Roddy Woomble, Idlewild's coolly lethargic lead singer, is standing at the edge of the stage bathed in pink lighting and public adoration, his arm wrapped around his mic stand as though it were a very good friend. As the majestic pomp of You Held the World in Your Arms swims around him and teenage girls shriek at his feet, it is clear that Idlewild have grown from fresh-faced indie hopefuls to defiant pop contenders.
The mystery is how they did it. When Idlewild released their 1998 debut album, Hope Is Important, all they had were squawking guitars and a Sonic Youth obsession. They were sweet and sincere but nothing special, receiving only cursory attention.
Four years on, Idlewild are a very different proposition. On CD, their faintly grubby, chugging rock has been replaced with a pristine package of catchy hooks and anthemic guitars. On stage, their eagerness and their impish disregard for their material have evolved into a subtle appreciation of how to make the audience sweat without sacrificing songs on the altar of indie cool.
They have capitalised on this growth spurt without letting their energy levels drop one bit. Playing the Brixton Academy as though determined to become your favourite band, Idlewild are aggressive and out to prove themselves from the opening tune, I'm a Message. Frustration propels Little Discourage, with Rod Jones's lead guitar fierce but precise even as he throws himself into split-jumps, his chin pointing towards the ceiling in a pose that looks not iconic but pained.
Having sung the lilting Live in a Hiding Place, Woomble looks coy. "I've just realised you're all staring at me," he says, shaking his head as though unsure what to make of the attention, despite the fact that he has been flirting with the crowd all night. By the time they play American English, grabbing the sweet-natured song by the throat and turning it into a vengeful, triumphant attack, Idlewild have left their reputation as also-rans far behind them.
· At the Guildhall, Southampton, tonight (023-8063 2601), then touring.
