Julian Cope is a fascinating but frustrating character. He perturbs me because I can't work out exactly what he is.

I know he used to be in a post-punk band caled the The Teardrop Explodes and I know he has written huge books about ancient archaeology.

But none of this gives me a coherent idea of what he is really about. The pieces don't seem to fit.

I was hoping an evening in his company might entail some sort of revelation, or at least an explanation.

So I was deflated to realise the guy I thought was a roadie was Cope himself, and what I had assumed to be a soundcheck was actually the start of the show.

I might not have even realised at all if it were not for the applause.

From all I had heard about Cope, I was expecting him to be wearing a robe or some other druidic vestment. In hindsight, I'm glad I was wrong.

There were no formalities, no artifice and no platitudes.

Yet by no means was he taciturn. On the contrary, he probably spent half the night chatting, ranting, answering hecklers, telling stories and generally dithering.

With effortless charm and a stage confidence bordering on the unsettling, it was if his music was barely required for the night's entertainment.

Just as the boundary between audience and performer was dissolved, so too was the distinction between song and talk. Alone on stage with nothing but his guitars, Cope strummed his way through fuzzy, oddball songs, drawn mainly from earlier records.

Most simply provided a background for his offbeat narratives, sort-of-political diatribes and comedy vignettes. Yet at times the atmosphere was that of a fan-club gig, lapsing into private jokes and anecdotes.

Fortunately, the fans were there in abundance as Cope seems unconcerned with winning over the uninitiated.

Ramshackle, eccentric and endearing - but it was still missing something. Or maybe I was.