Fischerspooner, The Bridge, London;<br></br> Love with Arthur Lee, The Stables, Milton Keynes;<br></br> Future Rock & Roll, ICA, London

I have seen the future and it looks like this...

It's Jubilee Weekend over this land's cheerless marshes, and London's elite are out in force to hail the Queen. Not the Queen of England, you understand, but the Queen of New York. Casey Spooner doesn't own a vulgar solid gold horsedrawn carriage – yet – but with the alleged £1m that Ministry have thrown at Fischerspooner, it is probably a mere matter of time.

Fischerspooner – nominally a duo of performer Casey and composer Warren Fischer, but in practice a cast of anything up to 20 – exist at a three-way intersection where conceptual art meets electronic pop meets high commerce. Not having been in London in 1995/6, they probably don't realise it, but they are also the world's foremost exponents of the Romo doctrine of self-reinvention and plasticity.

Fischerspooner's mission, it appears, is to doublehandedly destroy the tired concept of authenticity in pop, and to denude the rituals and charades of the rock show itself (and in so doing, ironically create one of the most spectacular shows you will ever witness). Not that Fischerspooner have ever played anything so clichéd as a "gig": their public appearances so far have taken place at fashion shows, galleries, and, at their inception, a Starbucks, and the venue for their London debut is a newly-opened art space in an arch underneath London Bridge station.

Tonight, even before they take the stage, we see them in the dressing room via a video link, putting on costumes, applying warpaint and adjusting wigs. When Spooner emerges, sporting a flowing syrup which makes him resemble the lead role in Hair, his first words are, "Warren, press play on the CD". Fischer (who never appears on stage) touches a button behind the control desk, and the show is rolling.

What follows, Spooner has promised us in the press, will be "bigger than Star Wars". In practice (and I understand that this is not the full show), it's almost there: bigger than Starship Troopers, say. Fischerspooner are Marilyn Manson with the apocalyptic goth aesthetic replaced by a gay one. This is showtime at the Moulin Rose.

The show consists of a troupe of dancers shoehorned into dresses which are Cyberdog-meets-Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and wearing taller wigs than anything Debbie Harry wore in Hairspray, countless costly and dazzling effects (glitter cannons, wind machines, strobes and smoke), the best stage dive I've ever seen (it's more of a stage glide), and an extra whose face gushes blood after being "shot" by Spooner's finger. There are a couple of moments of purest farce, when the son et lumière looks more like strings et Sellotape (the motor on a revolving stool fails, and Casey has to frantically pedal it around by foot, like a child starting a roundabout), but in a way, these only serve to add to the demolition process. By the time they play "Emerge" for the third time, the notion of realism-in-rock has been successfully blown into tiny shards of tinsel.

Arthur Lee, a genuine living legend, returns to the stage after six years in prison on an absurd firearms charge. In the circumstances, he'd receive an ovation just for turning up (and does), but his new incarnation of Love (formed from members of LA band Baby Lemonade) are too good to need the sympathy vote. Dressed in rock'n'roll gypsy threads, Lee is still, in defiance of his 56 years, recognisably the skinny black dude with the cheekbones from the cover of Da Capo. He's drily funny, impossibly charismatic, and, after a couple of songs to warm up, the voice is as powerful as ever.

The set leans heavily on Love's first four albums, from the pugnacious proto-garage punk of "My Little Red Book" and "Bummer In The Summer" to the gentle, Hispanic-tainted psychedelia of "Andmoreagain" and "Alone Again Or". Greybeards mouth every word automatically, like infants reciting the Lord's Prayer.

Down on the Mall, the grateful peasants in their plastic Union Jack bowlers are waving their little paper flags to Kiri Te Kanawa, oblivious to the fact that, just yards away inside the ICA, the crazy-haired youth of London are disrespecting the sanctity of the Golden Jubilee by shaking their collective ass to dangerous and seditious rock'n'roll. At least, that ironic juxtaposition is presumably the idea behind Sonic Mook Experiment's weekend of gigs, titled Future Rock & Roll.

The reality, unfortunately, is that it's an excuse for the be-mulleted rich kids of Hoxton to indulge themselves in a festival of bands who have precisely nothing to do with the future. The only choice is between Good Retro and Bad Retro. At least there's The Buff Medways, a garage-punk trio led by underground icon Billy Childish, whose new album Steady The Buffs is, incredibly, his 100th in 25 years. Looking like Lord Kitchener in his military jacket and elegantly-waxed walrus tache, he hammers out a succession of sharp and brilliantly simple two-minute tunes, and you can see why he is so feted by the likes of Jack White. But don't pity his obscurity: he likes it that way. "This song got played by Jonathan Ross the other day", he growls, "but don't let that put you off."

"I'm a street-walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm," Iggy Pop once sang, and, give or take the fact that there's something more simian than feline about Afonso Pinto (aka Al Zheimer), it's a description that fits the Parkinsons' singer perfectly. Feral, half-naked and genuinely unpredictable, they're the most dangerous live band around. Tonight, when they're only halfway through "Bad Girl", I suspect a conspiracy when the house lights come up, the sound is cut and we're all thrown out due to a fire alarm. Honourable mentions also go to Earl Brutus, whose hooligan glitter rock is a national treasure, and The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster, whose chaotic fusion of The Birthday Party and The Cramps is the climax to the event.

After their set, I step outside into the throng of smiling serfs, in time to see Sir Paul McCartney perform "All You Need Is Love". You'll recall that this particular Beatles hit should begin with a snatch of "La Marseillaise" – an anthem which dreams of the spilt blood of royals and royalists filling the furrows of the fields. I'm not one of those who deify John Lennon, but at this moment, I like to think that his ashes are spinning in their urn.

Fischerspooner: Royal Festival Hall, London SE1 (020 7960 4242), 21 June. Love: Lomax, Liverpool (0151 707 9977), tonight; Manchester University (0161 832 1111), Mon; Boardwalk, Sheffield (0114 279 9090), Tue; Robin 2, Wolverhampton (01902 497860), Thur; Queen Elizabeth Hall, London SE1 (020 7960 4242), Fri

s.price@independent.co.uk