The Shins, Hammersmith Apollo, London

Wincing the Night Away, the title of their current album, suggests that this latest outfit to break out of the US leftfield is hardly made up of good-time boys. It certainly takes them long enough to rouse their patient fans.

While much of the rest of the UK remains enamoured with Britpop, original and revived, enough people fill this sizeable theatre to support another American oddity that breaks new musical ground and still delivers emotional clout.

Wincing showed The Shins' change in emphasis: the jangly pop rock of previous excursions was replaced by shimmering soundscapes and delicate melodies. But for the first half of the set, this proves impossible to recreate, as the band, now augmented by Eric Johnson on guitar, bludgeon their way through seven numbers, unable to broadcast the veiled charms of the new material. Front man James Mercer chooses not to engage the crowd but his band lighten the mood with their japery.

Johnson aims his guitar at the audience in the most hackneyed of rock shapes and it is only later that you realise that he and bassist/ keyboardist Dave Hernandez are egging each other on. Then the band quietens for "A Comet Appears", notes are carefully picked and drums caressed as the singer finally finds the space to balance bitter and sweet. "Take a drink just to give me some weight," Mercer confesses with feeling.

Pauses in the arrangement are as important as sweet harmonies and despite its tremulous quality, this cathartic moment changes the night's complexion. The Shins sharpen into clearer focus, with the strata of the four-guitar attack now neatly layered. The four-year wait for Wincing is rewarded with the simmering funk of "Sea Legs". A maritime theme runs through "Sea Legs" and "Girl Sailor", a bridge between Wincing's cerebral schemes and their previously more direct style.

"Phantom Limbs" remains a powerful rallying cry for anyone alienated by "that foreign land with the sprayed on tans". Clever and heartfelt it may be, but The Shins remain awkward customers, almost as if they are testing newly won fans, who respond by saving their energy for "So Says I". This meditation on utopias, capitalist and communist, offers a time for handclaps and oohs in all the right places, though not enough to persuade Mercer to indulge in his own glasnost.