Goldfrapp
Union Chapel, London N1

Only certain artists triumph in the intimate, all-seated hall of the Union Chapel in Islington, north London: those who can rise above the haphazard clamour of a regular gig to give a proper, thought-out performance. This is because the chapel is exactly that: a small church, with pews, elaborate stone pulpit and an intense, reverent atmosphere. No mosh-pit; no bar; no talking (the really weird aspect).

Acts such as Sigur Ros and Björk have mesmerised here; tonight, Alison Goldfrapp and her band of troubadours will attempt to do the same. They have a good chance of entertaining, at least: Goldfrapp the band are known for their sexualised cabaret live performances, with prancing human horses and Alison playing a theremin with her private parts.

Goldfrapp's latest LP, Seventh Tree, which charted last week at number two, has been described as a folk album, a surprising contrast to the glam spank-stomp of Black Cherry and Supernature, the LPs which gave the band mainstream success. Actually, it's more a return to the dreamy, soaring sounds of Felt Mountain, Goldfrapp's debut.

And it's 'Paper Bag', from Felt Mountain, that starts the evening. A whistle from the back of the church, a burst of song and then a succession of figures emerges on to the stage. First, the four-strong violin section; then keyboardist; then harpist. All women and all clad in short, snow-white smocks. Here come the chaps: electric violinist, guitar, bass and drums, similarly ghostly. The violinist is rocking some neat tennis shorts. (None is Will Gregory: 50 per cent of the in-studio Goldfrapp, Gregory stopped performing some time around the time everyone on stage was required to wear antlers.)

And finally, Ms Goldfrapp herself: also besmocked, but in pale pink, with dangling pompoms and brown leather pixie boots. Her hair is curly; eyes smoky; legs bare. Alison usually gets her thighs out for her art: this is the first time I've seen her do so without accompanying enormo-heels. There's something touching about her bare knees. Her silhouette is soft. She's shrugged off her familiar dominatrix armour.

'Paper Bag' has an incessant guitar thrum and noises that remind of John Barry or Roy Budd (creator of the Get Carter soundtrack). The live strings swell to fill the chapel. 'A&E', the current single, follows: husky and sweet, vast and warm. The first plink-plonks of 'Utopia', also from Felt Mountain, get a round of applause, the audience aware it's witnessing something special and knowing the track is a chance for Alison to let her opera voice rip. She does so, easily, arm aloft, fingers spread, a kohl-eyed Wicker Woman. The pulpit looms behind her, but she doesn't need it.

The Union Chapel necessitates intimacy between performer and audience. It's not just that Alison is close enough to see the whites of our eyes; she could reach out and tickle the front two rows if she wanted. If this makes her uncomfortable, she's enough of a performer to hide it; it's only as she relaxes into the gig that you realise she might have felt shy to begin with. She doesn't speak until after the fifth song, 'You Never Know', when she announces: 'I know I don't say much, but um, yeah.' And she giggles, a cosy and unusual sound from a woman who usually spends at least part of her performance time flexing a whip before horse-headed dancers or marching in boots and cap like an ooh-naughty-boy air hostess.

Tonight, she is low key, rarely lifting her maypole microphone from its stand, turning away from the audience, letting the music do the work. Sympathetic projections - of rustling trees, graphic shards, kaleidoscope flowers - accompany the songs and mask the musicians. Occasionally, flickering tea-lights cast a pink glow. All very romantic, but, thankfully, the music is far from twee. Goldfrapp's bucolic frolics might occasionally recall the swirling Cocteau Twins, the thump of 'Strict Machine' might be no more (no songs from Black Cherry are played), but there's still a driving beat behind most of the songs, a reason to stamp your farmer's feet. And Alison's voice ranges from breathy to soaring, redemptive. This is bold stuff.

So bold, in fact, that at the end of 'Little Bird', the band are confident enough to (blimey!) go prog: the song transforms into a genuine psychedelic wig-out. Proper British bohemia. In fact, much of this gig has an air of early 70s hippiedom: when the long hairs lost their naivety and woke up to a world that wasn't as wonderful as they'd hoped.

Seventh Tree is an album that charts the demise of a love affair and tonight's concert seems to travel from exquisite suffering to joy, conveying yearning and disappointment followed by hope. 'Monster Love' is uplifting; Alison even allows herself a smile. 'Number One', from Supernature, is dirty, 80s synthtastic. 'Clowns', just gorgeous. The stand-out, for me, though, is 'Happiness', one of the encores, an optimistic singalong that gets the crowd clapping in time and Alison stomping with abandon, swirling her arms, calling to her string section, a defiant sprite.

This was an enchantingly intimate evening; designed for its environment and a privilege to witness. As was Alison's transformation from scary goddess to something more frail, more human. A standing ovation seems only polite and that's what Goldfrapp gets.