The failure of Lollapalooza on our shores has only made the success of giant music festivals in Britain all the more baffling. Witness the enormity of Glastonbury 2004, which took place over the weekend: a three-day romp with a bill that included, among others, the Chemical Brothers, Basement Jaxx, Oasis, Morrisey, PJ Harvey, James Brown, Orbital and Paul McCartney. This sort of camp-out-and-party festival hasn’t been seen in North America on such a large scale since the unfortunate Eden Musicfest in the mid-90s, an event many talked about at the time but has since faded from the collective consciousness—but not before losing truckloads of money.

Much like the paradox of places like Indigo and Barnes and Noble being able to offer a much wider selection of obscure books than your local mom and pop bookstore, festivals like Glastonbury and Reading benefit from an economy of scale. By virtue of being so big, it gives exposure to smaller artists who would otherwise be left in the cold. Thus the wonder of Goldfrapp’s live set being broadcast nationwide by BBC3 in an era when music programming in North America is arguably at its nadir. What would it take to see any live set on national television here? You’d pretty much have to be Britney Spears.

Since their first album, Felt Mountain, Goldfrapp has picked up a few new tricks, not the least of which is a dirtier electroclash aesthetic. Of course, electroclash as a term means practically nothing these days, so let me elaborate: Goldfrapp revels in the joy of retro synthesizers and digital sirens, painting a portrait of Alison Goldfrapp as 80s dancefloor sex goddess.

What saves Black Cherry from the irrelevance of electroclash as a genre is the apparent presence of a beating heart and a human voice. Allison Goldfrapp’s voice is too good to be forced to mimic an android, and she knows it. That’s one of the reasons why the Glastonbury crowd met the opening strains of “Train” with cheers—they know a good thing when they hear it.