Fresh from a tailoring session downstairs, Britain’s reigning kings of subtly cynical dance-pop, the Pet Shop Boys, have retired to the super-elite crow’s nest at the Groucho Club, London’s swank drinking establishment to the starts. They look relaxed, casual. Dressed down in matching puffy gray sweatshirts and nondescript dark trousers, keyboardist Chris Lowe and vocalist/lyricist Neil Tennant curl up in a corner booth, sip soft drinks (it’s still afternoon, they explain; band rule No.1: no serious drinking before 7 p.m.), and drolly begin cataloguing their astute artistic likes/dislikes, passions that have influenced everything from their disco-bubbly Please debut in ’86 9on EMI) to their thoughtful, operatically intricate new Nightlife project for Sire/London. Split-second thoughts/non sequiturs are blipping around the little room like an errant Pokemon pinball. Keep both hands on the flippers ~ you just might keep up.

Tennant, 45, is tall, regally poised, with the scholarly spectacles, impeccable diction and slightly thinning hair of a well-tenured Oxford professor. Lowe ~ who's "not too bloody happy" about turning 40 a few weeks earlier ~ is shorter, a tad stockier and even quicker with a bawdy joke than his lightning-fast partner; the Jerry Lewis to Tennant's unflappable Dean Martin.

Lowe's favorite film is 'The Sound Of Music ~ he relishes the Baron Von Trapp role, as played by Christopher Plummer. Tennant, on the other hand, prefers the stark black-and-white visuals of Joseph Losey's 'The Servant', a '63 shocker in which butler Dirk Bogarde manipulates his malleable master through sexual cunning. He adored the film so much, he adds, he bought a house on the same street where it was filmed, in Chelsea. Both musicians go ape over the glossy camp of director John Waters and can quote lines liberally from Hairspray, Pink Flamingos and their agreed-upon hall-of-famer, Serial Mom. "I mean, the Court scene, where Kathleen Turner tells the jury 'She doesn't recycle;" Tennant chortles while munching on a peculiar UK snack called Twiglets. "I think Waters makes realistic films, the kind you don't usually get from Hollywood. Like, Divine doing the ironing in Hairspray -- now that's real American life!"

When it comes to art, Lowe enjoys discussing the work of Mark Rothko; Tennant would rather rail about New York Mayor Rudolph Giuliani's recent opposition to the controversial Brooklyn Museum exhibit "Sensation: Young British Artists From the Saatchi Collection." ("I've seen it," the singer growls, "and it's unbelievably stupid, what they're saying~it is not sacrilegious.") Topics spring eternal: Michael Powell, Michael Stipe, Rick Astley, the Scorpions, outrageous off-Broadway, drag-centered productions of The Bad Seed and Hedwig and the Angry Inch. The conversation finally comes to rest on pet zingers from TV's The Simpsons ~ the Pet Shop Boys, it soon becomes apparent, could battle each other to the death on this one. Then Lowe changes the subject again: "We were reading about this new hotel in Las Vegas called Paris, and it said in the arti-cle about it that they fly over fresh croissants from France every day." He scratches his short-shaved noggin, crunches another Twiglet and smirks. "Of course, the obvious thing is, they won't be fresh by the time they've reached Las Vegas. It's sheer stupidity." "And then they'll shove 'em in a microwave!" Tennant chimes in. "And say 'Here! That came from Paris 13 hours ago!'" And, in their own playfully roundabout fashion, the Pet Shop Boys have just stumbled upon the central theme of their own lowbrow-lyrics- meet-highbrow-melodies craft. As Tennant so eloquently phrases it, "We don't see why you can't have perfection. Or why everything that you do can't be beautiful, or why you should have to compromise." Sure, he admits, there are simple methods to arrive at their often complicated compositions. "But we do things the difficult way in the hopes that something beautiful will grow out of the sheer difficulty of it all. It's like pop art, a hit like Serial Mom--what we like to do is take a mundane reality about life and put it against a gorgeous musical background, pit sexiness or sleaziness against a beautiful, austere chorus. And we also aim to create a little culture of our own ~ a Pet Shop Boys culture that doesn't necessarily relate to anything that's going on in dance or pop music.

Via an anachronistic, pulsing style that Tennant once gleefully referred to as "disco," the duo has succeeded where most of its peers have failed. If you picked up on the tongue-in-check humor of early PSB hits like "West End Girls" and "Rent" (with Tennant digging his nasal-toned chops deep into the acidly houseboy chorus: "I love you /You pay my rent"), then you understood the band's ensuing kitschy career. After meeting at a London electronics shop, Lowe (an architecture major from Liverpool) and Tennant (a disgruntled rock journalist from the bratty Smash Hits) went on to work with Dusty Springfield and Liza Minnelli (giving both artists their first hits in years, conceived tours and/or videos with such stellar filmmakers as Derek Jarman and Bruce Weber, and managed to couple U2 and Frankie Valli (the sensibly nonsensical dance take on “Where the Streets Have No Name [I Can’t take my Eyes Off You]”). The duo also brilliantly updated that old Village- People chestnut, “Go West” (Tennant is quite open about his alternative lifestyle, and the Pet Shop Boys, in turn, have headlined not only London Gay Pride festivals, but a ’97 Stonewall Equality Show at the Royal Albert Hall – the set included “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” from The Sound of Music).

