From McFly to McCartney, pop music has an underlying need to be taken as seriously as it tends to take itself. The B-52s bucked that trend when they surfaced in 1978.

Thirty years on, these four frisky fiftysomethings are still bucking it; Fred Schneider, part Truman Capote, part Alan Carr and thus camper than Carry On Camping; Keith Strickland, faux-cool; token heterosexual Cindy Wilson, a demon on the tom-toms; and Kate Pierson, looking for all the world like a sexy, if batty, grandmother.

And irrespective of those who have tried to emulate them, most notably Scissor Sisters, they remain a unique island of delight.

Their formula has remained broadly unchanged: fabulously well-drilled vocal interplay between Schneider, ginger Pierson and blonde Wilson; soaring, life-enhancing melodies to foil suggestions of novelty; and former drummer Strickland's garage guitar, which added new wave edge.

And when they were not eulogising manta rays (Rock Lobster) or cautioning "don't go on the patio" (Private Idaho), The B-52s asked the more pertinent questions. "Who's to blame when parties get poorly planned?" mused Schneider on Party Out Of Bounds with all the seriousness of Chris Martin ordering a new wind turbine. Who indeed?

The new material was no disgrace, indeed Funplex, their current album's title track, had all the hallmarks of a classic B-52s concoction, but they bounced through the hits with glee. Love Shack was enhanced by a glorious instrumental section; the covertly intense Give Me Back My Man featured the women harmonising like kooky angels, and the still-adored Rock Lobster saw Pierson gyrating, very possibly like a rock lobster.

They left after a far-from-scary Planet Claire ("No one ever dies there, no one has a head"). More to the point, they left Camden a better, cheerier place than they had found it. Could anyone really not adore them?