Last month, Q magazine asked whether Mick Hucknall was a "victimised flame-haired soul Lothario or just a massive wanker", which summed up what people think of Hucknall. To some, he is the finest white singer of his generation, who should receive more headlines for that than for having Martine McCutcheon vomit over him. To others, especially generations of jealous men in pubs, he is a tabloid-hogging, Manchester United-supporting, little ginger so-and-so with thousands of notches on his bedpost, most of them from models.

To the outsider, Hucknall's legendary success with ladies is one of the mysteries of the modern world. An expert in the audience explains: "He's got a nice smile... but I wouldn't go for him."

Hucknall attributes it to his singing, which brings to mind Mrs Merton's: "So what attracted you to the multimillionaire Paul Daniels?" But, as his vocal pipes are amplified into a gigantic arena, you suspect he may be right.

Now in his 40s, Hucknall seems to be experiencing a weird reverse Samson effect, where he sounds better as he gets older and loses his hair. His crystal vocals enrich Bob Dylan's Positively 4th Street and the Stylistics' You Make Me Feel Brand New. The Lothario image conceals the fact that Hucknall is one of pop's great music fans. He started the Blood & Fire record label to showcase obscure Jamaican music and here relishes Gregory Isaacs' Night Nurse and Dennis Brown's Money in My Pocket, ravishingly delivered in the style of rivals New Order. Lest we forget, he has some songs of his own, and the new Home album segues into choice old numbers like the exquisite Holding Back the Years, written when he was in punk band the Frantic Elevators.

It often confuses people that Hucknall's music could have been inspired by the Sex Pistols, but he clearly listened when Johnny Rotten yelled: "We mean it, man." Hucknall's passion is the key to his success in music (and, perhaps, everything else) and he puts obvious feeling into even the 1980s songs that were once harshly dubbed "designer soul". Give or take a few soul-boy shimmers, he does not play the Romeo. Neither does he say much ("I'll shut up about football").

There is no real show, just Hucknall, a perfect band and that fountain of a vocal which, to the chagrin of hot-blooded males everywhere, belongs to no one else.

· At Newcastle Arena tonight. Box office: 0870 707 8000. Then touring.