Sufjan Stevens, Royal Festival Hall, London

The love, death and apocalypse party

What separates a gig from a show? Visuals? Choreography? Costumes? Effects?

The whole thing planned to the last detail? Sufjan Stevens' return to the UK stage in support of his Age of Adz album contains all this and more, and if ever a gig is a show, this is it.

And what a show it is. Gone is the quiet folky beauty of 2005's Illinoise concerts, and in its place is a neon-lit spectacle that alludes visually to Tron, the Mighty Boosh and 1980s rave, and musically owes as much to Sun Ra and dance culture as it does the almanacs of Americana Stevens has previously been in thrall to.

But before the new material is allowed to dominate, there is "Seven Swans" from the 2004 album of the same name. The staging is, and I can say this with confidence, unlike anything you've ever seen. There are layers of screens, on each of which star projections form into constellations. The stage is awash with fluorescence. Wings are flapping, feathers flying, and you half expect Natalie Portman to throw herself into the audience. The spectacle brings the sort of reverential awe that only taking 3,000 people's breath away simultaneously achieves.

To break the spell, Stevens says, "Hi, my name is Sufjan Stevens and I'm your entertainment for the evening. We're gonna sing some songs about love, death and the apocalypse. It should be a lot of fun." What follows is an avalanche of restless electronica provided by a 10-piece backing band in which trombones and Moogs jostle for attention. The music can only be described as folkadelica. As a host, Stevens is half earnest raconteur and half space cadet. He gives a "workshop" on the paranoid-schizophrenic artist who inspired Adz and tells us about doing naked yoga with his hippie parents. Just as credulity is stretching, he throws in, "You guys aren't buying this psychobabble bullshit, are you?"

The show ends on the catchy and crowd-pleasing "Impossible Soul", which while not quite allowed the 25 minutes it is on the album, gives the audience time to surge to the front and take their places for the balloon carnival of an encore in which everyone's old favourites will be aired.

It is the show of a lifetime – a joyous demonstration of what happens when you add conservatoire musicality to the kitchen sink of 21st-century technology. "Mind blown," says a text from a friend as we shuffle out. "Exactly," I reply, and that really is better than anything I can offer you here.