If you could bottle shenanigans and sell them in neon-lit corner shops across Britain, Jamiroquai would have the patent. From the moment Jay Kay bounced onstage at the Hydro—strutting, high-kicking, moonwalking and pirouetting like a man determined to prove that the laws of physics are for civilians—it felt like being shot out of a glitter cannon straight back into the 90s. And not the drab Britpop-hangover 90s, but the fantasy 90s: the one where we all wore silver trousers, danced like no one sensible was watching, and believed the future might actually be fun.

The audience was a glorious 50/50 cocktail of Glaswegians and Geordies—two tribes united by a shared ability to create chaos at will. They bathed in visuals that slipped from outer space to rainforest to under the sea, as though someone had handed Attenborough a disco ball and told him to go wild. No ecosystem was spared the cosmic stardust trail of the man himself.

Jay Kay arrived armed with three soul singers—Rankin Johns, Hazel Fernandez and Fabio GolIeeeera—each in star-studded jumpsuits, plus two full drum kits (because of course), a jungle of percussion, Mat Johnson on keys, a synth sorceress also in star-threads, Michael Harrison keeping the guitar deliciously funky, and Paul Turner on bass: possibly the hardest-working wah-wah merchant this side of the Milky Way. Derrick McKenzie on drums held the whole starship together.

From the opening bars of “(Don’t) Give Hate a Chance”, the Hydro was transported to the utopian era of Nokia bricks, tribal tattoos and CDs that cost £12.99. “Little L” followed, bouncing with that Italo-disco DNA—glossy, skittish, irresistible—like Chic had a love child with a glitter-covered pinball machine. “Alright” erupted into a mass singalong, the kind that makes your eardrums throb and your heart swell.

Jay Kay paused to congratulate Glasgow on their World Cup qualification performance—a comment that landed like a warm smack of civic pride across the arena.

Outfit changes arrived thick and fast. For “Tahlulah” Jay emerged in a white coat and purple-brimmed hat, looking like a flamboyant space-pimp lost on his way to the MOBOs.

Mid-song, Jay vanished, only to reappear minutes later sporting a cosmic-warrior headdress and fresh tracksuit, like a man who’d nipped backstage to fight off interstellar intruders before returning to finish his own show.

“Disco Stays the Same” fired lasers in every direction, a Tron-esque riot of colour and nostalgia. A brand-new track from next year’s album, “Shadow in the Night”, throbbed with bongo-laced scat and midnight swagger—a promise that Jamiroquai still has whole galaxies left to explore.

And then the home stretch: “Canned Heat”, “Cosmic Girl”, “Love Foolosophy”—hit after hit, Scotland screaming with the joy of a nation that absolutely believes “No Scotland, No Party” should be a constitutional clause.

He ran right over the 11 p.m. curfew, reportedly incurring a fine—because of course he did. Jay Kay has never met a rule he didn’t treat as a dancefloor.

The encore, “Virtual Insanity,” felt like time travel: a reminder of how a man in a moving room once took over the world, and might well do it again if given half a chance.

Article: Angela Canavan