Still not taking themselves seriously

The Pet Shop Boys have become such a savvy live act that these days their strengths and weaknesses on record dovetail with their performances. Their kind of dance music is too elegant ("tweed-thump," let's call it) for the staid venues they often book; Neil Tennant's voice has grown increasingly wan; their non-existent American profile suppresses audience enthusiasm for their post-1988 material. (I was helpless with embarassment when the crowd returned to their seats as "Left To My Own Devices" segued into "I'm With Stupid.")

At the Jackie Gleason Center for the Performing Arts (really), the Boys mixed rarely played singles and album tracks ("Heart," "Shopping," and "Dreaming of the Queen" made welcome appearances) with tracks from current album Fundamental; "Minimal" and "Integral" thumped like new classics. I blame budget cuts for the second-rate dancers and Tennant's mere half-dozen costume changes (big points for the Russian kommissar getup he sported for "The Sodom & Gomorrah Show," which, incidentally, got the Andrew Lloyd Webber treatment it deserved). Tennant, wearing a top hat and jacket like David Copperfield's Mr. Murdstone for most of the evening, radiated bonhomie and slyness, the best kind of funny uncle. Age hasn't withered Chris Lowe's blankly sexy miming at the keyboard or his way with a yellow raincoat.

Bah humbug to the caviling. The audience represented Miami at its best: Euro muscle-queens, fag hags, and the occasional hetero couple gingerly mouthing lyrics. It drowned out Tennant during the impressive muscle-flexing which comprised the concert's final third: "Where The Streets Have No Name," "It's A Sin," and "Go West." Hell, my group (my straight best friend, his coworker, and her 17-year-old nephew) drowned me out. At their best the Boys prove that middle-age doesnt signal encroaching twilight so much as a stranger kind of dusk.