The stage is dominated by a large, caped figure, wearing a three-foot goldfish on his head, and firing fake guns at the crowd. This bizarre creature then attacks another masked stage monster in a blitz of strobes and computer graphics. Somewhere in this chaos, Of Montreal's colourful singer Kevin Barnes flicks away his fringe and launches into the bittersweet Coquet Coquette, the killer track on their current album, False Priest.

It's actually a relatively restrained performance from the loons from Athens, Georgia, who called one album Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies: A Variety of Whimsical Verse, and have been known to perform nude. Such theatrics have kept them going through 10 albums, and innumerable costume and style changes. Here, their two dancers don banana heads, straitjackets and angel wings, while the eight musicians look like a cross between Saturday Night Fever (white suits, mad hair) and the cover of the Beatles' Sgt Pepper's (Paisley jackets), while their sunglasses are reminiscent of the Buggles.

Their music is a similar mishmash of disco and psychedelia, using everything from vocoders to harpsichords, violins to double-necked guitars, and ending up somewhere between the Scissor Sisters and the Flaming Lips, with Prince-style narratives. The gig is almost like a medley of songs; sometimes it's as if they're playing several at the same time. They play some terrific stuff, huge euphoric grooves that prompt jumping up and down - although the catchy choruses of Our Riotous Defects and the rest occasionally get lost in the cacophony.

Their performance, however, gradually starts to feel like a formula. For the deranged fairground whirl of (gulp) Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse, the dancers wear pigs' heads and throw streamers – an appropriate metaphor for a gig that falls somewhere between a silk purse and sow's ear.