Have you seen that scene in Being John Malkovich when Schwartz – played by John Cusack – creates puppets of himself, his freak-wife, and the object of his unrequited affection, Maxine? He acts out his fantasies vicariously through this puppet show and later wows the world thanks to his dexterous hands... and of course his possession of the actor (and vessel for everlasting life) John Malkovich. It’s quite amazing – a lesson in what the right kind of exposure can do for a career.

I’m shifting my weight from one foot to the other, a lager in each hand, anxiously awaiting the imminent arrival of the ageless and frequently brilliant Beck; it’s a little alarming, however, when the show starts with that slide guitar refrain to 'Loser', only for the spotlight to illuminate not Beck Hansen but an amazingly accurate miniature stage, populated by puppets of himself and his band. As cameramen clamour to find the best shot from which to transmit the action to the main screen, I can but wonder what unforeseen powers are secretly at play in the belly of this theatre... “It’s my head Schwartz, my head!”

With only a few bars played through, the man himself emerges in an identikit outfit to his puppet and to a buzz which doesn’t relent. In the opening salvo of 'Loser', 'Devil's Haircut' and 'Black Tambourine', there’s a vim and stagecraft evident that can only come from an inordinate amount of time spent on the front line. Beck’s long-term players are an evolved beast; they’re loose enough to make a grab for the hips (and where that fails, the groin), but you will not see an act as tight as this all year. Instruments are traded, records scratched, and all the while a ‘dancer’ in a shirt and tie carries an old-skool ghetto blaster and throws air-punches as he works up the crowd.

It’s in his genetic make-up for Beck to see-saw between the hipster MC and the lone guitar-toting-troubadour, but his new album, The Information, appears to be stabilising the drift. On the basis of a handful of tracks showcased tonight, including latest single 'Nausea', there’s a general continuation of the ground covered on Guero and its remix album Guerolito. It’s unlikely to supersede his best works – an even tossup between 1996’s Odelay and 2003’s Sea Change (for this writer, anyway) – but he’s still pushing and there’s few people who’ve scaled comparable heights.

Of course it’s the 24-carat classics that really shine, though. Tracks like 'Lost Cause' and 'Where It’s At' - which may have seemed slightly awkward when I first heard it all that time ago - sound like the generation-hopping standards they are, products of an eclectic career of gems that distinguish the greats from the also-rans. And that’s Beck’s real achievement: he quietly went about opening up the envelope while many were looking the other way or, more often, backwards.

In a solo acoustic slot, lodged somewhere towards the end of the set, the band sit at a laden dining table while Beck stands to deliver a strummed 'Hell Yes'. Midway through, the others break into spellbinding percussive accompaniment, utilising glasses and spoons and drawing a standing ovation as they sidle off. They make it look as natural as sitting down to play with potatoes, and I get to wondering about the logistics of getting back from the Jersey Turnpike once I’ve found Beck’s mind-tunnel.

Photograph from rollingstone.com