Eels - The Bridgewater Hall, Manchester 16/06/14

I’m not convinced, though, that tonight’s show does a great deal to further his case. Last time I saw Eels they were playing about a mile down the road, in support of last year’s Wonderful, Glorious. They took to the stage at a sweaty rock club dressed head to toe in Adidas, and ripped through the more raucous side of their catalogue, interspersing it with a not insignificant helping of endearing buffoonery. Tonight, they’re at the Bridgewater Hall - usually reserved for classical concerts - and arrive in front of a gorgeously-arranged backdrop of twinkly lights, looking like they’ve stepped straight out of Sterling Cooper in suits so sharp they could have your eye out. E opens with a delicate piano piece, “Where I’m At”, and then ambles up to the mic to howl a cover of “When You Wish Upon a Star”, from Pinocchio. This isn’t reinvention; this is just what Eels do.

Tonight’s set is a largely serene affair, and the instrumentation has been arranged accordingly; out with the electric bass and in with the upright, whilst guitarist The Chet spends a fair chunk of his time playing a lap steel - or, as E puts it, “the sad machine”. He fires through a few early tracks - a reworked version of the fuzzy “The Morning”, shimmering newie “Parallels” - before interacting with the crowd in typically dry style. “What did you think of Daughters of Davis? They were here to cheer you up. We’re here now. To bum you out.”

The first half of the set certainly draws heavily on some of E’s most desolate work. “A Line in the Dirt”, riddled with gallows humour, is relayed delicately; so, too, is End Times’ heart-wrenching ode to depression and solitude, “Mansions of Los Feliz”. It’s no surprise, either, to see a slew of tracks from The Cautionary Tales make the cut; that record, E’s most personal to date, is an exercise in self-excoriation. “Where I’m From” aches tentatively with homesickness, whilst the regret-addled “Lockdown Hurricane” is presented, sadly, without the glockenspiel that drifts in and out of the original.

Like The Cautionary Tales - and presumably deliberately - the set hits an emotional nadir, right before an upswing. It’s provided by Daisies of the Galaxy’s “It’s a Motherfucker”, a painfully raw breakup song with a quickfire running time that’s either tantalising or merciful - it’s hard to know which. Afterwards, E perks up - “alright, I’m feeling happier now!” - and the band match him all the way as he leads them through the decidedly breezier likes of “A Daisy Through Concrete”, “Fresh Feeling” and “I Like Birds”; they’re still barer than they might be at an Eels ‘rock show’, but the atmosphere in the Hall is transformed all the same.

Save for the tortured “Gentleman’s Choice”, E’s suddenly much chirpier; “My Beloved Monster”, mashed-up with “Mr. E’s Beautiful Blues” on the last tour, is aired in stand-alone form, whilst the upbeat one-two that closes The Cautionary Tales - “Mistakes of My Youth” and “Where I’m Going” - preface E bidding goodbye to the crowd with “this thing we have back home called a hug”. He hops down onto the floor, and is quickly mobbed. Others rush to shake hands with members of the band - P-Boo, Knuckles, the newly-rechristened Upright Al. It seems astonishing that E’s reputation for prickliness once went before him.

In fact, in the aftermath of this mutual outpouring of appreciation, they decide not to bother with encore-related formalities, instead serving up a stirring hat-trick of “I Like the Way This Is Going”, the gorgeous “Blinking Lights (For Me)” and “Last Stop: This Town”; the latter - plucked from my personal favourite Eels album, Electro-Shock Blues - is an agonising paean to E’s late sister.

A few minutes later, they’re back - “I guess we are doing the encore charade, after all,” grins E. There’s a genuine rarity in the form of “Fucker”; it’s two minutes and twenty seconds of self-loathing, delivered in a manner that suggests he hasn’t forgotten how he felt when he penned it some years ago. A couple of covers ostensibly close us out - Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love” and Nilsson’s “Turn on Your Radio” - but the crowd know better; in the recent past, the band have had a penchant for playing ‘secret’ encores, a while after the house lights have gone up. Suddenly, we’re plunged into darkness again, and a shadowy figure appears up on the balcony, where the venue’s formidable organ is located.

It’s E. He’s dressed as the Phantom of the Opera. Earlier, he’d joked that he hadn’t been allowed to play the organ on past visits to the Hall. Not this time. He delivers a flawless, suitably creepy rendition of “Flyswatter”, laughs maniacally into a nearby mic, and then disappears. It’s an episode that really says everything you need to know about the man, and the show he puts on. It’d be enough for him to get up on stage and play twenty songs every night. It’d be worth the price of admission; he’s one of the greatest American songwriters of the past thirty years. That he feels the need to constantly change up his performances, to sprinkle them with so many deft touches, is a testament to his respect for his fans. I suspect even the most die-hard will never have seen the same show twice. I would say that fledgling bands should take note, that this is the lead you should follow for longevity, but I’m not sure it can be really be replicated. It’s just genius.