Hemmed in in what feels like a most godless space behind the Centrepoint tower, the church of St Giles-in-the-fields is where, in the fifteenth century, condemned men en route to be hanged on the gallows at Tyburn (down the far end off Oxford Street; it would make a great deal of sense to me if the site was where Primark is now) were allowed to stop by for a bowl of ale. After this run of four gigs in four days I was feeling pretty much dead on my feet myself; a warm can of lager from the off-license over the road was the best I could manage for succour though.

One of our finest twelve string guitarists, James Blackshaw, unexpectedly began the evening on piano. He isn’t quite as proficient on that, grimacing as he fluffed a couple of notes, and soon opted for his favoured instrument for a few of the long, flowing folk ragas as featured on his excellent album from last year The Cloud of Unknowing. His fingers danced on the strings with the delicacy of a spider teasing out silk, but there was a hard edge, accentuated by some buzzy bass strings. I’ve said before that there always feels like there is a spiritual core to Blackshaw’s music; this could hardly help but be accentuated by the venue.

There was a different sort of spirituality involved with Lichens’ otherworldly performance. He painstakingly built up one long track, initially from some whispered bird noises and womby guitar drones. However, it was the moment he opened his mouth to sing which provided the evening’s jaw-dropping moment: rocking back in his seat, he let out a pure, almost choirboy-like wail. His face and hands contorted with emotion as if he was possessed by one of the vagrant spirits which must still wander within these walls. He worked some of these wordless evocations into the rich fabric of the piece, before switching off his equipment and wandering down the aisle, still singing as he went. One of the best things I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing in quite a while, and I’ve seen quite a lot in the last few days alone.

Stars of the Lid seemed pretty glad to be back here, in this “non-rock club setting”, as they called it, which was probably a fair description. Their divine soundscapes were probably created with the intention of them being played in such a venue - or at least that is how it felt. They played in darkness, with the back of the church beiing illuminated by some giant projections, which rotated slowly in sync with the ebb of their ecclesiastical drones. A string trio embellished the likes of “Requiem for Dying Mothers” and “Even If You’re Never Awake” with their slow, sighing notes, with Adam Wiltzie adding some stately piano into the mix. The night ended on a high with Wiltzie on the floor scrubbing at his guitar creating some end-is-nigh feedback, and as the visuals went all 2001 on us, once more I felt like an infinitessimally small dot hurled through the vastness of the cosmos.

According to my diary, I can sleep now. Goodnight.