Beyond Morrissey's bygone daffodil-waving days, literary pop has never been a spectacularly showbiz affair and usually inspires reverence more than devotion. Yet the Decemberists - Portland, Oregon's most poetic band - only have to play one acoustic guitar note and the crowd are screaming.

That they provoke the kind of fervour usually reserved for Take That reunion gigs is due to their gift for crafted character studies and vaudeville-tinged pop tunes. Their third album, Picturesque - the first available in the UK - has the same old-fashioned warmth and intellect-pricking introspection of the Kinks' Village Green Preservation Society, while exploring a modern-day world of sports-fixated fathers, engine drivers, hustlers and spies.

Though they are a little folky, there is nothing safe or stolid about the Decemberists. We Both Go Down Together has hints of REM, but singer Colin Meloy's careworn voice turns pithy as he sings of a mutual suicide pact with a "tattooed tramp, a dirty daughter of the labour camps", each melody coiling and tightening like a boa constrictor snuggling up to its prey.

Meloy's stagecraft is almost as sneaky. Within the all-American geek facade, he's a master manipulator, tackling the constant demands for certain songs head-on. "Let's hear it for British hecklers!" he says, prompting even more of the same. He toys with the climax of 16 Military Wives, turning the anti-war sentiments into a celebration: a finger in the air, feet stomping, hips swinging.

But he saves his most dramatic moment for Chimbley Sweep, pointing at each of the other four members of the band, until they theatrically fall to the floor. With Nate Query still plucking his upright bass, Meloy silently commands everyone in the crowd to sit down. A moment later, he jumps back into the song as if nothing's happened, grinning mischievously while the rest of the room scrabble ungraciously to their feet, eager to join in. Where Meloy will take us next is anyone's guess, but it'll be fun.