Stanley Kubrick’s use of music in his films has been inspirational. In 1999, The Caretaker – a nom-de-musique of Jim Kirby – issued Selected Memories From the Haunted Ballroom. While his alter-ego openly acknowledged the director’s film The Shining, the album’s music reconfigured vintage recordings of bands in tribute to the film’s haunted ballroom scenes.

There’s been a lot of conjecture over the last couple of years about HD Vinyl. It is, we’re told, a more precise and rounded analogue experience, taking record-listening to the next level. The company’s Austrian MD Guenter Loibl has explained that the process uses “a laser-cut ceramic instead of electroplated metal stampers” to achieve results that add 30% more audio information to a record. Sounds great. Bring it on. Just don’t go all CD on us and charge the earth.

The songs of They Might Be Giants have an irresistible way of combining the playful, the childlike and the absurd. The band’s major label debut album, Flood from 1990, which was most people’s entry point into their music, is full of quick-witted humour.

Soft Cell have been teasing us for almost three hours. “I think we might have forgotten to do one, Dave,” says Marc Almond, pacing the stage, a wry smirk on his face. His protégé, Dave Ball, is next to him, ensconced behind a corral of old analogue synthesizers. The song lyrics descending down two gigantic screens behind them illustrate the burlesque of it all. Then they smash into the queasy battering electronic opening, Almond still a mischievous sprite, something Hispanic, impetuous, hysterical about the way he delivers a lyric.

Gary Burton fans with an eye for detail will know that “Fly Time Fly (Sigh)” from his second album, 1962’s Who Is Gary Burton?, had a writer credit of “Gibbs”. The American vibes-ace’s next album, 1963’s 3 in Jazz, a collaboration with Sonny Rollins and Clark Terry included another song by Gibbs. Burton’s follow-up solo album, Something's Coming! (1964), featured two Gibbs compositions.

In 2016, a writer from The Washington Post thought they had found Bobbie Gentry. After announcing their presence via the entry phone system of a gated housing development near Greenwood, Mississippi, they were told “there's nobody here by that name.” Though Greenwood was where Gentry had attended school and taught herself to play multiple instruments, it was a predictable response.

“This, quite possibly, could be a really good night,” declared David Crosby. He’s a couple of songs into this show, one of only two UK dates on the tour promoting his current album Sky Trails. Looking trim, beaming and in impeccable voice, the 77-year-old known as Croz fulfils his prophecy – and then some.

During their original 1980 to 1984 lifespan as a recording unit, Soft Cell issued three albums, a mini-album, eleven singles and EP. There were also compilation appearances, bonus tracks on discs included with albums or singles (such as the 12-inch of Jimi Hendrix cover versions accompanying The Art of Falling Apart) and extended tracks which appeared on 12-inch singles. Everything could probably be collected on six CDs.

Formats are second nature to TV: the BBC and Eagle Rock’s Classic Albums will run and run. Like all formats, there’s always the risk that the medium becomes the message, and content suffers under the weight of form. But Classic Albums at least avoids the BBC’s slavish reliance on presenters, and makes possible programmes that draw the viewer in closer than when everything is mediated by the wall-to wall ego of an expert or celeb.

So here we are. Over a decade since we all fell in love. So many light years from the rubble to the Ritz. From Sheffield to LA, where half the band is now based. And by the looks of the audience, a fair proportion has been along for the whole ride.

Not that it’s always been easy to support them. Never mind the information/action ratio, what perhaps should concern us about the Arctic Monkeys is the genius/dross ratio in evidence since that first life-changing release. They could hardly be accused of churning out all-killer/no-filler albums. And the recent decidedly difficult (almost) concept album is just as divided between exceptional and disappointing.

“Excellent albums should be awful on first listen,” wrote Jonathan Dean in GQ. True, at least four tracks on Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino have proved to be real growers – and they’re received warmly tonight. “Star Treatment” is a sly earworm and is a sturdy opener for the set. The title track, strange as it is, fascinates. “One Point Perspective” with its paranoid supposition “I suppose the singer must die” just about works in the arena setting, “Science Fiction” – more Last Shadow Puppets than Arctic Monkeys – does not (which seems to annoy singer Alex Turner – “Show me how you really feel,” he snipes at the audience response). “Four Out of Five”, closing before the encore, is already a crowd favourite, escalating as it does until 20,000 voices unite.

But – let’s face it – it’s hard to compete for affection against the older material. “Crying Lightening” and “Teddy Picker” cause mayhem in the mosh pit. Five tracks from AM are absolutely pitch perfect for the arena:  “Snap Out of It”, “Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?”, “Do I Wanna Know?”, “Arabella” and encore-closer “R U Mine?”; the mystifyingly ordinary “Knee Socks”, less so.

Unsurprisingly, the band’s intoxicating exuberance has mellowed. Those loveable scraps have grown up and moved on. What’s now missing is the feeling of this really being a band. This is Turner’s show. Even the extraordinary agile beast that is drummer Matt Helders doesn’t get much of a look in, and it feels as if the “Jam of Boston” outro to “505” is there just to give him a chance to demonstrate his exceptional skills. It doesn’t look like fun. You can see why guitarist Jamie Cook suggested that the latest offering be a solo affair.

All epaulettes, no socks and ankle-length flares, Turner’s current stage alter-ego isn’t massively likeable. Large-screen close-ups appear to encourage the amateur dramatics (a small if incredibly talented man filling a huge space). While the showmanship may be a necessary antidote to the awkward old days, it seems that charm has become smarm. What cannot be faulted is the band’s musicianship. Nick O’Malley’s steady bass keeps the whole thing on course, as he hides towards the back of the stage. And Jamie Cook has less interest in the audience than all of them – he’s away with the guitar fairies. Astonishing lighting, rib-thumping acoustics and an understated yet witty set make solid the foundations for this foray.

Holding together such a disparate back catalogue and carrying a multi-generational audience along with you as you do it, is no mean feat. Most things have changed – subject, style, emphasis – but common threads are still distinguishable, not least legendary sparks of humour and an ever-present tinge of melancholy. And a desire to push the envelope more than any right-minded popular music combo should. That's why they're still the best in the game, 13 years since they first bombarded the charts. And why this audience is still in love with them.

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Overleaf: watch an hour of Arctic Monkeys live at TRNSMT Festival in July 2018