(One Step) Beyond The (End Of The) Road.

"THERE WILL BE NO MIRACLES HERE"

We can't say we weren't warned (although if that sign had been on the way in instead of the way out it might have been more helpful). There certainly weren't any miracles at the Saatchi Gallery's immersive Beyond the Road exhibition. But that's okay. There's no such thing as a miracle. Not a literal one anyway. What there was was lots of interesting and fun art as well as some, much less than promised, immersive experiences.

But at £20* a pop it was far too expensive for what it was and both me and my art companion for the afternoon, Valia, left feeling just a little but underwhelmed. It was a lovely afternoon but I must admit the majority of the enjoyment came from having a long overdue catch up with a valued friend and a coffee afterwards. Which was not really how it was supposed to pan out.

Channel 4 News's Jon Snow is on record as saying "this is no ordinary show" and the NME (that still exists?) claim "a feast for all of the senses". While neither is untrue both would lead you to expect something much more, well, mindblowing. The reality of the experience was that we were taken down a back alley (no sniggering), past a load of rubbish lobbed on the floor, up some stairs, and led into a series of mostly quite dark rooms where we were presented with various paintings, sculptures, and films and given a chance to lie down and listen to some music.

All very pleasant but with Punchdrunk and James Lavelle from UNKLE behind it, and for a score, I was expecting something I'd come out raving about. Instead it was, in some places, kind of about raving. The sort of thing that appeals to ravers who've hung up their Vicks Vaporubs and glowsticks. As so much is these days. Ageing ravers seem to have colonised folk music, coffee shops, and the Internet, as much as they have art galleries.

There's nothing wrong with that. We all get older (the alternative is far worse) and while we all get into different things we do tend to bring a bit of our past with us. A friend of mine who was a goth now tends to wear Fred Perrys - but he wears black Fred Perrys!

He'd have probably enjoyed some of the works on show at the Saatchi. The skull and crossbones below, perhaps. I'd love to be able to tell you who the individual pieces are by but as none of the works are labelled I've had to abandon my usual protocol on that front. There's an information board as you exit that informs you that you've just seen works by Nathan Coley, Lucas Price, and even Danny Boyle and heard music by Keaton Henson, Michael Kiwanuka, and ESKA but it's not remotely easy to work out who was responsible for what.

So, instead, you've just got photos of the art, the films, and some of the architectural whimsies they're contained in - as well as a couple of Valia and myself interacting with said things. You're told not to touch things when you enter but we picked up a phone or two and they had music playing down them so it's to be assumed phone receiver handling is deemed acceptable.

I get a bit bored of seeing slogans written in neon lights, started to feel it was done to death years ago but its popularity seems to be showing no sign of abating, but I did like the room you could go in, kneel on a cushion as if in prayer (the room was vaguely chapel shaped) and watch a light show while listening to what once would have been described as "ambient house" or "chill out" music.

Other rooms were full of slightly more pumping 'choons'. At one point I wished I'd taken a pill so I could get on one but I guess there was a danger I might have freaked out and, anyway, those days are long behind me.

So instead I admired the artistry behind the painting of the sleepy cowled guard who seemed to have wandered out of the Spanish baroque paintings of Zurbaran and straight down the King's Road into the gallery. The next room was even better, one of the highlights of the show, featuring, as it did, a long waxy table festooned with candles and the residual imprints of cutlery. There was a piano in the corner that would occasionally play itself and you'd half expect Fang the Butler to walk in and deliver a lugubrious "we've been expecting you".

The artwork our dinner table seating faced us towards looked worthy of Dorothea Tanning or Remedio Varo and I was genuinely won over by it, despite the fact that it is obviously in hock to earlier, more innovative, artists.

It was the closest any of the rooms came to being overwhelming so it was quite convenient that the next room provided us with a chance to have a lie down. Not something I usually pass up on. There's something about having a lie down in the middle of the day whilst also, nominally, doing something (be it art, yoga, or whatever) that makes you feel less guilty about it.

Although when I first got in the room I thought the people lying down were plants, stooges, or actors. Not just ordinary punters like us. When I finally got a bed I wasn't sure what to do so I closed my eyes and waved my right arm around a bit. Like a goth at a Love and Rockets gig in 1987. Or a twat. You decide.

The next room appeared to star some kind of dead bird skewered on a spike which I hope wasn't real. It also had a telephone playing music - though not great music - and at a fairly unpleasant level too. Then there were some rather dull screens of trees and camper vans on big screens, a film of a woman covered in gunk which looked like a rejected Bjork video idea, a mocked up vandalised phone box, and some chairs where you could stare at fairly uninteresting art, mildly more interesting videos, or, best of all, other people entering the gallery who, we guessed, would assume us to be part of the show.

Hey, you have to make your own fun sometimes. The Damien Hirst style mocked up triangular pharmaceutical dispensary certainly had something of the ritualistic, even masonic, about it but we had more fun taking photos of the back of each other heads! I quite liked the changing light colours in the room. It was hardly an experience "beyond" but it was a pleasant one all the same.

There was one last surprise in the form of an animatronic, life sized, and actually quite lifelike human head that moved around curiously, mining the very depths of the uncanny valley. I joked that it was probably actually a real person painted in garish colours and we tried to work out (and failed) if the head was responding to our presence and actions. Again, it was amusing and it was a diversion which, often, is enough but not when you have to give over a picture of the Queen and Adam Smith to get it. The art was good rather than great but the company was what made the afternoon a winning one. Thanks to Valia for providing that as well as suggesting this exhibition and even treating me to a visit.*