Kelly Rowland, Civic Hall, Wolverhampton<br></br>The Rolling Stones/ The Darkness, Wembley Arena, London

Who needs Beyoncé? Er...

'Wolverhampton I love you..." she sings, "Wolverhampton I need you..." but Wolverhampton is barely here to be needed or loved. The popular singer Kelly Rowland was touring the UK last week. She, in case you are unaware, is the one in Destiny's Child who is not Michelle and who is not Beyoncé (she is very much not Beyoncé); the one with the slightly equine face and the flicky, red-tipped hair. As a solo artist, Kelly is best known for twittering Whitneyishly on the (brilliant) single "Dilemma", and a couple of hits of her own.

This, however, is not enough to convince the good folks of the Midlands to turn out in force, and the Civic Hall is roughly one third full with small children. The rafters echo with the shrill hubbub of a girls' junior school canteen. When Kelly's backing singer asks, "Are you all in the house tonight?" the question is more than rhetorical. Kelly's imperious entrance, on a white chaise longue atop a celestially gleaming staircase, is therefore something of a Spinal Tap moment. I can walk, with unchallenged ease, to the very front: close enough to read the label on the sole of her cowboy boots, close enough to see the goosebumps on her legs, close enough to notice that her mumsy dress has the word "FILTH" printed inexplicably on the hem, and that, for the first song, she is lipsynching.

The most painful moment in a fairly standard R&B show - padded out with Bee Gees covers, a couple of Destiny's Child numbers and some rehearsed whiffle about how "personal" this all is to her - comes when she requests the house lights to be turned up, "so I can see you". At which point she will undoubtedly have noticed the chubby kid on the balcony holding a forlorn "I Heart Kelly" sign, and the acres of unoccupied floorboards at the back of the hall. She will perhaps have pondered that it was a little premature to be stepping out solo. She will probably have left feeling slightly depressed, but she's probably staying in a better hotel than me.

If it seems as though I am dispatching with Ms Rowland rather brusquely, I'm sorry, but the greatest rock'n'roll band in the world were also in action last week.

Yes, The Darkness are onstage at Wembley - their rightful home - and it's surely the last time they'll be doing it as someone else's guests. "Gimme an R!" orders Justin Hawkins, "Gimme an... Ollingstones!" The response is muted - the jewellery-rattlers in the posh seats have yet to arrive - but a couple of bars of the balls-out boogie of "Bareback" and the racket has people running inside to see what's going on. The Darkness may be huge now - Justin reminds us not once but twice that Permission To Land is "nestling at the top of the UK music tree" - but to this generation, they're still unfamiliar.

Like all legends, The Rolling Stones' domain is the imagination. And that, I fear beforehand, is where they ought to stay. It helps tonight that, under the stage lights and from a distance, the Stones look the same age they've looked for the last 20 years, as though their heads have been preserved, Futurama-style, in glass jars (an effect which is ruined when the Jumbotron screens give us the close up of Ronnie Wood's nobbly nose and ravined cheeks).

It also helps that the first person you see is possibly the coolest man who ever lived. Surging forward from the shadows in a jewelled bandanna and slashing out the riff to "Start Me Up", Keith Richards is doing a show all of his own tonight and even when everything else gets a little saggy - 15-minute harmonica solos from Mick Jagger, for example - he's incredibly watchable, falling to his knees and doing the splits without ever losing the ciggie in his mouth.

No wonder that he - the Vicious to Mick's Rotten - is held in more affection than Jagger has ever been. No wonder that Johnny Depp, for his role as Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates Of The Caribbean, looked to Richards for inspiration (he is, effectively, channelling Keef).

"I'm 'ere in London!" he says before his solo spot. "It's a miracle. This is called 'Slipping Away'... because I know I am..." It's a miracle, of course, that he's here at all. Bill Hicks got it right, when lampooning Richards' attempt to advise the young against drugs: "We can't take drugs, Keith! You've taken them all! We'll have to wait until you die, and smoke your ashes!" Keith Richards, of course, will never die. He's one of the immortals.

Ronnie Wood exists as a spare Keith, so if they ever lose the real one, they've got a back-up. Charlie Watts, on drums, as ever, is the serious jazz drummer, with a private smile which suggests he thinks the others are a bit silly. These - along with a bassist called Daryl and a keyboardist called Chuck - are The Rolling Stones.

One thing you're never prepared for, until you see them in the flesh, is quite how gay Mick Jagger is, in his pastel tees, boot-cut hipsters, and (at one point) a rakish trilby. In fact, he's a straight man's idea of "gay", strutting about with that weird walk, like his legs are in callipers, flinging his arms around like a camp orang-utan.

There are so many songs they could have played, so disappointment is inevitable. But, as one of the songs they do play puts it, "You Can't Always Get What You Want". And the set does include "It's Only Rock'N'Roll", "Paint It Black", "Sympathy For The Devil" and a whole Sticky Fingers section.

They encore in the round, on a mini-stage in the centre of the arena, with the gothic blues of "Little Red Rooster", the still-thrilling call to arms of "Street Fighting Man" (to which Jagger forgets words), and end with a storming "Jumping Jack Flash". As they leave, literally walking through the crowd, Keith lags at the very back, slapping hands and lapping up the love. He's probably still there now.

s.price@independent.co.uk

Kelly Rowland: Hammersmith Apollo, London W6 (020 8748 8660), tonight