Bernard Butler: Upstairs At The Garage, London

BERNARD'S GOT a reputation. Grumpy, petulant sod, chip on his shoulder big enough to end a potato famine. But, in the Suede heyday, he used to seem like the least up-himself man in the world, happily strumming away for the snuck-into-the soundcheck fans as we sang along and slapped our arses, as befitted the occasion. Tonight, he's doing it again, only this time, he's doing the singing. For the very first time in public. Special occasion? We ask the doorman to stamp our passports instead of our hands.