Sting vexes variously, from his tantrically toned thighs to his annual presence as Our Man at the Grammys, where he recently picked up a trophy for the album Brand New Day to add to his groaning mantelpiece. But where he might be expected to cause the most irritation, live performance - 90 minutes of sub-jazz diddling punctuated by stuff about the rainforest, right? - is his strongest suit.
Maybe it's because, as he starts a 10-night Albert Hall run, he's found an identity that suits him. He's abandoned all pretence of musical exploration and settled into amiable croonerhood, allowing his voice and charm to carry the show. And they do, definitively. It's a long set, with too many solo "hits" (I'm So Happy I Can't Stop Crying, say, which soared to number 54 in 1996) and too few Police ones, but his insinuating drawl, still one of this country's most distinctive, and cocktail-lounge backing lull you into woozy contentment.
Sting's brought in the best talent around, including pianist Jason Rebello, pedal steel guitarist BJ Cole and a striking French rapper, who sketch melancholy fills that complement the dusky back-lighting. All very romantic, which is why we stop after Fields of Gold (properly known as Discs of Gold) to let a fan in the balcony pop the question to his girl friend. When she accepts, Sting breaks into a congratulatory Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic that has the place throbbing in communal mistiness. "I think they've mistaken me for Cilla Black," he says. What a good egg. Mick Hucknall would never have done it.
It helps that he's held on to his hair and figure, presenting a comely bit of eye candy to the ladies clustered up front, who seem to have come on a package tour, free black-and-yellow scarves thrown in. He sings Moon Over Bourbon Street directly to them in Satchmo tones dredged up from some rogue vocal repository he doesn't often visit. Winding up with Roxanne and Every Breath You Take - one can only imagine Puff Daddy's reaction to this desecration of his rap masterpiece - he sends you home feeling benignly entertained. Sting's ascent to good-egghood may put paid to any lingering memory of him in his sexpot prime, but there are worse ways to spend an evening.
• Until April 7. Box office: 0171-589 8212.
