The rise of Ghost has been stratospheric.  Eleven years ago I saw them open for an In Flames and Trivium double bill. They weren’t the slick flamboyant show-people that they are today, but the foundations were there. Press fast forward, and on the back of the fastest selling album of the year they are starting their campaign for global dominance here in Manchester. The arena is a seething mass of merging tribes. Ghost have attracted a heady mix of grizzled metallers, one-show a year trendies, goth nuns and curious bystanders. What these diverse groups share is a desire to be entertained. Ghost have tapped into that pent up need for escapism and showmanship. We don’t want musicians that remind us of our dreary lives, we want a multi-coloured explosion of otherness that transports us for a few hours out of the endless treadmill of our futile existence. Ghost provides that in buckets, fluorescent glitterball buckets.

Twin Temple have a gimmick and they are not afraid to exploit it. They are lounge core satanism, essentially devilish doo-wop. Alexandra and Zachary James look fantastic; decked out in matching suit and cape ensembles, they are reminiscent of diabolic matadors. Imagery is key here and the set begins with lots of ceremonial flare. They want to give the impression that this is a ritual as opposed to a thirty-minute support slot, so we get synchronised moves, chanted refrains and plenty of “hail satans” (which being a predominantly metal crowd, we lap up). Alexandra then opens her mouth to sing and well, nothing happens. The mic is dead but initially oblivious to this she keeps on belting out the words to ‘Sex Magic’ whilst we the punters get essentially an instrumental version of the track. Suddenly in the last versus her vocals return to a massive cheers, and people finally get to her what the fuss is about. Alexandra has an extraordinary voice, reminiscent in its rasp to Amy Winehouse but with additional range. 

This is an audience that want theatrics and Twin Temple are quite happy to dispense that. They saunter around the stage like majestic peacocks, all style and regal flourishes. They look cool as fuck and when they declare that their brand of satanism is one that is fighting against intolerance they get another rousing cheer. Twin Temple’s sound is both retro and sensual. It just oozes with devilish sexuality and Alexandra has a fittingly bewitching presence. They own the room and do not look out of place on an arena stage. By the time they get to their closing sacramental posturing, they have won a fair chunk of the crowd over and I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of the post gig chatter will be about that voice and that beehive.

Coming after the grand bombastity of Twin Temple, Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats initially feel understated and subdued. They peddle a usually extraordinary variant of danceable commercial doom, but for the first few numbers they struggle to engage and look lost on the massive stage. Thankfully Kevin Starrs and his musical cohorts are consummate professionals and know how to grind out a set even when faced with great indifference. As they plough on, they grow in confidence and the crowd, initially only interested in the grossly overpriced lager, start to take an interest. Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats have a warm authentic seventies vibe that is straight out of re-runs of the old grey whistle test. It is an infectious beat that manages to win over the apathy and by the time that their allotted minutes is up, disinterest has been converted to active participation.

However no matter how good Twin Temple and ol’ Uncle Acid and his cronies are, tonight is about one band. This is the first high profile “Big Room” tour to hit these shores since live music kicked back into life and it is testament to our resilience that it feels like nothing happened. However, this isn’t a metal show like we are used to. This is pure theatre, sharing more DNA with a high production Broadway show than the countless metalcore acts we witness on a weekly basis scratching a living at Rebellion. This is a slick, highly choreographed and stage-managed affair. In parts vaudeville and in parts pantomime (there is even a good old fashioned pantomime villain in the shape of Papa Emeritus the first).

Tobias Forge has realised that in these turbulent times we need escapism. We want to be whisked away from our troubles for an evening and bath in pure unadulterated opulence. Tonight’s show is similar to something our madge and Beyonce would toss out. It is high glamour with umpteen costume changes, synchronised interaction by the backing ghouls and more camp than several venture scout jamborees. It is also effortlessly and wonderfully entertaining.

No matter how much you want to resist the kitsch, cliché and utter ludicrousness of the whole affair, it is impossible not to be sucked in and not to spend the entire hour and half sporting a massive grin. The stage set up is designed to engage every inch of this vast cavernous room and the various incarnations of “Papa Emeritus” that entertain us tonight have learnt that being a frontperson is all about interaction. He maybe talking to us in a bizarre fay Italian accent under more grease paint than a drag queen, but with laser precision Tobias connects with every single person in this place.

Given the huge impact (and level of “sales”) “Impera” has had, it is surprising that we get less tracks from it than we get from each of their preceding two records. Maybe it is too soon in the touring cycle to expect it to dominate the setlist, but a measly four entries feels like a massive missed opportunity. Having said that, the weighting of the setlist is another example of how precision engineered this evening is. Every song is its own mini rock opera with its own narrative and staging. You know everything is rehearsed within an inch of its life, but it doesn’t stop it from being utterly enthralling.

’Kiss the Go-Goat’ closes the main set, equally mischievous and malevolent. But they are not finished. Yet another custom change heralds an encore that further ratches up the preposterousness of the whole thing. Their flamboyant cover of ‘Enter Sandman’ is completely unnecessary but that doesn’t stop it from being utterly wonderful. ‘Dance Macabre’ and ‘Squarehammer’ just put the icing on this utterly farcical cake. Yes, this may well have been that most ridiculous hour and a half I have had in good long while, but it was also the most glorious and the most fun. I laughed, I cheered, I wept and I cared. In the world in which we live in, you can’t ask for more than that.