In the age of health and safety, it’s vaguely reassuring to discover that an audience can still go berserk in such a staid setting. As fans jogged back and forth, samba-style, along the stalls, I had fleeting and happy visions of one of our least-loved temples of culture being reduced to rubble by the combined weight of the revellers’ feet. Part of the “Groove Nations” season, this was one of Carlinhos Brown’s less subtle displays, but there was no denying his ability to generate a City of London equivalent of the Salvador carnival.

The last time I saw the charismatic Brazilian bandleader play here, he was exploring the potent but nuanced Afro-Cuban rhythms from his classy album Carlinhos Brown e Carlito Marrón. On this occasion the man in the fulsome dreadlocks turned the knobs up to 11 and allowed the percussion section to let rip. There was little of the ebb and flow of a conventional concert. At times, in fact, it was much like listening to someone maniacally between stations on an AM radio.

Was that really a snippet of Miles Davis’s playful Eighties riff Jean Pierre? Yes, indeed it was, but in the moment it registered, the musicians had returned to carnival-float mode. A pity, really, because Brown’s sprawling, dozen-strong ensemble of young players – all clad in black-and-white beach tunics – looked more than capable of delivering some sophisticated interplay. But tonight, for the most part, was all about earthier passions.

Arriving on stage in a black suit adorned with the merest hint of bling, Brown had the air of a Latin Austin Powers. The jacket was soon jettisoned, however, and he once again spent the rest of the evening bare-chested, occasionally adding a guitar lick or thrashing out a conga solo.

Ashansu sounded as funky and anthemic as ever, but Carlito Marrón – which ought to have been one of the highlights – was trampled underfoot. Not that the audience cared at all. They were here to party, and as far as that was concerned, Brown more than delivered the goods.

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