The Music are in thrall to pre-punk cosmic absurdities and late-1980s hedonism. Singer Robert Harvey is all shaggy hair, peacock strut and baggy T-shirt. The songs are sprawling, psychedelic opuses fired by a rave mentality. It's as though the Music passed out under a table at the Hacienda, a copy of Led Zeppelin's greatest hits in their arms, and have just dug themselves out of its remains.

That they are not wedged on to a bill between tribute bands such as the Stoned Roses and Noasis proves how successful this Leeds quartet have been at being unfashionable. Since their first album was released in 2002, the Music have found a rabid following. Kids fling themselves at Harvey's feet, exhausted by the tension of waiting for another surly cacophony of grinding guitars and crashing drums to break into a rush of swirling melodies and elongated chants. Harvey may not look like a Messiah - more lumbering golden retriever - but to innocent ears unaware of Ian Brown's nonchalant majesty, this is the second coming.

Listening to the Music is like being stuck on a waltzer at the fair. Songs like The People are frothy fun, but Harvey's high, primal wailing and the head-nodding rhythms leave you feeling queasy. But thankfully, there are signs the band are maturing away from their Jane's Addiction obsession and post-pub sing-alongs. In the middle of recording their second album, they showcase a trinity of new, darker, songs.

North is smudgy, with a rhythm like a pounding headache, Harvey moving like a demented chicken pecking at the oppressive mood. Into the Night is sensitive, melancholic pop, and One Way is uncannily like the Verve.

But it is the "aaeeiiooos" and "yeaheyeahs" that the crowd want. And the Music don't disappoint, all too aware that it's second-hand simplicity that got them here.