Few rock 'n' rollers from the Sixties still seem able to carry off a rock performance with grace and aplomb.

Either they continue to strike youthful poses that seem more incongruous with each passing year, like the Rolling Stones, or choose to adopt a more mellow, adult style, like Marianne Faithfull.

Ray Davies, on the other hand, played a set that merged the songs of his younger and older selves without the least trace of embarrassment.

Looking cool but nonplussed as to the vagaries of fashion, Davies skipped energetically around the stage in his white tennis shoes and black drainpipes with unselfconscious elan.

During his two-hour set, Davies largely played material from his new album with a band that seemed well-rehearsed and astute about the potential for mood variation within Davies' songs.

The guitar-playing of Mark Jones may at times have sounded a little too slick and American for the very English wistfulness of Davies' material but it worked fine on songs such as To The Bone, an Eighties shot at a sophisticated rock-soul ballad.

Davies engaged with the audience, weaving stories between the songs of his pre-Kinks youth, his rivalry with his brother Dave and the creation of the early Kinks sound by inserting knitting needles into a small, green eight-watt amplifier.

By the time Davies started the first of his three encores, he had managed to get the audience to forget the daunting opulence of the Concert Hall and start dancing in the aisles.

The best songs were, of course, saved for last - Waterloo Sunset, Lola and Days - songs that sound as right and moving coming from the older, wiser Davies as they did when originally released.

Review by Jay Clifton, features @theargus.co.uk