Initially, it seems that Creeper have the odds well and truly stacked against them. There are barely a thousand people inside this gigantic arena for their 7.00 PM start and the seating set-up is reminiscent of those cringe-worthy times at school that your mates' band played assembly. Additionally, a wholly unscientific mid-set survey, conducted by the band, shows that the vast majority of people present don't have a Scooby who they are. However, Creeper have two secret weapons. The first is Will Gould, who as a frontman oozes charisma and charm. His alluring magnetism quickly wins over those who are in the room and within a couple of songs he has captivated the crowd that was very much not his.

The second card up their sleeves is the songs. Their teeny 25-minute set only contains five tracks but boy what ditties they are. ‘Cyanide’, ‘Thorns of Love’, ‘Down Below’, ‘Midnight’ and ‘Annabel’ are all designed with arenas in mind. They contain hooks to die for and choruses you could have filmed the new Top Gun movie on. Tonight they majestically prowl around the vast room, their infectious refrains burrowing into everybody's minds. If you close your eyes and let the music sweep you away, Creeper are headlining the place and 20,000 leather jacket clad disciples are chanting in unison “God can't save us”. From the way that they handle themselves tonight, we aren't that far away from that becoming a reality.

I had expected to come here to bury The Cult and not to praise them. However as inexplicable as it sounds they turn out to provide one of the most enjoyable hour or so of unashamed back to the wall rock 'n' roll that I witnessed for a good while. Whilst this is been advertised as a co-headline tour, The Cult are more than aware that this is not their crowd. They compensate for that by set wise staying firmly within the short five-year timeframe, between 1984 and 1989, where they were the biggest rock band in town. It may seem blindingly obvious, but god do they have a back catalogue to die for. Halfway through the set, they kick into a magnificent seven song streak. Starting with ‘L’il Devil’ (one of two of the greatest AC/DC tracks not written by AC/DC) and ending with ‘Love Removal Machine’, it contains in ‘Firewoman’, ‘Rain’, ‘Revolution’ and ‘She Sell’s Sanctuary’, some of the finest rock songs ever made.'

In the past, The Cult have been guilty of phoning in their performances, but not tonight. They are fully on fire and Billy Duffy acts like the rock god that he is. He may not get the plaudits that are afforded to say Slash or the late lamented Eddie Van Halen. But as he lays down a riff to ‘Wildflower’ (the other greatest AC/DC track not written by AC/DC) he proves he is indeed master of the axe. It may be because this is a hometown show and his beloved (and mine) Man City have recently been crowned premiership champions, but Billy seems to be having a whale of a time. Even Ian Astbury, whose default position is to be sullen and distant, goes to great pains this evening to connect with the audience. He points out people he recognises in the crowd and encourages those stuck in regimented lines to rise up against the security keeping them there. I would go as far as say I had written off The Cult as a source of pure entertainment, but tonight they are nothing short of majestic. Mr Astbury's departing line is to promise a new album and more shows, if they are anything like tonight I'll be there in spades.

If the truth be told, Alice Cooper’s Broadway-Esque escapades are about as far from The Cult’s high octane rock 'n' roll as you are gonna get. This is a show full of razzmatazz, macabre theatre and more puppetry than you can shake a stick at. It is precision-engineered to entertain, every track is a high production number designed to enthral both eyes and the ears. It is as slick as it is theatrical and whilst it is all beautifully choreographed it does, to begin with, feel a tad soulless. Initially, I find myself craving improvisation and spontaneity, as everything comes across as so stage-managed and rehearsed. It feels more like being at a West End production than witnessing a low down and dirty rock 'n' roll show.

However, I concede it is wrong to criticise something for being what it intrinsically is. Everyone here tonight knows what they going to get, and boy does Alice Cooper deliver. I bottle my cynicism and instead revel in watching the joy in people's faces as they lustfully sing along to ‘No More Mr Nice Guy’, ‘Under My Wheels’, ‘Poison’ and ‘I'm Eighteen’ (though there is some irony in the fact that the vast majority of people here tonight are a long way from that age!).

For all my reservations, you cannot help but enjoy the spectacle. It is all gloriously over-the-top set-piece after gloriously over-the-top the set-piece and all the expected paraphernalia are in place. Mr Cooper has probably had his head sliced off by a guillotine every night for the last 40 years but it still comes across as both shocking and thrilling.

My learning from the whole thing is that you need to lean into the pomposity of the occasion. This isn't rock 'n' roll anymore, this is gloriously extravagant vaudeville and if you accept that, I can't think of many better ways of spending the evening.