In the 1970s, when his records sold millions and he was known as The Phenomenon, much was unique about Demis Roussos. He certainly looked unique. His considerable girth, beard and long hair would have marked him out even if he had not chosen to team a tarpaulin-like kaftan with platform boots.

The Phenomenon's commercial demise was equally singular. In Britain, his career never quite recovered from the scene in the Mike Leigh movie Abigail's Party where Alison Steadman sways gormlessly to Forever and Ever. Roussos had always looked like a punchline on legs, now he had become one - something ghastly that naff suburbanites indulged in thinking it made them look exotic. Roussos took his tremulous voice off to Russia, where he is still a superstar.

Here, Roussos has been unhip for 25 years. No one, however, seems to have told tonight's audience. When he appears, his kaftan mercifully abandoned in favour of a black suit, middle-aged women leap from their seats. The stewards wisely step aside as they thunder to the front. It's chaos down there. Their arms stretch out, desperate to touch the hem of his coat. Luckily, there's plenty of hem to go round: the years may have wreaked havoc on his hairline, but his stomach at least is still Phenomenal.

Roussos drinks it in, head back, chins out, a pose that troublingly recalls footage of Mussolini in full oratorical flow. His band display a suspicious ability to fade songs out, as if someone is turning the volume down on a tape, but Roussos is in fine voice. His recent material is dark and eastern, but the ladies want the vintage stuff, sappy songs about islands in the sun and his friend the wind, every one rich with memories of that retsina-soaked fortnight in Falaraki.

Roussos obliges, radiating an endearing, characterful warmth. As he dances about the stage like a delighted uncle at a boozy wedding, he is impossible to dislike and - as ever - utterly unique.