Hopefully Muscles and the security staff at the Prince had their ‘working with children’ police checks up to date. The brilliantly titled Guns, Babes and Lemonade album only came out late last year, but way back then most of the packed Prince crowd were probably dragging themselves through their final year of school. With the ‘Sold Out’ signs on the door, it was no great surprise to find a line stretching out of the Prince doorway. Its stalled movement was presumably caused by security having to check almost every ID. Basically, if you’re over twenty five at a Muscles gig you’re going to feel a little seedy.

Kicking off a national fifteen date headline tour with two nights in his adopted home town, including an intriguing acoustic show at Toff, Muscles is keen to take advantage of his current profile. Recent months have given dance music fans several chances to catch a Muscles performance, supporting two of the biggest names in the field: Daft Punk and the Chemical Brothers. As the opening act at those shows, Muscles had the difficult task of playing to huge and practically empty spaces – the less enviable trade off for the big name support slot gig. Despite those smaller crowds, Muscles managed to put on endearingly bonkers performances with a confidence that filled the massive stadiums.

Arriving on stage at this far more intimate venue shortly after eleven, Muscles was met by a fanatical response from his audience. The roar/squeal that greeted Muscles was staggering, reaching the sort of euphoria heard at teen idol pop concerts. Then again, Muscles’ innocent lyrics (“My hand slipped into your hand/ and it was awesome/ and you were special”) do feel tailor-made for a first love/first gig experience. The perky kids belted out every word to every song with the same enthusiasm as the man’s own off-key singing. While his amateur vocals have earned plenty of criticism, they’re less noticeable live as the crowd takes over and the huge acid-inspired electro beats are pushed to centre stage. There’s a communal karaoke feel to the night as Muscles barely troubles his keyboard or sampler, simply leading the masses through the sing-alongs.

The first offering on this apocalyptically hot day is, appropriately enough, Sweaty, which immediately fends off the evening’s promised cool change. Ice Cream has the crowd raising their arms in worship and in sync with the “Woo! Aah!” vocals. The crowd laps up the local name-drop on One Inch Badge Pin, while all the kids – girls and boys – enthusiastically declare they want to bear Muscles’ children during Hey Muscles I Love You. His slightly mocking lyrics lose some of their edge when chanted by a mob of loved-up teens, as surely only a Miss World contestant could chant Sweaty’s “peace, love, ecstasy, unity, respect” with a straight face. But a Muscles gig is hardly about subtlety – it’s all about stupid abandon.

Unfortunately a few of the poorly inked lads in the crowd take Ice Cream’s, “I just wanna dance with my shirt off” lyric literally and crash about in the crowd smearing beer-fuelled sweat on their fellow dancers. Meanwhile, the gaggles of gals take the opportunity to pose for new Facebook profile shots.

It’s a short set from the headliner and he doesn’t seem to have an encore programmed into his sampler. Judging by the grins and hugs being traded in the crowd, though, everyone’s more than satisfied. Muscles gigs should be the prescribed medication for anyone suffering from too many nights of po-faced, arm-folded gig going. As that old myth states: it takes less muscles to make you smile than frown.