Every budding British rock star fantasises about the night he or she will be able to say the three little words that mean they have arrived. Johnny Borrell sounds as if he's been preparing for the "Good evening, Wembley!" moment all his life.
As Wembley returns the greeting with the fervour only 10,000 teenage lungs can muster, Razorlight's main man stands still, drinking in the applause, as if his only question now is why it has taken three whole years to progress from their first single to selling out the country's flagship arena.
His band are riding the crest of the wave created by their self-titled second album and single, America, both reaching No 1 recently. (Calling them "his band," by the way, conveys Borrell's complete domination of this show - the other three members keep their heads down and play, with bassist Carl Dalemo snatching 10 seconds at the end to thank the support band.)
But how many of the girls eyeing Borell appreciatively know that Razorlight were once derided as Libertines hangers-on? Or that their appearance at Live8 seemed premature to say the least, given their then-tally of two top 10 singles?
That's irrelevant now, as Borrell gets on with the strutting that goes hand in hand with the wearing of skin-tight white clothes. There's a large helping of peacock in him, and he gives it full vent, building up to the moment when he peels off his T-shirt to reveal indie rock's most frequently-exposed chest. Luckily, there's substance behind the facade. If Razorlight are going to tour arenas, at least they have the songs for it. Even early ones such as Rip It Up and Stumble and Fall, written as a scrappy London club band, sound big and clever.
They're confident enough to canter through the schlocky America mid-set, rather than save it for the encore, and to fire two of their big guns, In the Morning and Golden Touch, at the very start. The crowd sing the latter's melancholy chorus, and it's a real pop moment: a snapshot of Razorlight's early days on the fringes of the underground gig scene, as rendered by people who would have been almost too young to go to gigs at the time.
All this takes place in front of screens depicting meteors, galaxies, the New York skyline and other suitably awe-inspiring images. Well, they didn't get to Wembley by thinking small.
