London University Union

IT'S HARD to enjoy a Cocteau Twins gig in the normal fashion. One is suddenly lumbered with all the burdens of parenthood. The Twins (ah, two of everything!) somehow made their audience feel responsible. The clusters of surrogate mums and dads watch attentively, hanging on every note and inflection. Between songs there's this unusual quietness, a calm that says: "hush, the little ones are going to play for us..."

Little Twin Robin has his guitar and cutesie pie mop of hair to shield him from the spotlight's glare. Little Twin Liz picks at her fingers and in that nursery chatter the strangest of tongues seemingly blending Swahili, Hebrew, Gaelic and garlic.

It's as if they've grown to adult size (Robin has anyway) but left their minds adrift in the potent fantasia of childhood. The Cocteau Twins in their finest moments stand between this world and another one. It's that simple. They portray their own wonderland. Their music throws up startling temptation. An engulfing euphoria. A lure to step inside and in so doing, never return.

I last saw them a year ago in Amsterdam. It's taken that long for me to steady myself ready for another encounter. Then, of course, there were three. More importantly, Liz had long hair. She stood between the other two bathed in swirls of coloured smoke almost begging to be had up on a charge of witchcraft.

Viewing them now is less than the gaze fixing intoxicant that it was. All the symmetry and her locks have been cast away, as if they got too frightened by the spellbinding strength of it. Tonight their songs sounded just that bit tingle-less. They were good in plain terms but failed to connect in the magical manner of before.

They're called back for an encore and do 'Song To The Siren'. It's reckless and it's a mess. Minus all the atmospheric embrace of the (Mortal Coil) single. A rendition pedestrian and routine but a daring thing for the Twins to even goad themselves into attempting (I believe they never have before).

And Twin Liz made the song nearly hysterical with her quavering warbles (literally) placed at random moments. 'I've got no control over it," she said when I met her afterwards, as if the thing simply possessed her and she could nought but yield to its fancies.

I felt like fetching her coat and clearing a path for her through the crowd of thugs and ruffians, paternally explaining "She's got no control over it'.

The Cocteaus are eternally loveable. The only problem is knowing what to get them for Christmas.