Jarvis Cocker, his graceful fingers pushing his fringe out of his eyes, is discussing a sartorial challenge. "I can't get my shirt to tuck in," he frets. "I've not worn it before. Bad choice. Too stiff." The same could be said about Pulp's decision to play in this visually stunning but atmosphere-free part of Kent. With its souvenir shop and lovingly cared-for greenery, Bedgebury inspires a respectful tranquillity in the air and a muted detachment on stage. Sex, drugs and rock'n'roll remain strictly lyrical affairs.

Pulp have been around so long, dissecting kitchen-sink dramas with nagging keyboard rhythms and disco basslines, that their charisma, once founded on their basis as perpetual outsiders, now lies in their secure place in the pop establishment. Cocker is so integrated into public consciousness that the audience are here as much for the monologues as the music.

And he doesn't disappoint. During the claustrophobic and desperate Feeling Called Love, Cocker prowls the stage, snatching at the air and throwing himself into a spin like a cat tormented by an invisible ball of string. Then he thinks for a moment. "I dedicate that one to my wife-to-be, because she hates it," he announces. "Put that on after the first dance and it'll be the shortest marriage in history."

Cocker's wry humour is intrinsic to Pulp, but tonight, despite a short burst of R Kelly's I Believe I Can Fly (sung to a wooden bird), the mood is one of reflection rather than joy. The latest album, We Love Life, uses nature as a metaphor for the mundane, and although the new material ripples and sparkles, it never leaves the ground. Sunrise is slight until a heady rush of beats kick-starts your heart. Cocker jumps around the stage like an overexcited kid at his first school disco. Although he dances with abandon, his face remains poker-straight.

This Is Hardcore is majestic and Help the Aged tender, but both maintain the downbeat mood. Even Sorted for E's and Wizz sounds less like a celebration of misguided decadence than a weary government health warning to Just Say No.

But when Pulp lighten the mood, they're fantastic. A surprise rendition of their 1989 single My Legendary Girlfriend is revelatory, Cocker's low whisper and tiny gasps are sexy against the rhythm. Joyriders is a menacing singalong. But Pulp prefer to play with rather than on nostalgia: when they turn Common People into something from Joy Division's Unknown Pleasures, they take their albatross and wring it by its neck. If only they had had this much fun earlier.

· Pulp play Roseisle Forest, Moray (01842 814612) on June 21, then tour.