Robert Plant, Astoria, London

Whole lotta legend

Although the Government may feign concern about the inability of Britain's motley line-up of hoofers, greeters and singing waiters to sell any records in the US, at one time, British acts shifted insane quantities in the American heartland, and without compromising their native qualities. The biggest act of all were, of course, Led Zeppelin, so unconcerned about the commercial potential of their blend of electric blues, English folk and eastern influences that they didn't even bother to release singles.

Although the Government may feign concern about the inability of Britain's motley line-up of hoofers, greeters and singing waiters to sell any records in the US, at one time, British acts shifted insane quantities in the American heartland, and without compromising their native qualities. The biggest act of all were, of course, Led Zeppelin, so unconcerned about the commercial potential of their blend of electric blues, English folk and eastern influences that they didn't even bother to release singles.

Twenty years after their demise, following the drummer John Bonham's death, they retain a fascination that unites generations. The image of them crossing the world in their jet, pausing only to headline the occasional stadium full of baying, stoned kids, lives on in movies such as Almost Famous, and was memorably spoofed in the video for Cornershop's terrific last single (which even slipped in some morris dancing).

Which is why this distinctly un-stadium-like venue is rammed, with several hundred outside trying to negotiate entry, to see a genuine rock legend at a civilised distance.

Robert Plant may no longer be the golden god who led Zeppelin (sorry). Though his flowing locks are intact, he looks like he's just stepped off a yacht. But his distinct voice is perfectly intact, and, to his credit, his solo career continues on its erratic but endearingly eclectic path.

Backed by a band including a couple of members of Portishead's live line-up, notably the crack drummer Clive Deamer, Plant playfully leads them through an entertaining set of unlikely covers, the odd Zep classic and a handful of tunes from his solo career. Though Deamer may not possess the thump of Bonham (the kit is mixed too low throughout), exciting versions of "Four Sticks" and "Celebration Day" are ecstatically received, while the acoustic idyll of "Going To California" is strangely touching. (Of course, when Zep actually visited the state, they usually hung out with under-age groupies on Sunset...)

Plant's most recent tours have seen him leading a pick-up band of old friends called Priory of Brion (yes, it is apparently a Monty Python reference), playing selections of his favourite old songs at unlikely venues (Kidderminster Tennis Club, anyone?). His new album Dreamland, his first solo effort in nearly a decade, sustains the theme, including a range of covers from Bob Dylan to Tim Buckley, Moby Grape to the Youngbloods.

Tonight, he performs not one, but two tunes by Love's Arthur Lee, recently released from incarceration and currently touring Britain himself, an intriguing deconstruction of "Hey Joe", all loops and familiar moans, and his new single, an impressive version of Tim Rose's "Morning Dew". But best of all is the sincerity in the performance. These are songs that this fiftysomething millionaire obviously loves and he's not selling them, but sharing them. This was a refreshing display from a man with nothing to prove.