HE lives life in the large lane, Jean Michel Jarre. We've all heard tales of his semi-legendary open-air performances with their vast soundscapes and dazzling light shows. But nothing had prepared me for the size of the tickets for last night's gig. Gargantuan. I tell you, I've seen that kooky parcel artist Christo wrap up whole islands with smaller bits of paper. I tried hang gliding down to the SECC with mine, but I stopped when I realised I was spooking the trees. Scaring plants, man that's a bad vibe.

So the message from the ticket said that this was going to be a big show. And in many ways it was. The boy Jeanie had dozens of different keyboards on stage and he spent much of the night hopping between them. Even had a Theramin up there, and he made a big show of telling us the instrument's history before plucking a few notes from the air. Most impressive. But simultaneously the root of the rot that lies at the core of his music. While he was strumming on the stringless beast the thought hit home that for all his fast-fingering pyrotechnics, the boy ain't got much soul.

Now, electronic music is not universally renowned for its warmth, but the decent exponents of the genre, from Kraftwerk to the Chemical Brothers, generally have a few good tunes. And an idea that they're at some sort of cutting edge. Jean Michel Jarre's music is a bland synthesis of all the soundtracks to those desperate trans-national D-grade telly movies. Except for the couple of oxygenated popcorny ditties he threw in they were diamonds.

Class lights show, though. For that we must thank him.