Sounds of the suburbs in town

Some might say that’s press ganging, but I couldn’t care less. If I had to twist daughter #1’s arm up her back to go and see Arcade Fire with me at Manchester Arena last Sunday then so be it.

Like I dragged her to see Prince, The Stone Roses, Depeche Mode and Kraftwerk, the ticket stubs from those gigs now hang proudly in a frame on her wall.

Honestly, she made every excuse imaginable about why she couldn’t go, even playing her trump, “I need to do my revision” card and she moaned all the way there like a toddler who’s woken up grumpy from a nap.

“They’re your band, not my band. Why would I want to go and see a band I don’t even like?” she wailed.

The packed-out gig was in the round, with the stage mocked up like a boxing ring and the band did their walk-on from the dressing room to the stage about 20 feet from our front row seats – by this point the incessant moaning had been replaced by wide-eyed wonderment.

Then Arcade Fire played their hearts out for two hours, during which time Win Butler sauntered through the crowd and walked right up to us, so close we could smell him, and up the steps to take a seat in the audience while singing Afterlife.

And Régine Chassagne danced amongst the crowd under a giant mirror ball which dangled from the ceiling.

The true showmen that they are, it wasn’t just, “Thank you and goodnight” at the end of the gig. They danced from the stage, through the crowd, to their dressing room and right past a seriously impressed daughter #1 while playing a carnival version of Wake Up complete with cowbells and a horn section.

Have a look on Twitter @whosthedaddymg at the video we shot, it’s pretty smart.

Arcade Fire made a show in a massive barn feel like they were playing at the Sugarhouse.

Daughter #1 said afterwards: “I wish the gigs I go to had an atmosphere like that. When we were at The Wombats last week, my friend lost their shoe.”