Julian Cope at Whelan’s, Dublin – 18 April, 2015.

Judging by the gaggle of Doc Marten-clad, middle-aged men clutching greasy record store bags at the door, Julian Cope’s gig would be a collective, misty-eyed reminiscence of youthful hedonism. The former Teardrop Explodes frontman himself swaggered out at nine, but not before the heaving mass of (largely male) fans jerked their heads to Fido X.

The earring-adorned, long-lost (possibly) brother of Hulk Hogan punched buttons on a laptop and sipped from a bottle. Seemingly hell-bent on staging a Hacienda revival, he masterminded what sounded like the tormented narratives of Shaun Ryder for an hour. Initially, he was amusing, with his Fucker vest (written in the Fender guitar font) and the manic bolts of spoken word and acid house spilling from his laptop. However, he started to grate at around nine o’clock as this chaotic mixture moved from entertaining to slightly irritating.

Thankfully, then, it was Cope’s moment to take the reins. After a few moments of warm banter with the clearly adoring crowd, he opened with I’m Living In The Room They Found Saddam In. Belying his scruffy appearance, this was a perceptive muse on scrutiny and escapism. There were several such moments of poignancy and pathos interspersed throughout the set. Cope encouraged everyone to aggressively fist-pump to the call-and-response They Were All On Hard Drugs. Whenever it seemed in danger of spiralling into beer-sodden farce (“New York – drugs! Tokyo – drugs! Birmingham – drugs!”), he drew the revellers back to the wistful core of Drugs with a voice segueing from harsh to achingly delicate.

However, delicious surrealism was stubborn, and finally emerged during a monologue about Stonehenge. Anyone who has seen Rob Reiner’s rock mockumentary, This Is Spinal Tap, will recall leprechauns dancing around a miniature model of the monument as the band look on in horror. Sadly, Cope did not welcome any tiny dancers onto the stage, but with his Essex accent, he was nonetheless drily witty as he spoke about those ancient stones of Stonehenge.

There were less mystical anecdotes on occasion, such as when Cope teased with what seemed like faux-agonised recollections of his Teardrop Explodes days. Fans at the front relished his playfulness. (At one point, one asked sardonically if Cope had been a sufferer of repetitive strain syndrome. Cope greeted this with a wry smile). Despite his mischievous ways, one suspects that Cope may be heavily editing some of the more unsavoury facets of his past.

In a bizarre night of torn jeans, a Wall of Sweat, and Fido X’s reappearance in a black Pragmatic Motherfucker T-shirt, Cope was a sage in a leather waistcoat. Though he sometimes slipped into rambling self-indulgence, there was touching poignancy amidst the slew of sardonic observations. It is easy to see why his fans flock to him: the most shambolic of sages are sometimes the shrewdest.