Given the overtly vocal hankering of Sam Eastgate (or, for the purposes of his so-called ‘LA PRIEST’ solo project, ‘Sam Dust’) “to rewind time,” it seems meet and right that tonight should, at times, feel like a quite invigorating gallop down the proverbial ‘memory lane’. Of course, when it came to past incarnation Late of the Pier – the genre-bending assemblage that Eastgate once ring-led, ‘memory lane’ more closely resembled Shigeru Miyamoto’s Rainbow Road than it did the gunshot-shattered streets of their then-native Nottingham. Nonetheless, if onetime cronies Samuel Potter and Ross Dawson – as well as a not insignificant number of (who I’m presuming are closely) associated parents – may be joining us on the journey, this evening is all about worshipping at the altar (or, in this particular instance, bank of gadgetry) of LA PRIEST…

So what of this latest stab, or perhaps rather shot, at the so-called ‘big time’, then? Well, glimpses of past glories remain, indelibly lodged in the night’s very fibre, with the general agitation by which it’s more or less defined that facet which proves most evocative of Eastgate’s notorious previous. For if intermittently, that little bit too baffling for a Tuesday evening, tonight more often than not feels like the bulldozing of the fourth wall to the studio in which he’s audibly been holed up within for some while now, allowing us to gaze upon the creative process in a start-to-finish sort of a way. As such, the show begins in what can only be described as work-in-progression: looping and layering a series of live vocal samples, and with a flagrant ethnomusical basis laid down beneath, the opening moments prove reminiscent of Cosmo Sheldrake on speed. Indeed, for those ‘fockers’ crammed into Electrowerkz anticipating Space and the Woods and so on, it quickly becomes apparent that they’re to be left disappointed; for those more willing to embrace what Eastgate has since become however, well, there’s little reason not to be absolutely, and undilutedly delighted, essentially.

Shades of Sébastien Tellier (set to besuited, pseudo-satyromaniacal mode) blur with Ariel Pink-ish tendencies henceforth, Eastgate suggesting: “Can we bring the lights down low?” atop slumped, funked-up pre-recorded bass parts, plus synths taken straight from one of Joseph Mount’s slushier moments. But proud, and punitively loud as the initially downtempo, yet incessantly dubby undertones which underpin so much of the evening might ultimately prove, there is a slight reticence on his behalf: throughout the opening moments, he ambles about the place with all the desultory swagger of Lee “Scratch” Perry, yet grumbles with the grouchy nebulosity of Dan Ashcroft. He’s thus successfully cultivated a kind of “preacher man” exterior; one that encompasses several diverse, if distinctly considered cultural reference points, and remains incredibly distinctive to this day.

In satiny whites brighter than newly spruced cricketing regalia, and beneath flickering greens, an intoxicating cocktail that concurrently recalls Fantasy Black Channel, Tom Vek’s We Have Sound, and early Metronomy (a common theme throughout, in spite of the show’s unabashedly whimsical changeability) is supped; Eastgate regales us with tales of falling “in love for the first time,” when not singing of the need to “turn it up and turn it around.” And, on this very evidence, he’s doing exactly that with both style and panache to boot. He is, to pilfer right from his own mouth, “tired of fooling around,” to which a disdainful glance in the general direction of an inopportune plume of dry ice pretty convincingly attests…

That’s not to intimate toward a newfound, nor fundamentally different maturity that has all but obliterated the sheer relish and unbridled joie de vivre to have been channelled into Late of the Pier, though; more that the quintessentially eccentric songsmithery that Eastgate has become both known and renowned for is afforded the time and space to come to the fore, and LA PRIEST sounds effing fantastic for this. It’s a bold, daring endeavour; not least for a “first proper” live show from a solo artist still in the inchoate stages of a newly forged direction. So, as Eastgate reaches out into the throng, or when he’ll sit and serenade a lucky few down the front from atop a monitor, the caprice of Sean Nicholas Savage comes to mind – something that, if perhaps seemingly improbable, is probably facilitated by his assuming a nom de plume for this particular undertaking. Yet moments later, as he then so desperately croons of longing for the night no matter the time of day, imploring once more that the lights be brought down, that aforesaid reticence is once more exposed. What with this being a début show of sorts, it’s understandable; nonetheless, it needn’t have such a marked impact upon his performance…

To an extent, it makes sense: emphasis and general impetus are repeatedly (and perhaps slightly repetitively) taken away from his onstage presence, instead put upon the multifarious, and largely mellifluous sounds produced. It’s almost as though Eastgate feels a certain need to reclaim all the musical kudos he was once due and so, built about saxophonic samples and Hi-NRG, fist-pumping cadences redolent of one Kieran Hebden, there are those moments reminiscent of Four Tet’s Pink that prove tighter than the forever lithe, hypermobile moves of Sir Nose D’Voidoffunk; others call upon quaking house squiggles, wibbling and wobblings, Eastgate interweaving these with the auricular elasticity of late ’80s Prince. Almost mantrically, he chants of “decid[ing] to love all over again,” and the signs o’ such times would seem to suggest it’ll be hard not to fall, and fall hard, for him once more in the weeks and months to come.

For this restive show – one that, at times, pertains to the pellucid fluidity of a particularly irreproachable DJ set – will doubtless translate seamlessly to record and, on that note, that the utterly irresistible Oino is played out as prematurely as it is tonight stands as resolute testament to the strength of Eastgate’s oeuvre thus far. “Tune!” hollers someone or other, as those dubby undertones bubble up and over the top. OTT? Maybe, but you really can’t begrudge him the indulgence here, as a gloriously incongruous sci-fi guitar solo whooshes straight through the hemp-perfumed fug of Augustus Pablo and Black Uhuru – albeit at a rather accelerated 139 bpm. Herein, as Eastgate gesticulates toward more oomph in the monitors, he draws a more vociferous reaction from the crowd also, and quite rightly so. For from where I’m sat, or in this instance stood, LA PRIEST is the MacBook alternative to the PC Music phenomenon, or fad; what OS X Yosemite is to Windows 8.1. Thus although he may well leave the stage with little other than a perfunctory shrug of the shoulders, the show done and dusted in just under forty minutes, Sam’s window of opportunity just swung wide open once more…