There was a time when "An Evening with Brett Anderson", to give Saturday's show its full advertised title, would imply the sort of Bacchanalian excess that would leave you confused and with a hell of a headache in the morning. Yet times have moved on from those proto-Britpop glory days, and the man who once seriously threatened to give Bowie and Morrissey a run for their money in the androgynous, homoerotic posturing stakes is settling into his solo career relatively quietly.

Indeed, the audience at Queen Elizabeth Hall were similarly dormant for the opening stages of this show. With the exception of the charming Love Is Dead, his solo material just fails to capture the essence of what originally made him a star. Working through the first four songs with po-faced professionalism, his attention seemed focused everywhere but towards his fans and it was difficult to recall the overt histrionics of a decade ago.

It was not until the moment One Lazy Morning deftly segued into She's In Fashion that the crowd were enlivened, and for the rest of the set each recognisable classic was greeted with whooping delight.

The voice that crackled through Suede's later efforts even seemed to be approaching its former eccentric majesty, though it was difficult to tell if dramatics or decline forced some old high notes to be replaced by hushed whispers.

So when he shoehorned the crooner's classic It Was a Very Good Year into the second half of the show, the lament of a performer in the autumn of his years teetered perilously close to brooding selfanalysis.

Earlier, one mischievous punter's request for Anderson to "swing the mic" was shot down with a mumbled retort of "I don't do that sort of thing any more". More's the pity Brett.