It's not a rare occurrence for two bands to pass each other going in opposite directions on the escalators of rock'n'roll, but it is pretty sporting to give a support slot to the band who not only want your old job but are already halfway to getting it. Then again, Travis know the rules, having effectively supplanted Oasis in the nation's affections at the end of the 90s, only to find themselves emotionally outgunned by Coldplay a year or two later.
And if there is anyone who really needs to feel threatened by Keane, it is those bedwetters-in-chief; the more Chris Martin is distracted by yoga and water births, the less thought he can give to the yearnings of white, undersexed, well-heeled youth, and the more Keane are going to be called upon to fill in for them.
Tonight, with just two singles behind them, Keane get the chance to scope out the older part of an audience they may soon claim in their own right. When the otherwise remarkably feisty frontman Tom Chaplin expresses his gratitude at the fact that almost the entire audience has bothered to come in from the bar to nod along to their big-hearted anthems of sensitive young manhood, it is easy to identify the reason for the strong turn-out: Keane are, pound for pound, considerably hotter than their Glaswegian patrons.
Recently inhabiting singles chart heights Travis can only shake a wistful head at – "Somewhere Only We Know" went in at three - and sporting a surprisingly noisy piano/drums/vocal configuration which breathes new life into public school-educated, arena-scale emotional rock, Keane are the apple-cheeked heirs apparent, and when their debut album surfaces in the summer, theirs will very likely be the terrain Travis and others once surveyed with such pride.
Travis, meanwhile, are the definition of the band who sound great provided you only hear their songs in isolation, as they reel off hit after hit in a similar vein and you go from marvelling at quite how strong a Travis best-of would be (three songs in) to vowing not to listen to them again for at least six months (five songs in).
The political thrust of their most recent album, "12 Memories", is slightly undermined by the odd decision to kick off with vaguely cautionary lech-anthem "U16 Girls", and the clout of any given song is gradually dampened by the fact that each one offers roughly the same combination of punches.
A thoroughly comprehensive set - albeit one which nonetheless manages to omit their forgotten finest moment, the Byrds-channeling "Coming Around" - testifies to their desire to please, but when your appeal is based largely on three sincere chords and a bit of cheeky charm, you can't be too surprised when one new version after another cuts past you on the inside.
