson – both with a ‘p’. And they managed to engineer as many furious adventures as Tin Tin’s confederates used to do in the good ol’ days when Aztecs and Incas popped up round every corner.

Some of us came expecting a dour, morose rail against all things personal and political, but the diehards knew better. Richard Thompson may write blue, may sound blue, may even sing blue a lot of the time, but in 3D he’s a riot to behold. All crafty retorts and sparkling ripostes flung heedlessly in every direction. Obviously caution is not his middle name, (nor is tact, for that matter).

With only himself and his (equally articulate) sidekick, double bassist Danny Thompson to flesh out the high camp backdrop for Annie, he might have easily dissolved into the fake French windows. But Thompson and Thompson are made of far sterner stuff than that and they ripped through the back catalogue like men possessed.

Many of the highlights came from Rumor and Sigh, his piece de resistance from 1991, but there were plenty outcrops from other seasons to whet and woo the appetite. ‘Waltzin’s For Dreamers’ was, as one would expect, a standout, its poignancy underscored by a particularly elegant bassline from Thompson, the second.

But the moments of reflection were sharply interspersed with all shape of polka, jive and jibe that left every corner whooping and hollering for more. ‘Don’t Sit On My Jimmy Shands’ had those in the know grinning at the prospect of Thompson forfeiting his treasured 78s, while the rest of us struggled to catch its significance. (Amazing how enlightening a lyric sheet can be at times like these.)

And so it went. Swinging from the dissonance of ‘Our Last Shift’ to the baleful beauty of ‘The Dimming Of The Day’. With over half the audience showing their age, (their frequent trips to the powder room a dead giveaway for retreating bladder control) it was clear that Thompson’s Fairport Convention days were well commemorated. But there was a fair smattering of perter pelvises too, an equally reliable indicator that his audience was well infiltrated by a . . . less geriatric bunch.

All of whom wait with bated breath for the man’s next pronouncements on record. Not a bad night at all – for an old fogey – oops! – folkie like him!

• Siobhán Long