Their stage shows -- exuberant affairs with props, dancers, and constant costume changes --have been abetted by opera designers David Alden and David Fielding (“Performance”; ’91); artist Sam Taylor-Wood (a 97 residency at London’s Savoy Theatre, where they ‘interacted” with a filmed drunken party); and noted architect Zaha Hadid (who’s revolved the Boys’ current concert around huge interlocking modular pieces). Behind all the flippant frivolity lurks a strong intellectual heart and a keen melodic ear. Lowe and Tennant aren't kidding around about kidding around.

Take, for example, the shuffling Nightlife processional "Vampires," says Lowe, while Tennant trundles downstairs to field a cellular call. Like most PSB tracks, it's evenly divided, creatively speaking. Lowe (who shrugs off his instrumental arsenal as "just a bunch of keyboards and samplers and all that kinda stuff") pens the music first, then his pal conjures up the appropriate wordplay. While a piano filigree tiptoes over a hiss-clicking synth rhythm (buttressed by a sinister string section arranged by Craig Armstrong, who co-produced half the disc with PSB), Tennant drones ethereal lines about being undead and, well, hungry in New Orleans. "The song is in tune with the whole theme of the album," says Lowe. "This whole nightlife sort of scenario. And I think the lyric content really matches the music very well, and we worked with Armstrong not only because he does these fantastic string arrangements, but because he likes electronic music as well, and he combines the two. He kept the arrangement very simple so it just follows the chords, fits in to create texture.

Nightlife isn’t so easily pigeonholed, though. Other Armstrong assists draw on the same dreamy "Vampires" vibe (“Closer to Heaven”, “The Only One” and a plush exiting-the-closet duet with Aussie diva Kylie Minogue, “In Denial”), but there are some plucky surprises (which will probably come as no surprise to longstanding fans): the percolating disco/techno experiment "For Your Own Good" (co-produced with Faithless maestro Rollo) and the two David Morales-enabled co-singles: the foppish, poppish "I Don't Know What You Want But I Can't Give It Any More" and the floor-packing '70s-cheeky powerhouse "New York City Boy" (which proves PSB has assimilated its "Go West" roots completely). Lowe, left to his own devices, attempts to make sense of it all. "What we do is, we write songs. And writing songs is a pretty timeless thing to do. The way you realize these songs changes over the years, as some new technology, new rhythms come in and influence what you're doing. But fundamentally, the song can still always be played on a piano or a guitar. And nowadays, dance music, even rock music, doesn't tend to be about songs anymore-it's just about an energy or a rhythm. Ours are more traditional songs, actually a melody combined with words and not just some rap over mindless chords.

"And we're quite meticulous in recording. We spend ages. And the way we work best is when we're in a room together, maybe had a bit to drink and there's lots of excitement, lots of energy, lots of euphoria. Or even some dancing. You might not imagine this," Lowe winks, "but we really get into jumping around at the studio (Yes, they've purchased their own) and thinking 'This is great!' while we're looping something, playing it a lot. That's when we're most creative, when there's an excitement about the natural writing process."

As if on cue, Tennant emerges at the top of the narrow staircase, alcoholic beverages in hand. Lowe is aghast. "Is it after 7:00?" he wants to know, a bit demandingly.

Tennant glances at his watch, looks up with a goofy grin. "Yeeeeaaaahh ... five minutes past!" Last week, he sighs, he broke his rule and started chugging wine at 4:00. And? “And I'd passed out by 11:00!”

Last year, Tennant compiled a telling tribute to one of his chief influences, Noel Coward. Twentieth Century Blues featured empathetic artists like Elton John, Paul McCartney and Robbie Williams, giving a millennium boost to Coward originals. Which reminds the calm crooner of a new phrase British journalism has dreamed up to describe 40-plus performers still dabbling in beats--Dad's Down the Disco. "Such an awful, awful phrase," he shudders, quickly finishing his glass of wine. Then he goes on to mention how much he enjoys spending time with his Lakeland terrier, Kevin--something of a rogue in the canine world. "My sister wants to have him snipped, because her dog has been snipped, but mine's still an adolescent that's basically trying to screw all the time."

Snipped? Lowe looks at Tennant. Tennant looks at Lowe. And everybody shifts a few uncomfortable inches in their seats. Getting older is OK, Tennant concludes, because you acquire wisdom as you go. And turning 40 is no big deal, he consoles his friend. "What matters is when you finally hit 75. You've survived! You've gotten that far!"

Lowe isn't buying it. "But then there's nothing left for you, now is there?"

Tennant smiles again, Cheshire-mischievous. "That’s not what I'm thinking. You can decide to do something new. I think every-one should change sex when they're 60. And rather than grow old, just stay on that slippery slope toward death. And in your 40s you can think, 'I've only got another 20 years to live as a man! I've got to start preparing to live as a woman!’”

It's up to Lowe to wrap things up in a neat Pet Shop Boys bow:
"Uhhhhhhh ... I'll do it if it works for you. But, you know, I'm, errr, just not ready to buy a whole new wardrobe….”