Silence is not monotonal. The roar of anticipation which crashes across the O2 Arena when Trent Reznor appears in the middle of the crowd, seated at an electric piano, all in black, naturally, initially gives way to a reverential hush as he gently picks out the opening notes of Right Where It Belongs. Five minutes later, as he appropriates the closing verses of Something Damaged for the song's coda, the mood in the room has shifted to a respectful appreciation of a master craftsman at work. And by the time Alesandro Cortini and Atticus Ross join their bandleader mid-way through an atmospheric reading of Ruiner, the pin-drop silence throughout the 20,000-capacity room is weighted with wonder and awe.
A few years back, when Trent Reznor admitted that he had no burning desire to reconvene Nine Inch Nails as a touring band, his weariness seemed underwritten by an awareness that NIN could not return to the stage without reinvention, without a reimagining of the tried-and-tested dynamics and theatrics of their performance. This, then, is how you make a comeback, not pandering, not acquiescing to expectations, but reconfiguring your art with fearlessness and quiet confidence. It's the most startling opening to an arena show you could imagine.
When the sixteen square white lights above the central platform are extinguished, and the band reappear on the arena's main stage with guitars strapped on for a thrillingly violent Wish and March Of The Pigs, the explosion of energy in the room is palpable. But tension creeps in with Reptile, as it becomes clear that Reznor is having issues with his microphone. "The world's most complicated light show, but a fucking mic cable takes us out," he explains, visibly annoyed, before channeling his frustration into a fierce take on Copy Of A.
Reznor's restless creativity is showcased again with a return to the B stage, for collaborations with support act Boys Noize on joyously intense, pummelling club reworkings of The Warning, Only and Came Back Haunted, then it's back to the main stage again for a breath-stealing smash through Mr Self Destruct. There are technical issues again to deal with - this is to be expected, given that this is only night three of the Peel It Back world tour - but despite some dark mutterings about his hatred of being asked to fill time while equipment is mended, Reznor keeps his irritation in check for the filthy throb of Closer, a run through David Bowie's I'm Afraid Of Americans, and a soaring, seething The Perfect Drug, while Head Like A Hole is every bit as thrillingly visceral as it sounded to this writer when first heard in a Washington DC industrial club in 1991. And if everyone knows that the night will close with Hurt, its quiet devastation loses none of its emotional impact, the room united, enraptured and utterly immersed.
The best live band in the world? On nights like this, it's not open to debate.
