To celebrate their new - tenth! - album, Suede have taken over the Southbank Centre for a run of different gigs. Later in the week, I’m going by myself to their unplugged show in a smaller room, but for tonight, I’m introducing Alasdair to the Suede experience live at a full band gig in the Royal Festival Hall, a hell of a room acoustically that lives up to its reputation. So too do Suede, for Alasdair’s first time and my countless-th (8th?). I’ll repeat the same things I always do - they absolutely put bands half their ages to shame in the energy department. Brett Anderson skulks across the stage, coiled like a snake ready to unfurl itself, before long leaping onto monitors and almost screaming at the crowd to make some noise, his shirt soaked through by the end of the night. Mat Osman is the slinkiest bassist known to man. They rattle through a hell of a set, encompassing the new stuff (which, to their absolute credit, easily slots in with their older stuff in terms of quality), the classics (I never tire of his speech before and during Trash), some rarities that even I don’t recognise (including a beautiful partially off mic This Time), and some that fit in the middle - a pleasure and a thrill to get Outsiders, still. Even stood in the seats, it’s a show that sweeps you up with it, the crowd at the front pawing at Anderson as if at a revival meet. It’s ritual at this point, which explains why I’ll take any opportunity to see them each cycle. Bloodworm supporting were solid, very much a product of their influences (The Smiths, Joy Division, The Cure) but I can happily imagine being something. I clock they’re playing a small pub in Bristol later in the year - I could be talked into that.