It's easy to spot the celebrities tonight: they're the few people in the Apollo not wearing N*E*R*D trucker caps. As the Brits ceremony draws to a close across town, it seems like most of that event's guestlist have tried to gatecrash our party, not bothering to stop at the merchandising stall. In the balcony, there's Noel Gallagher, bits of Misteeq and The Sugababes, and a lot of faintly recognisable, overdressed men who are probably footballers. Bunched along the sides of the stage, meanwhile, are the ultra-glitterati, most of whom seem all too keen to dance with the most ridiculously fashionable band on the planet.
That N*E*R*D have achieved such a critical mass of adulation with their hybrid of discredited genres - '70s AOR, jazz-funk, rap-rock – seems relatively irrelevant. The crowd, stars and plebs alike, are excited by everything: Pharrell Williams' exposed knees; Chad Hugo's magically incongruous Stereolab t-shirt (that could've just been me); Shay's rubbish rapping; the plethora of brand new songs which bulk out N*E*R*D's set.
Most of the latter follow a familiar, compelling pattern of frisky and understated verses and punchier, instantly memorable choruses, with "Thrasher" and "Maybe March" possibly the strongest. It's a strange business. The band don't seem entirely familiar with the songs, the sound is ropey, and Williams' limpid falsetto isn't always in the neighbourhood of the right notes. Yet even the subtlest, wispiest songs are greeted euphorically.
Some of this is down to Williams' undeniable charisma, of course, to his disingenuously coy air. Whereas a year ago N*E*R*D's London show was propelled by Williams' anti-war rhetoric, here he seems keener on advertising his label, Star Trak. The fact that he makes the crowd sing "Star Trak" as passionately as they chanted "F*ck the war" last year is as impressive as it is dispiriting.
But N*E*R*D – and, more pertinently, their alter-ego The Neptunes – are so implicitly, justifiably trusted by us now that we believe every song is a masterpiece before we've even heard it properly. Whether the forthcoming "Fly Or Die" actually turns out to be a "Love Below" -size artistic triumph or a canny reiteration of "In Search Of..." remains to be seen. At the moment, Williams and Hugo can somehow juggle extreme credibility and pin-up idolatry, while satisfying the queue of superstars wanting to hang out with them.
So with delightful inevitability, Justin Timberlake turns up to do some funny hip-hop moves, essay a little human beatboxing and duet with Williams on lovely, outstanding versions of "Run To The Sun" and "Stay Together". A few minutes later he's back, dragging Naomi Campbell onstage (cheered up, it seems, after her reported tantrum at the Brits) to be the object of a skeletal "Frontin'". And gradually, the show becomes a bizarrely entertaining A-list jam session. Timberlake does his Stevie Wonder impression at the keyboards for "Senorita", and Williams tries to be unobtrusive on drums. By the time a sensational "Lapdance" ends the party, Crap Wyclef from the Black-Eyed Peas is rivalling Shay for expendability at the front of the stage, while a nervously stalking Dizzee Rascal just about steals the show with a lightning freestyle rap.
Undoubtedly, N*E*R*D are currently the band that VIPs need to be seen with, to show how cool and easy-going they really are: at one point, Williams requests, "absolute pandemonium" and Timberlake, clearly happy to be spontaneous for a few short minutes, enthusiastically complies. In a certain light, it looks like self-indulgent chaos to titillate the jet-trash. But when self-indulgent chaos is this invigorating, it seems ungracious to complain too loudly.
