Supergrass/ The Libertines, Rock City, Nottingham

Britpop's sole survivors

The news of mercurial guitarist Graham Coxon's departure from Blur surely means that Britpop can now be legally declared dead. Not that anyone seems to have told Oxford's Supergrass, or their loyal fans, who have turned out in droves for the first date of a long- awaited national tour.

Supergrass's new album Life on Other Planets (bearing the charming catalogue number LOOP 001) has already charted, and deservedly so, for it's a consistent collection of witty, snappy songs, some of which even dare to feature the supposedly lost art of the guitar solo.

None the less, kicking off with half a dozen tunes from a largely unfamiliar record might be seen as somewhat foolhardy. The timeless Marc Bolan-isms of the opener "Za" and the languid, cynical boogie of "Seen the Light" ("I'm a rock'n'roll singer in a rock'n'roll band", croons Gaz Coombes in a voice oddly reminiscent of Bob Dylan, who wasn't) are fine songs, but are appreciated rather than adored. Not even the lovingly constructed "Can't Get Up" and "Evening of the Day", which shamelessly borrows its chorus from Spinal Tap, register.

Simply put, Supergrass are a great singles band – the punk rock Madness (as in the much-loved group) of "Mansize Rooster" and the glorious glam stomp of "Pumping on Your Stereo" prove it. If David Bowie had ever deigned to make music for drunken guests at wedding receptions, it would have sounded like this. No wonder he chose them for this year's Meltdown line-up.

So it goes. The likes of "The Sun Hits the Sky", with its deranged synth lines from Gaz's brother Rob, and recent hit "Grace" are greeted ecstatically. But excellent new songs like the catchy if impenetrable "La Song", where bassist Mickey Quinn's vocal spot bears an uncanny resemblance to that old growler Mark E Smith, and the doomy list of "Prophet 15", merely receive respect.

Supergrass are truly an anomaly. Spawned from a scene they were never really an active part of, they now occupy a position analogous to that of The Stranglers' uneasy relationship with punk. Not so much musically (though at times their keyboard-led tunes do evoke those grizzled old men), but as an entity almost beyond fashion, to be taken solely on their own terms. Who else could produce music as varied as the simple, yet very cleverly harmonised "Mary", the unwieldy, yet undeniably effective "Moving", already accepted as a classic, and their gloriously abrasive debut "Caught by the Fuzz"? They even throw in a raucous cover of "The Loner", written by Neil Young, the only performer alive with sideburns more famous than Gaz Coombes.

Such versatility is beyond the support act, London's Libertines. Though probably best known as the cover stars of the lowest-selling edition of the NME ever, this twentysomething punk quartet have something going for them, although it's concealed by their tentative playing and permanently out-of-tune guitars. Neat riffs and melodic touches pop out from the general shambles, but only the gleefully obscene "What a Waster" truly coalesces.

Their well-meaning attempts to provide the capital's riposte to The Strokes are repeatedly foiled by their sloppiness. It takes a lot of work to sound that simple. Currently they sound like a ropey Oi! band attempting Beatles covers – a cross between Sham 69 and Cast. That's a sound clash no one's proposed.