Two beats into opening anthem Can't Stop, and primeval hell breaks loose in the heart of Manchester. Usually a chilled cavern, the Arena becomes a sweatbox piled high with bodies, flailing limbs and thrashing hair, shrunk by the immense showmanship and stunning lightsabre-clad backdrop.  | | Red Hot Chili Peppers (pic: Shirlaine Forrest) |
A couple of fine renditions of Dani California and Scar Tissue later and the perfectly-balanced sound mix has remained – an unheard of feat in this venue. The star of the show is undoubtedly John Frusciante (everybody's saying it, but I assure you it's true!). A hermit crab scuttling out of his shell in a blaze of Hendrix-esque guitar glory, Mr Frusciante proved that it is never too late to reinvent yourself. We were treated to boiling licks, bends and tapping with a sheen of true virtuosity.  | | Red Hot Chili Peppers (pic: Shirlaine Forrest) |
From the souped-up solo in Californication to the jangled thrusts of Throw Away Your Television, Frusciante's fingerwork shone with a blinding vivacity hitherto reserved solely for Flea. The bass and guitar jostled and bantered throughout, pulsing with such an intense energy that I could feel it warm my guts. It made me tingle to watch four musicians fulfil and reach fathoms beyond their potential tonight. Decades later, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers still attack every note as if their life depended on it. Best of all, it really wouldn't have mattered if there was an audience or not. We know they loved us (as Flea and Kiedis' comical scat song assured us), but when these four men get together and play, the rest of the world melts away. They are all about the music. Exactly how it should be. | 
