The Dandy Warhols, Academy, Manchester<br></br>Goldfrapp, Astoria, London

The Dandy Warhols hate us. They must do. And the more we love them, the more they loathe us for it. The two Dandy Warhols gigs I've seen prior to tonight have been two of the worst, most infuriating, perverse (in a bad way), audience-hating performances it has ever been my misfortune and displeasure to witness.

But what's this I hear? On their current UK tour, the DWs are supposedly playing two hour-long sets, effectively acting as their own support band, official stage time 8.30pm. The Dandy Warhols? Giving value for money? Starting with a hit? Something's wrong! Or maybe something's gone right. The DWs have been making populist noises lately, and their new album, Welcome To The Monkey House, is their most pop yet (a result of their inspired choices of collaborators: Duran Duran's Nick Rhodes, Chic's Nile Rodgers, and, er, glam-rock's Tony Visconti).

On the face of it, they've changed only a little. Singer Courtney Taylor-Taylor, wearing a cute choker, has his top off, and keyboardist Zia McCabe keeps hers on (the exact reverse of their early UK shows). The Hair Bear drummer and Beach Boy guitarist - the ones whose names no one remembers, possibly not even themselves - look the same as ever. Attitude-wise, though, they've changed beyond recognition. They're friendly, open and chatty, acceding to requests ("What? 'Cooler Than Kim Deal'? OK, here it is..."), telling anecdotes about how particular songs were written, dedicating a track to "everyone who's already downloaded the album" and, during an extended jam on The Stooges' "Loose", incorporate a little localised piss-taking ("come on, let's get baggy!"). Asked to play their (now) best-known song, the mobile phone-shifting "Bohemian Like You", Courtney pleasantly answers, "Yes, we will play that song." (They do, and it kicks ass.) Even the interval is a crowd-pleaser. "OK," Taylor-Taylor announces, "we're gonna drink something, maybe have a little smoke, we'll be about five minutes." But instead, they mill around onstage, barely visiting their dressing room; then, after four and a half, he's back and asking, "Are you guys all having fun?" Knock me down with a feather.

Bonhomie only gets you so far. Their old material exposes their musical limitations (the Dandy Warhols were once possibly the most thoroughly retro band who ever lived, with the arguable exception of Showaddywaddy), and they find it difficult to replicate the future sheen of Monkey House live. That said, the ELO boogie of "Last Junkie", the Boo Radleys-ish "Godless" and a slow, drumless folk version of "Every Day Should Be A Holiday" sound fantastic, although The Levellers-ish "Get Off" is, sadly, not as good as the Prince song of the same name (to be fair, that's a tall order).

Zia tells us, "You've been the best crowd on the tour" (Yeah, I bet she says that to all the guys), then tries to sing her silly, twee "Daisy Song", until the band yank her away with a metaphorical shepherd's crook by kicking into "Country Leaver" (ho ho). Oh, and then they play a Meltdown-style drone-rock dirge. But even that can't spoil what has been, against all odds, a brilliant show. Maybe that song on the new album isn't sarcastic after all: the Dandy Warhols do love everyone... well, almost.

And while we're at it, what's happened to Alison Goldfrapp? Two years ago, she was a mentalist with the keys to the dressing-up box. Tonight, with an air hostess hat perched atop her explosion of blonde ringlets, a playful black minidress and a fabulous pair of red sparkly shoes which are so steep that her feet are almost vertical, she's mutated into... well, a bit of a fox.

What seems to have happened is that, while her musical collaborator Will Gregory has retreated further into his shell (literally - tonight he's encased in the sound cage rather than up on stage), Alison has come out of hers. This change mirrors - or is mirrored by - the sounds she/ they make. Whereas Felt Mountain was pristine musical magic realism, the new album Black Cherry is filthily sexual. The staggeringly great single, "Train" is the perfect example. I've said it once before, but it bears repeating: its dirty electro-rock groove sounds exactly like The Sweet's "Blockbuster" performed by Nine Inch Nails. Not that Felt Mountain was as chaste as it might have appeared. "Lovely Head", which earns massive cheers tonight, is self-explanatory, while "Utopia" remains the most seductive hymn on the subject of eugenics since Leni Riefenstahl's Triumph of the Will (with, it should be noted here, an entirely different intention).

During the former, she uses a special microphone which transforms her already operatic voice into an electronic feline yowl. You suspect that every cat in a five-mile radius is hi-tailing it to the vicinity of Centre Point. You score more Connoisseur Points by mentioning Lalo Schifrin, Henry Mancini and Ennio Morricone in connection with Goldfrapp, but to me, her unearthly soprano sounds most like the theme to Star Trek (1960s version).

Alison's own appearance aside, it's a relatively non-visual affair - no giant white bunnies with blue eyes, and a disappointing lack of Snow Dog action - but the focal point is a captivating presence in herself. She's equal parts Shirley Bassey, Siouxsie Sioux, Marlene Dietrich and Kate Bush. Or, more cinematically, the lady in the radiator (Eraserhead) meets one of those women with giant shoes on their heads (Brazil). In short, Alison Goldfrapp is an anomaly, and - here's a paradox in itself - pop needs more of those.

s.price@independent.co.uk

Goldfrapp: Manchester Academy (0161 275 2930), tonight; Metropolitan University, Leeds (0113 283 2600), Mon; QMU, Glasgow (0141 339 9784), Wed