Gig played on 22/09/05

Three shiny new things to get excited about. Two bands, one venue. A converted cinema on Kilburn High Road, The Luminaire is a tasteful, dare we say sophisticated addition to London's gig circuit. It's clearly been converted with live music in mind - a cute photo pit, a decent lighting rig, superb sound - and has enough idiosyncratic touches - the glitter ball in a domed recess above the band, for one - to give it a charm far removed from your regular pitstop. Impressive stuff.

Not that you'll be seeing either of these bands at the Luminaire ever again. This is one of those "last-stop before stardom" double bills that makes gig going in the capital worthwhile.

Following on from the gorgeous lo-fi psychedelia of their debut album, "The Debt Collection", a few months back, The Shortwave Set turn-out to be as glamorous as the music they create. Singer Ulrike Bjornse, resplendent in a green dress that probably last saw service at an ambassador's reception, has the quiet cool of a true star, while her foil, Andrew Petitt (besuited of course, but with a white t-shirt under his pin stripe jacket) tinkers with all manner of bizarre instruments - some sort of zither, a cylinder with a piece of string coming out of it, and, shock horror, an acoustic guitar.

The songs, meanwhile, don't lose a touch of dreaminess in a live setting. Unlike the band they've been compared the most to - St Etienne - The Shortwave Set seem to create music that's a genuine reflection of their own eccentricities. "Repeat To Fade" feels even more swoonsome now we're faced with Ulrike's supremely distracted delivery, and the banjo picking on "Better Than Bad" is perfect. Give them a decent support tour - like, say, the Goldfrapp one they're about to begin - and whack a song on a TV ad - we suggest Green & Blacks chocolate - and they'll be megastars before you can say "fancy coming round for dinner?"

Along with Brooklyn's Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Glasgow's My Latest Novel are the new indie thing to get overexcited about this season. They kick-off with a brooding Godspeed-style instrumental, all distant thunder and plaintive violin, before edging into a territory that's equal parts Arcade Fire and Hope Of The States. At times it feels as if they've invented a brand new subgenre - the post rock sea shanty, anyone? - the folkish, almost chanted melodies and harmonies merging beautifully with the gathering noise. "When We Were Wolves" is a definite highlight, the suitably intense singer clinging onto his mic stand like this is his last chance, leaving his mini-orchestra of compadres to delight in all manner of blood red melodramatics.

No doubt about it - your latest obsession has just entered the building.

by Ian Watson