Honky Tonk Women duly appeared an enjoyably ramshackle affair despite the occasional mistiming of the interlocking push/pull guitar

"Honky Tonk Women" duly appeared, an enjoyably ramshackle affair despite the occasional mistiming of the interlocking push/pull guitar figures that drive the song along. The Stones brand of rock'n'roll is heavily dependent on the devil-may-care looseness which Keith and Ronnie have come to exemplify; here, they pushed that paradox about as far as it could go without disintegrating entirely.The show drew to a close with the welcome familiarity of "Tumblin' Dice", "Brown Sugar" and an encore of "Jumpin' Jack Flash", all featuring extended codas, during which Mick energetically essayed his own berserk semaphore as the crowd sang along joyously. The closest they got to their roots all evening was a brisk, brash run down "Route 66" and, if rumours are to be believed, it may be the last time - yes, yes, I know - that they make that particular journey. I hope not: for like the road itself, they remain an evocative, talismanic reminder of a more rugged, pioneering era.Andy Gill.

"I'VE ALWAYS thought the past was over and that I'd missed it somehow. Now it's starting all over again," marvels the bewildered elderly Connie at the end of Enjoy. Alan Bennett's problem in 1980, when this play flopped, was not with the past, but with the future. Full of uncomfortably funny prescience about the humbug of the heritage industry, it's a piece that was ahead of its time in a manner lost on critics who can barely see to the end of their own notices.

But Alan Dossor's excellent revival at the West Yorkshire Playhouse confirms it as one of the wittiest and most disturbing comedies written since the war. Smuggling black surrealism into a back-to-back terrace house in Leeds, Enjoy is what you might call "downroarious". The sublime Thelma Barlow (demobbed from Coronation Street and Dinnerladies), beautifully defines the sense of how close Bennett often comes to his near-namesake Beckett as she witters away brightly, both hands dug down with embarrassment in the same pocket of her pinny, blessedly too forgetful to focus on her encroaching Alzheimer's ("my mother lost her memory - I think"). Warbling Ivor Novello songs about a romance all too remote from her own loveless marriage to disabled Dad (a robustly rebarbative Bernard Gallagher), and touchingly wistful for the refined life she might have had (rubbing shoulders with "people with their own transport"), the fragile, stoical figure Ms Barlow cuts brings out the protective instincts in the audience.This works extremely well for a drama in which the couple's condemned Leeds home, in the middle of a bulldozed wasteland, is first infiltrated by a silent, notetaking lady sociologist from the council (who turns out to be their long lost son in drag), and then reconstructed brick- by-brick in a theme park with Connie as its main exhibit.Yes, this is a play that literally brings the house down - the set is dismantled before your very eyes, leaving the pair in a bleak no-man's- land, and the motives of "Linda", the gay son made good (Oxbridge, London), in question. There's a temptation to equate this character with Bennett: the impassive notetaking, with a writer's heartless gathering of material; the desire to see his home unnaturally preserved, at a safe distance from himself, with the creative instinct to look back not in anger, but in the amber of art and artifice.

It's a potentially offensive parallel, for the simple reason that a writer who was "Linda" could never have created him, or imagined the dubiousness of his position.Besides, the play is sharply sceptical about the "traditional community". There's a sequence, hilariously performed here by Ms Barlow and a splendid Eileen O'Brien as the intimidatingly helpful tower-of-strength from next door, where they attempt to wash and lay out Dad's supposed corpse, as Connie's mother would instinctively have done. It turns into a farcical demonstration that in the late-20th century, it's best to hand over these intimate rituals to an "expert" Heartily recommended.Paul TaylorTo 26 June, 0113-213 7700. THERE'S NO controversy quite like an Oxford controversy, and Saturday's opening concert for the Sheldonian's new organ came as the climax to months of frenzied argument. It was no wonder its donor, Robert Venables QC (director of the sponsoring Yves Guihannec Foundation) declares in the programme that he "never knew giving away money could be such hard work and excite such antipathy". But, in fact, the new organ is a real challenge; here are all the problems raised by the movement towards "authenticity" in the most extreme form. This instrument is not merely an electronic "Bradford" organ with 80 loudspeakers decorously concealed behind the Victorian organ-case housing the now redundant pipes of the old "Fr Willis" instrument.

On the advice of Simon Preston, a former organist of Christ Church and Westminster Abbey, the organ-maker Wood & Son has installed three complete organ specifications, based on Salisbury Cathedral, Pembroke College, Cambridge, and St-Clotilde in Paris. Preston himself showed off all three on Saturday with the Oxford University Orchestra conducted by Sir Roger Norrington. The orchestra began with a lively, vigorous account of Handel's Fireworks music. Worries began with Preston's first solo organ piece - Bach's great G Major Prelude and Fugue. The higher registers were bright enough, but the big pedal diapasons completely lacked the punch of a real organ. Much of it had the slightly hazy quality one associates with English cathedral sound.