Julian Cope has decided to go off on a little stroll and the punters are looking nervous. Can’t really blame them – after all, how would you feel about sharing a confined space with a towering, pony-tailed, psychedelic heathen whose stated intention on leaving the stage is to, “Meet the people and feel some of them up”?

The Cope is on a mission. Rock and Roll, you see, has lost its id, its mojo, its primordial wopbopaloobop. Somewhere along the line the shamans have left the building, allowing a whole raft of corporate eunuchs to come in, take their place and borrow their threads: “Even that little fucker from Travis has a mohican.”

And modern records? Well, the most interesting feature of new LPs is the silence between the songs. Boom boom.

Rock and Roll is in dire straits, says Cope, and he wants to tell us all about it. In fact, it seems as if he wants to tell a certain part of the audience about it more than others. Cope’s leaning over a balcony, staring at a group of mates huddled together about ten feet from the bar. He’s barking at them and they look terrified.

Julian Cope meet Ash. Ash, Julian Cope.

It must be said that accounts of the former Teardrop frontman’s madness have been greatly exaggerated. Sure, he has big hair and a fair bit of slap on his face, but he manages to wear it well. If you’ve read Head On you’ll be aware that he was a ruthlessly ambitious sod when he was younger, but age, marriage and world wide investigations into the origins of stone circles seem to have done the trick and now he has the bearing of a foul-mouthed, spaceman uncle only too happy to dole out the ten-deals and copies of Forever Changes. And some of the tunes remain wonderful. Frankly it’s a pleasure being in his company for two hours. Even Tim and Rick cheer when he takes his last bow.

They were a great vintage, that post-’77 mob. Punk’s first (and often regional) evangelical batch of willing pupils. Up in Liverpool Cope was hanging around with Drummond, McCulloch, Wylie and those Frankie reprobates. Across the motorway? Well, go and watch that new Steve Coogan film. Add in Adam Ant, Boy George, Scritti Pollitti, Orange Juice, Bronski Beat, Bananarama, Jerry Dammers etc., etc., etc. and it’s clear to see that punk’s influence in the early ’80s moved from Screen On The Green to Top Of The Pops with thrilling (often stupefying) results. This was a time, remember, when Cope appeared on the cover of Smash Hits.

Equally weird was the fact that the record that eventually liberated the number one slot on the British album charts from the totalitarian grip of Thriller was a collection of ‘Celtic soul’ tunes from a crew of left wing vagabonds who took their name from a drug peddled in Northern Soul clubs. Said record, Too Ray Aye was a top-notch album, but was the weakest of the LPs that made up Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ holy trinity. There is no shame in this considering that the others were Searching For The Young Soul Rebels and Don’t Stand Me Down.

Don’t Stand Me Down has, once again been re-released, this time accompanied by a blinding new opening track (‘Kevin Rowland’s 13th Time’) which has fun with Kev’s less than

successful youthful dealings with the fuzz.

This is the record that explains why Alan McGee ran with the idea of letting Rowland loose on a covers album in the late ’90s. Immerse yourself in the glorious ‘This Is What She’s Like’ – when Rowland realises that his lover is utterly inexplicable and that the only way he can come close to expressing her essence is by bawling his lungs out – and you can see why McGee considered him, along with Liam Gallagher, to be the greatest English singer of the last 20 years.

McGee even imagined Rowland welcoming in the New Millennium at the Dome with a roof-raising version of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. That, of course, was before he saw Kev’s new press shots and found that his recent signing was now dressing in ra-ra skirts and overly keen to flash his underpants.

However, like Cope, he remains a welcome if problematic presence and, fingers crossed maybe even a wonderfully disgraceful role model for some future rabble-rousing hero.