Amsterdam

THE SETTING is the Meervaart, a cultural centre a mere 15-minute limo ride from the heart of Amsterdam.

The event is the Vinyl (a Dutch music magazine) party and the large crowd appear several degrees trendier displaying an awareness of current London and New York fashion vogues than the clientele of the city's better known but notoriously dope fiend infested Milkveg or Paradiso.

This was the first time I'd seen the Cocteau Twins live, save for an appearance in the corner of my bedroom via Channel 4's Whatever You Want. On that small screen presentation, I found them quite likeable.

Curiously, a few spins of their 'Garlands' LP had had virtually the opposite effect. That disc had a kind of porridge feeling. In a few instances, the consistency was perfect, a concise mixing of the prime ingredients: the guitar, the bass, the drum machine and the final, vital flavouring from Liz's voice. But, for the most part, the ratios seemed wrong.

While one could easily reel off a host of influences pertaining to their recorded work, actually observing the Cocteau Twins is striking proof of how utterly non-derivative their music is and how it is simply a natural extension of the band themselves.

They use dry ice. They Use Dry Ice!

Yet, amazingly, this 'effect' works a treat. Liz is swamped by the stuff, often only visible from the shoulders up. She appears a chilling, ghoul like figure, exuding a spectral inhuman glow as if freshly risen from the grave.

Her Scottish accent is considerable in her regular, everyday speech but when singing she becomes completely unintelligible (somebody suggested she was singing backwards!). Marvellously though, this indistinct cry excites the senses with a spiritual quality that is both sharp and haunting.

Liz, already shrouded in mist, is also aurally wrapped up in the firm but tastefully delicate spiralling cascades of sound. Robin and Will create this noise but are easily forgotten on stage, not because they are almost always in semi darkness but because the spectacle of Liz draws the eye with the certainty of magnetic North attracting a compass point.

Liz fights her way through each song, locating the tempo by thumping her herself on the hip, thigh or chest. Other times, she counts out the beats on her fingers, performing a weird movement as if attempting to strip the flesh from her digits.

These actions are quite spontaneous, quite unpretentious and brought about through her extreme nervousness... yet they are just the kind of unique and attractive mannerisms which a less instinctive, more fame seeking performer would love to discover, cultivate and exploit.

The Cocteau Twins concluded in a multiple encore situation. I clapped until I was dizzy.