Few pop stars have alienated themselves from the mainstream quite so conclusively as the former David Batt. Blessed with looks, a following and, sometimes, tunes, David Sylvian nevertheless retreated to a netherworld of sporadic releases and a profile lower than an opposition front bencher. And yet he remains contrary (or broke) enough to play two nights at the Apollo with no release to promote.

Sylvian proves an elusive performer - aloof but not always cold. He rarely speaks to the audience, and glowers at latecomers, but seems genuinely touched when a male heckler shouts, "We love you!"

And the showbiz ham plays three encores. Standing to croon, he doesn't know what to do with his hands, and settles on occasionally slapping his thigh. Seated, he's like Dave Allen without the whisky, cigarette and gags, and plays a battered acoustic as rudimentarily as Madonna in order to prove his artisan credentials. His craftsman's electric guitar, unveiled on a tape-enhanced version of Blackwater, looks more Design Museum exhibit than actual instrument.

But this is complex music, and it isn't helped by a muddy, subtlety-crushing sound. His four-piece band, including his drummer brother and fellow Japan alumnus Steve Jansen, are discreet and proficient, with the exception of Matt Cooper. The messy-haired keyboardist, in white rather than regulation black, plays as if auditioning for Robbie Williams. He gurns, sings along without a mic, stands to take his solos, and seems to be having the time of his life. Perhaps Sylvian has a sense of levity after all.

The one new song, Zero Landmine, is a charity record - and sounds like it. Sylvian dips into Japan with a mesmeric Ghosts, and into his collaboration with Ryuichi Sakamoto with Forbidden Colours, but for the most part this is the closest he will get to a crowd-pleasing greatest-hits solo show. Sometimes he's mired in sludge-funk similar to Bowie's Fashion, but the quiet menace he exudes on Orpheus, and the glorious sweep of Heartbeat, show a man in command of his art.