Despite having produced the album of the year, watching Brooklyn’s mope-rockers The National is a somewhat frustrating experience. Clearly, even though they are five years into their existence as a band, they still haven’t quite mastered this whole live performance gubbins. Fair dos most of the tracks are fairly intense brooding affairs so a “Helllllllo Caaaaaamden!” between numbers would quite possibly cheapen the effect but the stage silences probably actually reflect nerves and looking at their static shoegazing heads during the set displays not only a bald spot but suggests a group lacking self confidence. This is all a shame because the quality of much of the material aired merits better. I don’t expect the full RAAAWK experience to accompany the maudlin mood of the music (so a speaker stack leaping guitarist or erm windmilling violinist might be excessive) but something at least a bit more visually compelling from five of the six performers wouldn’t have gone amiss.

The one man who is excluded from this criticism however is the frontman, Matt Berninger, who whilst also appearing slightly nervous emits a rather splendid aura of tortured genius; the skinny side clutching, the distant gaze, the serious demeanour. About two thirds of the way into the show he additionally delivers the movement we’ve been seeking as he mounts a monitor, reaches up to the ceiling and digs up a gut-wrenching Cave meets Cohen howled delivery that risks a seared larynx. By then most of the audience have finally started to perk up too. As they roll out the epic Mr November with its goosebump raising escalation of emotions most realise they have seen something special after all.

They are preceded by World Leader Pretend, apparently named after an old REM song though it would have been more apt to have picked a Jive Bunny b-side, so poor was the material. A wishy washy set of MOR US rock with funky bass was only made interesting by our efforts to work out who was the ugliest band member. The Leo Sayer perms of two of them had the edge and the wobbly headed bassist’s buffoonery would have won it but for the supreme efforts of the drummer and his preposterous gurning technique. If he’d popped a Satsuma in his tongue lolling mouth we’d have assumed the bug-eyed biffer was endulging in a rather public act of auto-erotic asphyxiation...

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