Adam Green @ Electric Ballroom, London

The last thing you can expect from an Adam Green show is restraint and a sense of decorum, so it’s unusual tonight that… ah wait, the lie will fall flat on its face. The first thing Artrocker witness of tonight’s jaunt is Adam Green exploding into a song about Xanex, while leaping about the stage in a leather jacket and jeans.

He’s gasping for air after just one song, before blasting into the bombastic ‘Broadcast Beach’. Like the man has a serious case of ants in his pants, there are dives left to right, flailing limbs into the front rows, and the mic is abandoned early on in favour of going with the moment.

It’s fortunate that Adam favours such foul mouth-backed and exuberant antics, as with songs like ‘Emily’ there’s a semblance with The Mavericks category of easy listening rock. But all is forgotten and forgiven by his stage presence. The man’s possessed like a randy, pissed Elvis wailing songs about wanting to be a great dancer while resembling a petulant child.

His so-called “slow jam” descends into more of a Jackson 5/hand jive number which sees him busting highly questionable moves, but gets the audience along for the ride regardless. Green tells us he considered setting up a clothing label called Little Pervert, selling military jackets to little girls, but it “didn’t work out”. With quips like these, along with the fairly immortal lyrics in ‘Pay The Toll’ sexuality – ie, “how many drugs does it take to get you out of my mind?” – it’s with a curious juxtaposition you end up grinning in disbelief.

He borrows a Russian hat from someone in the crowd for ‘Dance With Me’, then he leaves the mic in the incapable hands of his audience while riding high on shoulders at least ten rows deep. Returning for the encore, he plays three acoustic numbers, including the black humour of ‘No Legs’, which raises some obscure cheers. The band returns for a slung back number ‘Hard To Be A Girl’ and it’s hard to recall when there has been an audience so collectively enthralled with such an anti-hero.