Monday nights are usually a big ask for weekend-fatigued punters, but this isn’t an ordinary crowd.. Those in attendance tonight were amped for the first of Paul Weller’s duo of Tivoli shows on Saturday, only to receive notification in the hours before that it’d been postponed. An understandably jubilant crowd are abuzz with chatter and clearly thrilled with the prospect of seeing the man after the offer was momentarily snatched from the table. It’s a timely reminder that even the most prolific, seemingly invincible rock gods are fallible by the same sickly symptoms as the rest of us. Having weathered the worst of Brisbane’s mild winter – when compared to Weller’s hometown of Surrey – there’s more than a few understanding, empathetic faces throughout the crowd, and a handful of lingering sniffles. Having waited 23 years to see the man, we’re collectively damned if we’re going to let a common cold affect our enjoyment of The Modfather!

Before that, though, we endure local boys The Daisycutters, who relish the chance to play before several hundred vaguely interested punters. Security at the front of the venue are laughing at the seemingly feminine bandname, until a more knowledgeable bouncer mentions that their namesake was a type of bomb used in Vietnam. Their sound isn’t quite explosive enough to further extend the analogy, though guitarists Cam Wilson and Kieran Clair wrench power chords out of their instruments with considerable force. Herein lies my objection to their music: its formulaic and utterly banal delivery adds nothing new to a genre whose debatable riches have already been mined by the likes of AC/DC, Dallas Crane and, more recently, Airbourne. Here’s four (presumably) thirty-something-year old men playing songs called Looks Like I’m Going Home Alone Again Tonight among tracks from their third album, the recently-released Come Sweet Bullets. Their 2001 Triple J hit Sick Day is still enjoyable enough, but it’s clear that the band have made the conscious decision to angle for the crudest, least rewarding market within the many genres of rock – namely, pub rock. The problem with marketing toward the lowest common denominator is that there’s already a dozen current, well-known Australian bands who’ve done it better for years, and several hundred would-be well-known bands channeling their time and energy into the same recycled riffs, rhythms and themes. Maybe I’ve completely misread the direction in which The Daisycutters are attempting to steer tonight’s crowd, but judging by the number of backs facing the stage by set’s end, I remain doubtful.

“It took me 23 years to get to Brisbane, and as soon as I get here I’m fuckin’ sick!” barks Weller upon striding to the microphone to a hero’s welcome. He tears into The Changingman without fanfare, and though one of his strongest songs, it’s a slightly flat opener. “What I can’t be today, I will be tomorrow,” is an interesting line to consider in light of the man’s state 24 hours earlier. Sound technicians wrestle with the mix throughout the set, and their job isn’t made any easier by the frontman, who demands a different guitar for each song. On multiple occasions, he walks off-stage mid-song and berates his guitar technician, before emerging with another six-string. Weller leans heavily on material from his ninth solo album, the exhaustive yet inconsistent 22 Dreams: the surging key motif of the title track makes an early appearance, while All I Wanna Do finds Weller at his weakest, FM radio-yearning moment. In comparison, the laidback pace of Have You Made Up Your Mind features a memorable rhythm guitar riff, and gentle lead guitar work by Weller’s right hand axeman since 1992, Ocean Colour Scene guitarist Steve Cradock. An exhilarating, almost prog-rock breakdown in Stanley Road track Porcelain Gods finds Cradock indulging in substantial, restrained feedback while bassist Andy Lewis and skinsman Steve Pilgrim drive the track toward its breathtaking terminus.

A passionate reading of Shout To The Top is touched upon early in the set and stands as the sole Style Council track revisited tonight: Cradock’s twelve-string acoustic sounds almost as good as the thousand voices that surround me. “This one was written about 3000 years ago,” jokes Weller, before strumming the opening bars of The Jam’s That’s Entertainment. A healthy proportional of British accents echo Weller’s own during the vocal refrain, and he steps back from the microphone to smile at the scene before him. The Tivoli is the smallest venue booked on his Australian tour, and it’s doubtful that its intimate, elegant confines are lost on the vivacious Weller. Spotlights scan the room during From The Floorboards Up, and aside from the litres of fluid that seem to pour from the man throughout the show, there’s no hint of the illness that afflicted the Queensland leg of his first solo Australian tour.

Weller addresses a particular vocal crowd member with “I can’t hear a fuckin’ word you’re saying, mate, but nice one,” before leading the band through the highly repetitive Sea Spray. A huge cheer greets Stanley Road single Broken Stones – Weller plays piano while his band rest on stools, clearly relishing the opportunity for a breather. This configuration is retained during 22 Dreams track Invisible; the trio of vocal-focussed tracks is completed by a minimalist, reggae-feel reading of Wild Wood. Weller smokes a cigarette and sidesteps an almost-accurate crowd projectile with weary disregard while delivering his lines, though one can’t shake the feeling that it’d only take one well-aimed can for him to spit the dummy completely.

The best is truly saved for last, though: Weller holds nothing back during the snarky Jam classic The Eton Rifles, which the British contingent greets with an enormous roar. A stunning performance of Peacock Suit from 1997’s Heavy Soul is the first of three encores. His cocky lyrics are driven by Pilgrim’s hi-hat, and the entire venue is enveloped by bright, primary-coloured LEDs that provide a mesmerising light show. “Here’s a song you’ve probably never heard before,” quips Weller during the introduction to 2006 single Wild Blue Yonder, and judging by the quizzical looks being exchanged among the crowd, he’s not wrong. Only one song remains, and as soon as Lewis launches into the instantly-recognisable bass riff and Weller bangs a tambourine, the crowd erupts. 26 years on, The Jam single Town Called Malice has lost none of its appeal, and the crowd happily partake in one last dance with the man and his band before they bow and exit stage right. Among the many has-been popular rock acts who have recently reformed in an attempt to cling to some shred of relevance, Paul Weller stands tall. Without compromising his artistic integrity, and, most importantly, while still writing great songs, he continues to contribute to the strength of the British rock scene. Better late than never.