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The Volks is rammed like an Amnesty nightmare and the only thing keeping the crowd alive is the industrial fan to the right of the stage: it’s forty minutes past show-time when Saul Williams takes it, a headdress of feathers scraping the low ceiling as a torrent of bass rearranges vital organs.

A spoken-word namecheck of revolutionary figures starts his set, a litany that would be dull from any other source rendered essential from his, invested with a gravitas and power that sears away any indifference, commanding attention. If Saul Williams were a preacher there would be no atheists – just an army of sycophants and acolytes assembled at his feet, swaying in the wind.

It’s a short but potent performance, stabbing beats wrapped in distorted synths, Saul’s verse half-sung, half-spat as he scales amplifiers and paces the stage, energy rippling out and coarsing through the throng like a nuclear wave. List of Demands closes, leaving us with one of our own: come back soon.

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