A quote from Fran Healy flashes up on a huge screen: "We got popular without the permission of the cool people and we have never been forgiven." Aside from what this says to their fans - those who enter here, give up all notion of credible taste - it hints less at indignation than depression, especially after an hour of Healy throwing himself around to moribund melodies at a gig with less atmosphere than the moon.

Once Oasis's rightful heirs, Travis have become the Invisible Bland. Their debut album, Good Feeling, was the indie equivalent of a good romantic comedy - hi-jinks and heartbreak wrapped in pretty tunes. Anthems and potboilers catapulted the band to success, and their latest album, 12 Memories, is again full of false smiles and hesitant hugs.

Healy, in a brown cap and white jacket, is the gasping, sighing Citizen Smith of melancholy. Describing Ally Pally as "our living room", he faintly rages against subjects as dark as domestic violence on Re-offender and war on Peace the Fuck Out, a strangely leaden plea from a band who found rain inspiring.

But Travis have forgotten how to have fun. From the lilting harmonies of The Beautiful Occupation to Mid-life Krysis - a song as uninteresting as its title - listening to each pleasant tune and sad sentiment is like being bludgeoned by damp cotton wool.

Healy's solo spot at a white piano is let down by silly lyrics and insecurity, and despite guitarist Andy Dunlop's split jumps and one-handed guitar antics, excitement is so thin on the ground that the squall of feedback that marks the beginning of Sing is a high point. All I Wanna Do Is Rock and As You Are are the sole reminders of the band's lively past, during which Healy stops simpering and roars passionately. But tonight both are reduced to odd, though stunning, bleeps of life before Travis flatline for the rest of the night.