Edwin Starr was never under any illusions about his position in the 1960s Motown hierarchy. He once remarked: "There was a class system. The Supremes were royalty and I was carrying the buckets." But, in 1970, he won his own bit of enduring fame with the blaring anthem War, assuring himself a place on soul revival tours until he hangs up his sequinned blouson for good.

Sixty this month, Starr still seems a long way from pipe and slippers. If anything, the stamina evinced at this show makes him something of a medical phenomenon. Where his contemporaries would be slipping offstage for oxygen, gravel-voiced Starr rumbles through his 90-minute set without a break, apparently siphoning energy from the young audience.

At least half the rammed house were in nappies when Starr was last a star, yet every last one knows all the words to War. The intro is one of the most distinctive in pop history, and the crowd is right on cue. He needs only rasp "War!" to elicit an instant, euphoric "What is it good for?" Starr replies "Absolutely nothing!" and we sing, far less tunefully "Say it again!" This probably explains why it turns up surprisingly early in the show, its strident call and response format adrenalising Starr for the rigours of the even sweatier Agent Double 0 Soul and H.A.P.P.Y. Radio.

His repertoire - which includes tributes to Jackie Wilson, Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding, a misty Dock of the Bay proving he can do pensive as persuasively as gritty - was long ago pruned to cabaret perfection. Grasping the futility of trying to compete with young bling-bling merchants such as Sisqo, he offers up old hits and nothing but. Although chugging through, say, the blustery disco-era Contact for the millionth time must hold the same thrill as brushing his teeth, he has been gifted with a voice that refuses to convey anything but commitment.

The hotel-lounge version of James Taylor's MOR classic You've Got a Friend was the only naff moment in a supremely entertaining show - it just made the rest sound all the better.