THE Celtic fringe of Van Morrison and The Proclaimers took their place in the gig diary, either side of the Leeds First Direct Arena debut of Neil Young, the great Canadian who has a new live album coming out tomorrow.

The record's name – Earth – was emblazoned on Young's black T-shirt beneath his checked jerkin, the dustbowl farmer's look completed by faded jeans and boots and a low-slung hat.

Young and his shadow emerged carrying plant pots, to be placed along the stage apron, and with a slow trudge, he then walked the stage, casting seeds of grain to the floor. This was his land now, his Earth, as if calling on the ghost of Woody Guthrie.

He began at the piano, his voice that familiar combination of the strong yet faltering that time has not withered at 70, as he sang After The Gold Rush in the shadows, before stepping into the limelight for acoustic guitar renditions of Band Of Gold, Comes A Time and Needle And The Damage Done, each more beautifully devastating than the last.

Still solo, he switched to an ornately decorated pump organ, for the only time, for Mother Earth (Natural Anthem) to emphasise the ecological core of his Earthly concerns.

Suddenly, the stage was invaded by men in white suits, fumigating the air with pesticide sprays or such like to herald the arrival of Young's young charges, Promise Of The Real, not so crazy as Crazy Horse as it turned out but still answering Young's every call, as he progressed from acoustic to electric guitar to trademark elongated workouts.

He peaked with the magnificent murder ballad Down By The River and Mansion On The Hill, via his debut live performance of If I Could Have Her Tonight with his new band, reintroducing a song not played since November 1968, no less.

The old anger was rising by now, as he dismissed a certain Republican rabble rouser with an "eff you Donald Trump" to huge cheers before a rousing, raging Rockin' In The Free World, then took a stroll in first encore When You Dance, I Can Really Love and went all King Lear in F***in Up.

Not since Prince got back in touch with his funk mojo in May 2014 had Leeds Arena witnessed such a guitar hurricane. Growing old gracefully? No chance.

By way of comparison, at the same age of 70, Sir Van Morrison had taken things rather more stately the night before at a sold-out Harrogate International Centre, a plush all-seater, whereas Young pointedly had taken out row upon row of seats in Leeds.

Morrison is still a sublime saxophonist, his voice remains a full force gale when the mood takes him, but behind the dark glasses, there is no sense of whether he enjoys his transcendent, spiritually uplifting soul and jazz music any more. His band, his show, is slick and grooved, but distant. Did you get healed? Alas not.

If you had missed The Proclaimers at York Barbican last October, Sunday night found those spectacled sibling Scots playing to yet another full house at the Leeds Grand as the Reid brothers rolled out the rollicking hits with all the goodness of porridge oats. Warmth, wit, passion and politics in abundance.