To the Hoxton Bar and Grill to see return of Architecture in Helsinki - the Australian/American indie weirdos on the brink of releaseing the third album, to be called Places Like This. Their basic schtick is ADD-pop, their live performances involving Olympian feats of instrument-swapping, their songs jumping about like a kid with attention deficit disorder. As such, they are simultaneously the band most often touched by genius in the world and the most irritating bunch of goons on the planet - but happily, last night the former guise was more in evidence, even if the sound was a bit off. Given their male/female frontline and antipodean accents, they also kind of reminded me of the Orange Organics - the band of Pugwall, who soundtracked so many idle summer holiday mornings in the early 90's with his dreadful teen-soap-popera.

Here's a remix of Whirlwind, one of the standouts from their first album, In Case We Die.

Architecture in Helsinki - Wishbone (Franc Tetas mix).mp3

Anyway, back to Prince (see entry below). I've made my feelings about the venue itself pretty clear - but then again I generally take it as a rule that the larger the arena, the less fun the gig; all that sweaty herding... you begin to get an idea why football fans turn to hooliganism. Besides I have always found the Docklands unnerving, the scene of apocalyptic dreaming ever since 9/11, when I was temping in Canary Wharf and the world briefly seemed to be ending.

No - it was the concert itself I was most disappointed with, given my high expectations. The acoustics - or the amplification - something with the sound anyway wasn't right. The low end was a swampy rumble, which boomed on after each song finished. This is particularly fatal with music as funky and bass driven as Prince's. Given the generous list of hits he bestowed on the crowds on press night, I was disappointed, too, to hear no Raspberry Beret, no Little Red Corvette, no Sometimes It Snows in April... but to find space made for the aforementioned sax solo, which made the repeated claims that "This is the REAL music" seem absurd. What? A sub-Kenny G romp through one of the cheesiest songs in existence? Prince, it must be said, doesn't so much have occasional lapses in taste as regular tastectomies. And without wishing to moan on, the "is it finished?/is it not??if we leave our seats now will we miss something?" charade was actually wholly irritating. You felt cheated of an encore - and from the reports mounting on this site about the subsequent aftershow non-show at IndigO2, I don't think I was the only one who came away miffed... It was still brilliant, but... well, there's plenty of room for improvement.

Perhaps it was an odd choice of date, taking my mum to see Prince on the second night of his lengthy sojourn at the O2 (or “Millennium Dome” as I prefer to dub it, on account of the year of its inauguration and its hemispherical appearance).

Normally our mother-son bonding involves lengthy games of Scrabble. However, Mrs Godwin expressed mild interest when I mentioned that I had a spare ticket to Friday’s performance, so I thought I'd extend the invitation to her. It seemed a fair deal: she gave me life and unconditional love; I would take her to a pop concert.

Of course I had misgivings. “I’m just not sure it's appropriate company for watching a gyrating, sex-obsessed midget” I confessed to a colleague. "That's no way to talk about your mother", I was told. Judging by the ecstatic reviews, I reckoned the show ought to be entertaining enough to transcend the oddness of the juxtaposition - and besides, as mums go, mine is pretty hip to the jive. I just really hoped that Prince didn’t make it awkward by playing “Sexy MF”, for reasons that will be obvious to anyone who Googles the lyrics to that steamy jam.
What I hadn’t banked on were the difficulties presented by “Millennium Dome” itself. It has generally been appraised as a success since AEG and O2 spruced it up. This was my first visit and I was not bowled over. “Ghastly” was Mrs Godwin’s verdict, as we walked down the Disneyland-style avenues, past fake beaches and chill-out bubbles, trying to find somewhere to eat that didn’t have a massive queue outside. I can’t envisage any universe in which I’d be happy to wait an hour to dine in Nando’s.

So we stood in line for takeway sushi, and ate it outside, sitting on an uncomfortable metal bar, gazing out over a paved, treeless expanse at malfunctioning fountains, cart-wheeling litter and beyond, the gas ring and the vast iron hanger containing David Beckham’s Football Academy. An all round entertainment experience it was not.

Once we had found our seats, things began to look up. The arena is a vast improvement on Wembley and Earl’s Court: good sightlines, clean bogs - if you have to go to a venue this size, it may as well be here. “That stage is a funny shape, though”, said Mrs Godwin, imagining the platform in the shape of Prince’s famous symbol to be a permanent fixture. The Purple One was, of course, brilliant, performing as generous a show as you could have wanted for £31.21 a ticket. Only the muddy acoustics - really bad actually - and his decision to let his saxophonist perform a five-minute solo of What a Wonderful World let him down.

But the escapism was short-lived. Mum left early and got the tube; I lingered, to travel home with some friends - by which time entering North Greenwich station was an impossibility, and taxi queues snaked ominously. We opted for the boat, and two and a half hours later finally made it back home. Embarassed, I texted my mother to apologise for a weird evening. Next time we'll stick to Scrabble.