The Go-Betweens are bored with critical acclaim. After 27 years, they're ready for a No 1. Alexis Petridis meets pop's odd couple.

Favoured by rock bands for its staff's laissez-faire attitude, enshrined in a song by Oasis, London's Columbia Hotel has pretty much seen it all. But heads turn as Robert Forster strides through the lobby. Forster's pursuit of sartorial elegance is fabled. In 1987, he refused to leave a hairdresser's salon until his coiffure had been dyed exactly the same shade of grey as that of Dynasty's Blake Carrington, a process that allegedly took eight hours.

Today, his rather professorial air is offset by a slightly flared Prince of Wales check suit and a pair of winkle-picker boots. He resembles the presenter of a mid-1960s late-night arts programme, an impression in no way marred by his choice of accessory: a plastic bag filled with cans of alcohol-free lager.

Forster's appearance is thrown into sharp relief by that of Grant McLennan, the other half of The Go-Betweens, who may be Australia's most acclaimed songwriting duo. Appearing reassuringly normal in T-shirt and jeans, McLennan smokes enthusiastically and sinks pints.

The pair met at Queensland University in 1976. Forster was already in a band called The Godots - "The slogan was: 'The band everyone's waiting for' " - as well as appearing in a skit based on The Rocky Horror Show. Even in their formative stages, The Go-Betweens stood out. "Australia was very big on that sort of macho pub-rock thing," says McLennan. "In fact, it still is. The Brisbane punk scene consisted of about 80 or 90 people. We would come on stage and play softly and sing about librarians."

The duo eventually moved to England in the early 1980s. They ended up living in London with fellow Antipodean expat Nick Cave and his band The Birthday Party, then at the height of their heroin-fuelled debauchery. After a peculiar, squawking debut album, Send Me A Lullaby, The Go-Betweens went on to make a string of remarkable guitar-pop records throughout the 1980s, on which intelligent, literate lyrics were perfectly balanced by a gorgeous melodic sense.

Their songwriting styles seemed to reflect their differing personalities. McLennan wrote warm, tender songs tinged with nostalgia: the luscious Bye Bye Pride and his incredible meditation on his rural childhood, Cattle And Cane. Forster came up with darkly brooding tracks in which nervous outsiders noted that life rarely lived up to one's romantic expectations and the traffic lights on the street of love invariably turned red. Even Forster's most commercial song, the sun-dappled near-hit Streets Of Your Town, was about domestic violence.

Talking about the band's initial demise further emphasises the duo's odd-couple differences. McLennan chuckles as he discusses their 1989 split and subsequent re-formation, 11 years later: "The Time Off, as it's officially called. Other bands might call it rehab."

The Go-Betweens' failure to become superstars is part of their legend. Despite the commerciality of their records, a brief flirtation with a major label in the mid-1980s came to nothing ("We were a neck-and-neck priority with Madonna for about a minute," says McLennan). But the phrase "critically acclaimed" clings to The Go-Betweens as if part of their name. After some thought, McLennan can recall a solitary bad review in three decades: "I think we got slammed in Rolling Stone once." More often, each new offering inspired journalistic hysteria. Not a word of it translated into commercial success. The band's initial split was precipitated not just by the usual artistic differences and personal conflicts but also by penury. "We were broke," says Forster. "We had made all these records and we were still scratching around for $1,500 a week to pay wages."

Forster's former girlfriend Lindy Morrison quit as the band's drummer with a doleful epitaph: "The only people who liked us were a fistful of wanky journalists and some students." McLennan looks a bit put out when reminded of the quote. "There's a certain amount of truth in it. It's no more glib or unhelpful than some of Robert's statements about us not being able to do a greatest-hits album because we didn't have any hits." McLennan says they would trade critical acclaim for commercial success at the drop of a hat. Forster agrees. "I adore critical acclaim. But commercial success would lead us into new pastures. Suddenly, I would wake up and the whole set would change." His face becomes wistful. "Limousines, five-star hotels, a new experience. We could earn so much money that we could go back to being critically acclaimed later."

There is the faintest suggestion that such a Faustian pact might not be necessary. McLennan and Forster reactivated the name The Go-Betweens in 2000, after a decade of solo projects and inevitable critical acclaim. Perhaps uniquely in a world of disappointing re-formations, McLennan and Forster reconvened on top form. Their current album, Bright Yellow Bright Orange, is set to be their biggest seller. Such things are relative, but this is still an unexpected Indian summer.

McLennan and Forster agree that The Go-Betweens fit in better now than in the 1980s. "I think the climate now is a lot better," says Forster. "Bob Dylan's back on form, Lee Hazlewood's being reappraised. That wasn't happening in 1989. I feel more part of things now than at any time." And with that he picks up his carrier bag of Kaliber and leaves. As he walks towards the hotel's reception area, the members of a minor indie band gawp at his suit. Twenty-five years on, it seems, The Go-Betweens still stand out.

- Guardian service

The Go-Betweens play the Ambassador, Dublin, tomorrow