Ultra-cautious rail network employees, sick pranksters, global terrorists, forgetful commuters… It hardly matters who was ultimately responsible for the chaos at Manchester’s Piccadilly train station last night – security was paramount and no risks were being taken. It seems a package was found neglected in the station and, following recent events in the capital, panic ensued: the station was closed; trains were delayed/cancelled/unsure how far along the line they would be permitted to run; and well would Sigur Rós even be playing tonight if the authorities’ suspicions were confirmed?

It was amid this climate that Michael and I boarded a train to Manchester, aware that our little gig was the least of anybody’s worries, aware that the train might only go as far Bolton before the journey is terminated by those in the know who deem it unsafe to go too near the city. It sounds awfully self-centred and trivial I know, but we were also painfully aware that we were missing the show. Privately I tried to justify this selfishness. I’d been looking forward to this for a long time, it’s one of the many reasons I’m not still in Asia, Michael would be gutted, and isn’t it the responsibility of everybody affected by such malicious intent, however they’re affected, to do everything in their power to continue as normal?

With that thought process over and my conscience more or less satisfied, we settled into good seats in the Salford’s Lowry Theatre towards the end of warm up act Amina’s beguiling set. It transpired thatfour fairies in dress reminiscent of some Victorian fairytale or other had been imported straight from the bottom of the garden to tinker with violins, ‘cellos, glockenspiels, saws and laptops. Playing subconscious lullabies seemingly to themselves, Amina appeared blissfully unaware of the ever-filling auditorium, spread right out in front of them.

Their stripped-down, no-nonsense stage set impressed, but didn’t engulf. That’s what Sigur Rós did, weirdly with the help of all four members of Anima, contributing strings and things to various parts of the headline act’s set throughout the night. Epic visuals, mood lighting and a the angular, statuesque shadows of band members projected and deleted from the thin screen covering the stage all added to the already complex atmospherics of the band’s performance.

The venue’s acoustics were some of the best I’ve heard, not a sound out of place or lost in some ridiculous domed ceiling or other – so just what prompted one moron to stand up between songs and personally address the “sound guy” to “turn the drums down” I’m not sure. As Truman Capote once wrote, “everyone has to feel superior to someone”, and I guess it hardly mattered since the man in question was quickly beaten, bludgeoned and disintegrated by willing members of the audience. The rest of us weren’t subjected to his cries – it all happened during a drum solo, I think.

The show sounded, looked and felt like being airborne for the first time. Playing a pleasing mix of songs from Ágætis Byrjun, ( ) and the as-yet-untitled forthcoming LP, the band played faultlessly for around two hours, with a backdrop of two silk mountains echoing the scenic connotations of “Starálfur”, the epic highlight of Ágætis Byrjun. Perhaps my only criticism of the whole show would be that they didn’t play this.

Outside, in the pleasance of a summer evening in one of the more upmarket areas of Greater Manchester, audience members milled about with their t-shirts and cigarettes and whispers of the aftershow, utterly stunned. Half a dozen people approached me to tell me they’d never seen anything like it, that it was “something else”, and other bewildered clichés that lack the objectivity of the morning after. Fact is, I probably approached the same number of people to utter the same banalities, and now, in what can only be described as the first half of the following day, I feel exactly the same.

Awed.