Matthieu Ha.  H-A. Ha.  Kooky and humorous, intentional or not, you love him or you hate him.  And luckily I didn't hate him, although the first performance when I saw him support Zita Swoon at the Monty in Antwerpen was decidedly shaky, seemingly because of a problem with his voice on that day.  With the angelic look of a choirboy, he sings to us his high-noted tunes that remind me of story-songs of days and ages gone-by, accompanied by furious a-playing of three successively diminishing-in-size accordions.  And as he projected these stories, interjected by moments of hesitant humour not asking for a response, one found a toe tapping involuntarily, growing to a shaking hip, a dancing crowd.  An indeterminate missive, a oddity whose novelty never wore off - words and music possibly belying his Manchurian roots, or possibly French, it was impossible to tell.  All listeners were as babies listening to a new language.

Gaining his own fans in the audience, Matthieu's show matured well with the tour. By the third to last show at Rotterdam, he was accompanied by two dancers and even a complete backing band for the last track - an almost Middle-Eastern heady blend of beats and vocals (Tomas De Smet on the tambourine-thing with no bells, Laurence Bourgeois on the horn, Deitrich the sound techie on the drums and another roadie on the guitar).  Ace.

There were those who had grown to hate Matthieu's clamour as much as those of us who loved every wail.  They sat sulkily in the shadows at the back of the room, pouting, waiting.  The accordions he played got smaller and smaller, until they disappeared  - and so did Mr Ha.  Just when the show had got going, he was gone.  Come back.  We want more.