CHECK OUT THE PHOTOS FROM THE SUPERGRASS SHOW HERE.

Supergrass are one of those bands I’ve loved since I was a wee lad, but sort of got lost in the indie fabric as I reached gig-going age. That’s probably because they released the dreadfully introspective Road To Rouen, which was pretty much universally disliked by all of their fans. Credit to the boys then, because they’ve bounced back with Diamond Hoo Ha, an absolute glam ripper of an album that makes Jack White look like a little girl who writes lame James Bond theme songs with Alicia Keys…oh wait.

Anyway, I’ve never seen the Forum so packed in my entire life, with equal amounts of Brits and Aussies eager for a glimpse of the – œ90s most critically underrated band. Obviously somebody in touring thought Supergrass wouldn’t fill a bigger venue. Big mistake. The place is so crowded that you have to jostle for a view of frontman Gaz Coombes’ onstage antics amidst throngs of thirty-somethings madly pashing like they’re at their formal all over again.

Put simply, this band is explosive. So much so that I felt guilty about abandoning them for Coldplay at age 17. Gaz writhes about on stage like he’s got a snake in his boots – replete with – œ70s porn moustache, fedora and courtesy-fan-blown hair, he looks and sounds every inch the rock star. Ripping out ethereal guitar solos that make all the women around me lose consciousness for a few seconds, Gaz leads his merry men through a killer selection of old favourites like Moving, Sun Hits The Sky and the delightfully misogynist-baiting Mary, which quite literally blows the roof off the place, and results in the first decent mosh-pit I’ve seen on a Friday night in a very long time.

Gaz has now recruited his entire family into the band, with brothers Rob and Charly filling out keys and second guitar respectively. The dynamic between them (and bass player Mick Quinn ) is unbelievable, especially considering that they manage to get some pretty difficult harmonies dead-on (despite having walked off a plane in 35 degree heat a few hours prior).

There’s something immediately refreshing about seeing a rock band that don’t throw up disguises and personas but simply love to play live. Supergrass is testament to the fact that a great frontman is only as good as his backing outfit, who, incidentally, are superb. Not one bum note or out-of-tune chorus the entire evening, and you know what that means? Professionalism, dammit. We should stop glorifying crappy guitar bands that can’t even get their shit together for forty minutes and remember Supergrass, who gave us Caught By The Fuzz long before Amy Winehouse started smoking crack. Not many gigs have made me this happy. Supergrass, I’ll never forget thee…