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.

To continue reading this article and to discover many more (over 140,000 words-worth!), purchase Mick Sinclair’s Adjusting the Stars: Music journalism from post-punk London.