From the moment they stroll on stage and singer Paul Banks pulls off his dark glasses to survey the sold-out crowd, Interpol radiate self-possession. In a lot of bands this cool detachment, this rigorous sense of poise and purpose, would be alienating. Not here. Instead what you sense is the electrifying confidence of a band who believe absolutely in the power of their own songs.

Their set is short, just 12 tracks (taken almost equally from the band's 2002 debut, Turn on the Bright Lights, and this month's follow-up, Antics), torn through in less than an hour. But in its concentration it's immeasurably thrilling. As musicians, the quartet and their shadowy additional keyboardist are meticulous, zealously reproducing every raddled, rattling drumline, thundering bass note and lashing riff. Such is their control, each song sounds exactly as it does on record - only louder, harder, taut with emotion, exploding with energy. When they pause in the middle of PDA, the tension is palpable, almost unbearably so.

Precision defines Interpol, from the architectural sweep of Carlos D's fringe to Banks and Kessler's matching tie pins. They are the kind of band who make you care what shoes they're wearing, so impeccable do they look. It's a mystery how Carlos D maintains his composure bent double over his bass, how Kessler can play the entire gig shuffling seductively about the stage without removing his suit jacket. Only Banks grows dishevelled, his wispy hair matted with sweat, making him look older and oddly careworn.

Yet there is much more to the band than surface style. When Banks sings, in Stella Was a Diver, of a girl's conviction that building fronts conceal staring faces, he plunges you into a world of despair; the lyrics to Evil, meanwhile, sear with their suggestion of a relationship unhinged. Banks rakes over the embers of love fearlessly, celebrates romance without being trite. And as he does so, his voice sounds faultless. Like everything else about this band.