The Sugarcubes, Laugardalsh&ouml;ll, Reykjavik</br>Mika, Dingwalls, London

The sulphur school of rock

Is it really 20 years? Well, that depends. If you're from Iceland, and you remember the release of Sykurmolarnir's debut single "Einn Mol'á Mann" on their own Smekkleysa SM label, it really is. If you're from Britain, and you remember the UK arrival of The Sugarcubes (as they were helpfully rechristened) on One Little Indian, it's 19.

It's certainly a cultural moment that's difficult to forget. Switching on The Chart Show, idly watching the Indie rundown, with its menu of Grebo detritus, C86 stragglers and third-rate goth bands, one was suddenly shocked into dumbstruck silence by the sheer beauty of "Birthday". It sounded like it came from another planet. Which, in a way, it did.

Iceland is quite unlike anywhere else on earth. It's easy to see why bands from the Bunnymen and Killing Joke through to Blur have found inspiration on this unique, if slightly sulphurous-smelling, rock. The "environmental" school of rock criticism, which likes to find clues to a band's sound in the landscape from whence they came, had a field day with this kind of material when it came to The Sugarcubes. But, in a way, they had a point. Iceland has, historically, been extremely isolated and The Sugarcubes' oddness must surely have been forged from this Galapagos-like isolation. They are an extremely Icelandic band.

So, when Björk Gudmundsdottir, Einar Orn, Thor Eldon, Bragi Olafsson, Sigur Baldursson and Magga Ornolfsdottir announced a 20-year anniversary reunion as a fundraiser for Smekkleysa (which has continued to operate as a non-profit label nurturing Icelandic talent), they were able to hold it in Reykjavik's biggest indoor arena, knowing that proud Icelanders would fill it. This is their heritage.

But it's mine too. I still have a photo of myself conducting the third-ever British interview with the 'Cubes (for London Student). Björk's wearing a red kiddie-dress and Dr Martens, I'm wearing blue hair and a puzzled expression, listening to their unusual theories (for example, the idea that you haven't really had sex unless it produces a child). Looking at it now, I zoom back to those times in a Proustian rush. Seeing them onstage again - Björk in a silver dress but still wearing DMs, a child woman in kick-to-kill boots - and hearing "Birthday" after two decades, I'm similarly transported. But "Birthday" was always a red herring (a local delicacy, no doubt, tinned for export). In the same way that solo Björk - often a risk-taking, innovative artist - is often unfairly viewed as some coffee-table-kooky nightmare hybrid of Sade and Lauper, The Sugarcubes were wishfully imagined as a thing of ethereal, cut-glass prettiness.

It was the same people, by and large, who wished that Einar Orn - the band's ranter, disruptor and deliberate irritant, somewhere between Mark E Smith and Timmy Mallett - would shut up and let Björk get on with it. But to wish for this was to misunderstand The Sugarcubes, whose roots were in anarcho-post-punk, and who never cared much about Great Crossover Potential (the ironic title of their hits compilation). There was always an edge to the Sugarcubes; they were never mere Junior Cocteaus. They always had the Dadaist impulse to draw a musical moustache on the Mona Lisa's face. Tonight, it's telling that when Einar lets out a scream like Graham Norton's Father Noel Furlong, Björk's grinning with glee.

Rumour has it they only had two rehearsals for this show (and Björk needs a lectern to remind her of the lyrics), but that chimes with the band's spontaneous, DIY spirit. Ready or not, they play almost all of their classic debut Life's Too Good, along with later selections like "Hit" and "Regina", alternating between English and Icelandic versions.

Einar, who unquestionably loves the sound of his own voice, acknowledges the presence of "many foreigners", then appears to be having a joke at our expense. He says something innocuous in English, then delivers an Icelandic translation which has the locals roaring with laughter.

As well they might. Reykjavik's is a small, incestuous scene. As the city's reputation as a party destination grows, its isolation will decrease. But if Smekkleysa can keep producing oddball bands on the proceeds from this show, the New Sugarcubes might not be far away.

There are people out there who will corner you at parties and tell you that Billy Joel was a cool, cutting-edge kinda' guy, once upon a time. If they sense you're amenable, they may even venture a case for Andrew Gold, or even Gilbert O'Sullivan, and utter the phrase "before punk came along and ruined everything". The correct course of action is, clearly, to edge gently away. Or, at least, it was.

Suddenly, in the wake of Scissor Sisters and the success of Sean Rowley's Guilty Pleasures, their aesthetic is in the ascendant. And they'll surely be organising ticker-tape cavalcades for the arrival of Mika. The rakish, tousle-haired and terrifyingly talented 22-year-old, who spent his upbringing between London, Paris and Lebanon (which spells "ruling class") and was trained at the Royal Opera (which all but confirms it), isn't as horrendous as those comparisons would suggest. This bright young thing, who carries himself with the battleship confidence of someone for whom nothing in life has ever gone wrong, has more in common with the intelligent end of MOR (10cc, Harry Nilsson, Supertramp), and has an ear for a killer melody.

There are other people out there doing this sort of thing at least as well, notably Paul St Paul And The Apostles, and Xavior Roide at his Hanky Panky Cabaret club, but Mika's the one with the Casablanca record company and the adoring (if somewhat Horse and Hound-y) cult following, so good luck to him.

His sometimes off-key falsetto has me fearing for the mirrors on the walls, and the jokey cover of the Proclaimers' "500 Miles" (coupled with the drummer's deely-boppers) tickles my Irony Detector slightly, but when you hear the hysterical skylarking chorus of "Grace Kelly", or the brain-snagging hook of "Lollipop", you're not gonna care.

s.price@independent.co.uk