UNTIL last night I had perceived Ms Turner to be a one-dimensional showbiz crittur. You know. Tina Turn-on! That squawky one-note voice! Tawny hair plucked from the fly-blown mane of a stuffed lion! Tiny skirt! Stilt-walker stilettos! Dancing her unseemly legs-akimbo I'm-no-spring-chicken-but-I'm-still-a-funky-old-gibbon-me dance!

But last night I learned there's more to Tina. Not much more, mind, but hey, it's a start. Plenty of the cliche'd Tina to start with, sadly. One clodhopping song after another.

In some of the songs, Tina would assume a stricken stage-front silhouette. During others she'd do a fast sideways shimmy, reminiscent of a crab with its pincers ablaze, or shake her hair in melodramatic get-out-of-my-hair fashion.

Very occasionally, Tina would get quasi-erotic with a self-adoring muscle-bound clod in a spray-on singlet, the one in her band who last night played saxophone and percussion with extravagant ``Look at me!'' arm-wavings.

What can we say about this guy? This guy is three hundred-weight of glistening sausages. This guy is a growth surgically removed from Arnold Schwarze-negger and cultured in a Petri dish. This guy is a symbol of all that's wrong with Tina Turner.

But then, 50 minutes in, it all went right. ``I'm going to do something I don't normally do on stage,'' Tina cooed suggestively. ``I'm going to sit down . . . and sing.''

And she did. Semi-acoustic versions of Let's Stay Together and I Can't Stand The Rain. Nimble, deft, understated. More of this Tina, Tina. Because less is more.