In reading both Claire Truscott's review and its subsequent damnation by reader and obvious die-hard Stiff Little Fingers (SLF) fan Simon Smith, it is apparent that, by side-swiping her professionalism, he is missing the point of critical review.

The article was about a gig, which I saw, although I was not inspired to stay until the very last song.

The second support band, Gold Blade, attacked via John Robb's taut-wired perfect punk persona songs unashamedly low in meaningful lyrical content immediately drew the crowd into their energy, in stark contrast to the comfortable, cuddly, clean-cut SLF.

The moshing motivation clearly changed from hotwired angst and punk tomfoolery to familiarity and nostalgia.

Tempted to throw the odd heckle, I was dissuaded by the fear Mr Burn's Russell Grant-esque feathers would be ruffled beyond his limit, albeit not to a Ted Nugentstyle vault of the pit to kick my punk ass, but rather in sulkily retiring altogether.

Claire's humorous, accurate review summed up the bottom line - there was nowt wrong with the songs, just the delivery.

I am not sure how much of either gig or review it's possible to see honestly through the wraparound shades of the "huge and fiercely loyal" but, Mr Smith, did you miss Ms Truscott's description of the songs as beautiful and passionate?

Clearly, the songs were to her taste, but not the performance.

Are you telling me every glum-looking "I had a Triumph once, you know" old rocker who sat (the Brighton Centre sure don't know when to stack their chairs) through two hours of Ian Gillan's phlegmclearing at the last Deep Purple Dinosaur Reunion needs his ego tickled in the next day's Argus to reassure him it was worth £25 to hear Smoke On The Water "live"?

At the SLF gig, there was a guy at the edge of the mosh pit who enjoyed pushing but wouldn't get in with the big boys. Simon, was that you?

-Billy Spittle ov Bromley Punx, Bear Road, Brighton