Higher than the sun: Primal Scream live in London

Whether due to the band's infamous (if now historical) predilection for industrial quantities of Class As, or simply Bobby Gillespie's big mouth, their performances have long been infamous for straddling the line between "brilliantly chaotic" and just "chaotic".

Which makes tonight's gig somewhat surprising. Gillespie, beclad for some reason in a salmon-pink jacket, doesn't speak much at all, except to express his love for the gathered masses. His performance is full of energetic maraca-shaking and prowling around the stage, but it's not imbued with the feral unpredictably of years past. As one markedly inebriated white-haired gent slurred into my ear halfway through the set, "it's lovely to see them all sober and happy like this, but where's the edge?" To which I might have replied, "when they're on such damn good form, does it matter?"

The show starts on a strong footing with "Movin' On Up", the opening track of their 1991 masterpiece Screamadelica. The arrangement's slightly stodgier than on the album, and Gillespie's vocals are an acquired taste at the best of times, but few would deny it's an electrifying moment when the gospel singers kick in with the first of several evangelically-tinged refrains of the night ("I'm getting outta the darkness, my light shines on!")

The rest of the set goes on to vacillate between tracks from their 11th studio effort Chaosmosis (an record that, despite its gloriously crap cover, is a solid-enough if forgettable foray into 21st century synth-pop) and carefully-curated cuts from their back catalogue. The audience, many of whom are clearly - ahem - "higher than the sun" receive the new songs politely, at times even enthusiastically, but it's tracks like "Accelerator" from their most uncompromising (and arguably best) album XTRMNTR that triggers widespread pandemonium throughout the venue.

Ultimately though, it's the final third that encapsulates the eclecticism and euphoria Primal Scream exude at their very best (the plodding, going-through-the-motions mediocrity of "Country Girl" aside). The no-holds-barred industrial assault of "Swastika Eyes" is fantastically brutal, and completely at odds with the Ecstacy-infused happy-clappiness of "Loaded", the track that launched the band to prominence quarter of a century ago. In truth, Gillespie doesn't have much to do in the latter number - a deconstructed Andrew Weatherall remix of one of their pre-fame obscurities that relies more on its sampling than its lyrical depths - but it'd be difficult to find anyone in that auditorium that gave a damn.

And finally there's the closing double-whammy of "Come Together" and "Rocks". There's not many bands who'd follow up a ten-minute acid house odyssey incorporating an iconic gospel refrain and excerpts of a Jesse Jackson speech with a derivative but highly moshable glam-rock stomper, but you frankly wouldn't expect any less from Gillespie and co. Tonight's show might not have held any big surprises, or unleashed any tabloid-baiting controversies, but it was celebratory and accomplished and a hell of a lot of fun, which on the whole seems like a decent trade-off.