It’s a decade since Jay Kay told the press he was going to quit music to focus on flying helicopters and looking for “the right lady to have children with”. In the intervening time (and notwithstanding 201o’s stodgy disco album Rock Dust Light Star, their worst performing album to date) the sonic qualities that first made the group popular have slunk back into fashion. Forward-facing young US artists have cited Jamiroquai as an influence: you can hear it in the hazy grooves of Syd tha Kyd, Tyler the Creator, Chance the Rapper and Anderson Paak, while jazz-inflected chillout and easy listening form the ever-growing underbelly of most streaming services.

There have been some sizeable shifts for the band in the past 10 years, however. The problematic Native American headdress Kay used to wear has been swapped for an LED helmet, its spikes flaring open a bit like the hissing dilophosaurus in Jurassic Park. Or an alien sea creature. Or a niche, glow-in-the-dark sex toy.

And he’s stuck to his words about procreation. “Sorry for the wait, I had to have two kids,” says Kay – who is dressed in Adidas trainers, bootcuts and a zip-up tracksuit top (also back in fashion) – before venturing into the scattergun funk of 1994’s Kids.

What’s particularly enjoyable about their return to the capital tonight – beyond the gorgeous squat-party grooves of Space Cowboy, the flamboyant Cosmic Girl, the bassy, warm blanket given to Emergency on Planet Earth, and Automaton’s laser-beamed energy – is how candid Kay is about his middle-aged anxiety. And when he tells the crowd the band’s new album, Automaton is No 1 in more than 30 countries, he sounds genuinely humbled. “Even I thought I was dead and buried,” he jokes. Elsewhere, he complains of eating too much chicken before going on stage, but says that performing – he spins, twirls and body-pops throughout – burns crucial calories which gives him licence to eat more Maltesers later.

Photograph: Purple PR/Nicky Kelvin

Given that the group reached the height of their fame in the mid-90s, the audience is younger than expected – fewer crusty eco-warriors or Top Gear fanatics, more 30-year-old Jägerbomb drinkers whose responses to songs such as Little L and Love Foolosophy, from Jamiroquai’s peak pop phase, are more exalted than during the hushed, percussive delight of Mr Moon, for example. Even the tacky disco of new songs Hot Property and Carla, which conjure the feeling of boozily side-stepping to Chic on a hen do at Bestival, are met with rapturous responses.

One last mention of Kay’s hat, though. It does look like a bit of a nuisance to maintain, and he routinely checks its spikes in a small mirror positioned beside drummer Derrick McKenzie. You find yourself wondering why Kay bothers with it. The songs still sound brilliant. The brand is intact. Does he need a big, showy headdress in 2017?

Probably not, but then Jamiroquai are all about the slightly unexpected and audacious. After all, the acid-jazz band exploded around the time of the lurching moodiness of grunge. When you consider how earnest, tasteful and restrained modern music has become, it is a relief to see such a silly spectacle on stage again. Now, more than ever, Jamiroquai are a total anomaly, and their return is most welcome.



