James Blake @ Band On The Wall, Manchester

The opening chords on keys are akin to incidental Church music, encouraging a liturgical middle England vibe. The track builds, with a snapped beat and a rattling baseline shaking the building. It may be his manifesto outlined with wicked ease and in an instant, but this afternoon in such hushed surroundings, it is over-egged.

Between sitting at his piano and commencing, there's a cool hush. It's a sign of our times that in the first moment many set naked eyes on their musician they respond with a Hermit cry, recalling the moment they first heard him at their laptops, hundreds isolated in a crowd. See today's icon is not to be screamed at, for hysteria is a virtual, nay viral, commodity. It's not about being in a gang or committing to a commonality, it's about distant appreciation.

The show develops with a strict sense of calm. The vocals float through the venue uninterrupted. The soft tones which Blake's music exhales carry a magical quality, attracting polite reverence. ‘Lindisfarne I’ is so sweet in its minimalism Blake should be applauded for the sheer revolutionary content, or lack of in this particular instance, in the music. Better put, he can enchant with an art form widely marginalised.

What becomes shocking as the gig progresses is the unaffecting nature of it all. For all the soul in the vocals, or 'so slick it's sick' production the music frequently adheres to pleasantries and niceties before it urges the listener to make any journey. Perhaps it's this very unchallenging nature which makes him so popular, or that his music sounds like a beautiful echo of a much more real sound.

What is most surprising about James Blake is the conservative use of bass. It's not until ‘I Never Learnt To Share’ when we begin to taste his dancefloor potential. To suspect he doesn't like this functional element to his music, but sees heavy basslines as a powerful commodity, just as Nicolas Jaar detests up-tempo, seems feasible. On ‘Limit To Your Love’ we are given something darker in the violence of the deep drones, which feel like they are unraveling the screw fittings of the venue. These wild reverberations act as counterweights to the dreamlike piano melody they bookend.

‘The Wilhelm Scream’ starts as most of his songs do, before a layer of oscillation cymbal and bass dances almost untraceably as the track builds. It shatters with a drum pattern, and the sound explodes. For the first time today Blake has created some serious movement, it's his last gift of the show and it is brilliant. When he sings "I don't know about my dreams/love", we are reminded that as familiar we are with his music, we know very little about his person. That the show, which opened with an assertion, ends with the unknown. Blake is reminding us that even if his ascension is set in stone, his artistry certainly isn't.