Electric Proms: Kaiser Chiefs and David Arnold / Ray Davies, Roundhouse, London

Kaisers with strings attached

The idea of the Electric Proms – to accord rock music the same respect and place in the calendar as the more established classical version – still feels unconvincing and gimmicky. But Kaiser Chiefs and The Kinks' Ray Davies, arriving from opposite ends of British pop's brief history, try their best to give a sense of occasion.

To add a fresh dimension to their sound, the Kaisers bring out James Bond soundtrack man and Björk collaborator David Arnold, as well as an orchestra ("the Arnettes," as Ricky Wilson cheekily dubs them). "We've all been extremely nervous about tonight," Arnold says.

The orchestral experiment seems unlikely to be repeated. When the strings and brass swell for a cover of Wings' "Jet" (in tribute to the previous night's Prom star, Paul McCartney), they are worthwhile. Mostly, though, they are barely noticeable, serving only to hamper Wilson's boisterous interaction with the crowd.

When he leans into the front rows during "Everything is Average Nowadays", he's held in place by bouncers. Extra strings can't distract, anyway, from the Kaisers' enduring weaknesses. They remain too defensively worried about changing their basic, Blur-influenced Britpop sound to fully escape being average themselves.

They do make a determined, if light-hearted, attempt at a broader Britpop when they bring on the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain for the still tremendous "I Predict a Riot", then add Asian drummers with St George crosses on their instruments for "We Are the Angry Mob", which also adds cultural layers to the New Yorkshire scene the band pioneered.

"Oh My God" harnesses its tale of provincial longing for escape to an explosive pop tune, then reminds you of the lyrical eye the band bring to those roots. It doesn't shake the feeling that, only two albums in, Kaiser Chiefs have already hit their limit. But as they exit with "Land of Hope and Glory", perhaps this Prom night has raised their sights.

Two nights later, Ray Davies enters, as he always does, to his 1966 cri de coeur "I'm Not Like Everybody Else", before warming up with "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?", and "Sunny Afternoon", with a guesting, somewhat redundant Johnny Borrell.

Davies is one of a battery of four guitarists and two keyboardists that tends to over-amp and flatten subtlety in this cavernous space. The first real highlight is "The Tourist", for which he changes into a safari suit and dissects the place of interlopers abroad. "Danger lurks," he murmurs, then hollers "Gimme the money!" as the guitars blaze, no doubt thinking of his own 2004 shooting by muggers in New Orleans.

His new album's title track, "Working Man's Café", is more affecting, a tribute to his generation's embattled working-class culture; he stands defiant as "the kid with the greasy spoon firmly held in my hand". The 1971 song "20th-Century Man" is a wilder working-class rebel song, with an added line about "trigger-happy policemen" that reflects, post-De Menezes, his enduring wariness of authority.

It's only on a home strait of unimpeachable Kinks classics, though, that Davies really finds his range. "Tired of Waiting for You" still sounds like a generational statement of freedom. On "All Day and All of the Night", four guitars approximate Dave Davies's epochal work with one .

The Crouch End Festival Chorus then assemble for the encore. Appropriately, they are very English choristers, not a US gospel affectation. They suit the sacred, stolen moments of love memorialised in the supernal "Days", and don't distract from the deathless "Waterloo Sunset". The performance of "Shangri-La", The Kinks' most massive-sounding single and Davies's ultimate statement on England's suburban dream, is its live debut, Davies claims; it deserves every extra voice. If, 100 years from now, rock music does have a Prom, Ray Davies songs such as that will no doubt be played.