If Richard Ashcroft was remotely humiliated at the downsizing of last night's concert from Wembley Arena, he was keeping his wounded pride to himself. In fact, he keeps most things to himself.

In truth, it was hard to imagine him being a roaring success in any massive venue. As it was, even the more intimate Hammersmith Apollo stage seemed rather too big for one so aloof and his five band members, carefully selected for their absence of personality.

So Ashcroft stood towards the back of that stage, encircled by monitors. Anything rather than get close to the great unwashed, until the very end of the closing Break The Night With Colour, when he kicked a monitor away and edged forwards timidly.

Keen to keep his jacket on for the evening, he elected not to charge around making himself sweat. Instead, he settled on an occasional Ian Brown-style monkey-esque crouch and a Liam Gallagher swagger.

Yet not for nothing has Ashcroft constructed a most thoughtful solo career for himself after The Verve imploded, and not for nothing is he increasingly acknowledged as a great British songwriter. If he gave little away, that reticence was thwarted by the unmistakable aura of the naturally charismatic, albeit one who has developed a ridiculous American accent.

"This is a soul song," the man from Wigan bellowed in the manner of Kirk Douglas as Spartacus, before a heroic Bitter Sweet Symphony, "I am a soul man." He could have been joking.

More significantly, Ashcroft never insulted his audience's intelligence. His music, with its widescreen accessibility, its refusal to be rushed and its often complex structure, is a cornucopia of fascination. From the avant-garde thrash of New York to the almost rustic A Song For The Lovers (which quoted Minnie Riperton's Loving You along the way), via the ludicrously catchy Science Of Silence, Ashcroft allowed his muse and his music to wander into myriad intriguing areas. He may have been fearful of audience contact, but he was musically fearless.

Wisely, he tapped into his Verve heritage. Bitter Sweet Symphony was received as if delivered from Mount Sinai on a tablet of stone; The Drugs Don't Work (about terminal illness rather than addiction) was delivered wholly solo and Lucky Man couldn't have been more jaunty if the Chuckle Brothers had been on backing vocals.

He departed without mentioning the Wembley fiasco. Probably for the best.