Seeing The Dresden Dolls. It’s a little like going to a masquerade ball. As many punters as not seem to be frocked up. Black lace, top hats and stripy stockings. Masks and feathers. And more kohl and mascara than you’d need for any number of KISS concerts.

First up, Seattle-born troubadour Jason Webley woos us with his powerful voice and engaging stage manner. With a busker-inspired style, and many a polite tip of his fedora, he cajoles the audience into his act.

A sing-along about aardvarks backed by accordion and cleverly amplified foot stamping for drums is only an initial enticement. By the conclusion of his set he has a good three-quarters of the audience spinning on the spot with their hands in the air (it’s a surefire way to get wasted, he tells us) and singing and swaying to ‘The Drinking Song’.

The Dresden Dolls’ Amanda Palmer makes an unexpected appearance. After the predictable screaming dies down, she introduces Brisbane’s Zen Zen Zo Physical Theatre and coaxes half the pit into sitting on the sticky Arena floor to give the troupe room.

It’s worth the inconvenience – Zen Zen Zo transfix the audience with a visceral display. An electronic-tinged soundtrack couples with the eerie voices of locals Emma Dean and Jacob Diefenbach, while nearly a dozen white figures with disturbing dead faces writhe sinuously on stage and among the crowd. It could be a metaphor for birth – they seem to claw as though they’re emerging from shells. It could be love as, later, they cling to each other urgently. Or death of love, as finally, they murder with red, stained hands.

Whichever, it’s a crowd-silencing mindfuck.

Shortly after, The Red Paintings deliver an audio-visual rock assault. While apocalyptic imagery attacks the eye, and several painters attack either traditional canvas or more improvised human versions, the garishly outfitted Trash McSweeney and his geisha-styled colleagues rip through a spine-tingling set underpinned by the primal bass of Amanda Holmes and Andy Davis’s tight drumming.

Only the arrhythmic opener ‘It is as it was’ is a disappointment.

‘Dead Children’ and ‘Dead Adults’ are yin-yang perfection of intensity then quietness while ‘The Revolution is Never Coming’ enjoys its own mid-song mini sing-along while Trash thrashes around the stage manically.

They conclude with Trash mesmerising (perhaps literally) with a fist-sized pocket watch as cellist Wayne Jennings screams the Alice-in-Wonderland intro to ‘Streets Came in Through my Window’. Surreal stuff.

Provocative as ever, The Red Paintings should stir up US audiences on their forthcoming tour supporting The Dresden Dolls.

From the first tinkling notes that herald ‘Sex Changes’, The Dresden Dolls take an almost no mess, no fuss approach, letting the strength of the songs do the talking. The sound is incredibly good for the Arena, and the only drawback is that live, some of the finer nuances of Amanda’s vocals are traded off for sheer power.

Amanda seems all business behind the piano. By contrast, Brian Viglione is more playful behind the drums, displaying an extroverted mime-artist style that’s a delight to watch – the perfect foil for his partner.

Amanda’s gorgeous, husky voice comes to the fore for ‘Missed Me’, and Brian mimics the emotions perfectly. He huddles protectively behind his kit as she sings “I’m fragile, mister, just like any girl would be”, stretches dramatically as the song staggers like a drunkard before finally doffing his bowler and miming a kiss across at Amanda for the final lines.

Early on, we’re treated to a mix of songs from newest effort Yes Virginia … as well as their self-titled debut. But it’s too much to expect this pair to stick to the straight and narrow. Suddenly we’re off on a mid-set detour with a tour de force rendition of Black Sabbath’s ‘War Pigs’ marked by thudding drums and cascading cymbals and dramatic metal-inspired piano.

We head further off course Amanda abandons her piano and Brian takes up a guitar and the pair cover ‘Amsterdam’ – Belgian singer and composer Jacques Brel’s seamy portrayal of sailors, prostitutes and junkies.

They stay at the front, and the some of the more salacious people – of both sexes – at the front get an eyeful of Amanda’s suspenders and hot, stripy stockings. We also get an unreleased tune that’s at turns hypnotic and slow, then vibrant and gypsylike, before finally winding up with a Broadway flourish.

‘Dirty Business’ receives an enormous cheer as they settle back behind their instruments, and Brian encourages the crowd to clap in time by striking his drumsticks together over his head. ‘Mrs O’ shows off the tremendous warmth in Amanda’s voice while ‘Sing’ and ‘Mandy goes to Med School’ prove they’re equally at home performing melancholic, reflective numbers or jaunty, irrepressible ones. By the time ‘Good Day’ winds up the main set, it hardly feels like they’ve been playing an hour.

Returning to the stage with Jason Webley in tow, they dazzle the crowd with a most bemusing cover of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ that’s half sing-along, half philosophical argument. The banter between the three over the inanity of the lyrics is, perhaps, a little indulgent, but funny – and a welcome change from the directness of the main set. Weirdly, the song itself gets the biggest cheer, perhaps testament to the odd make-up of the all-ages gig – there’s more than one parent here in tow with their teenage child tonight.

‘Half Jack’ follows, dark, angry and intense, building, teasing and falling all the way to the final, climatic chorus. Not even a broken pedal on Amanda’s piano slows them down. Without pause, they launch the brash punk craziness of ‘Girl Anachronism’. For the first time, a mosh breaks out at the front. Up on the balconies, people are dancing madly. Sometimes it really works when you save the best for last.