Bright Eyes, Shepherd's Bush Empire, London

You can probably expect Bright Eyes shows to be slightly fraught affairs. The band belongs to Conor Oberst, a singularly intense, 23-year-old singer-songwriter from Omaha, Nebraska who first attracted the attention of the indie world in 1994 as a 14-years-old, and whose albums elevate a mix of "emo" ("emotional punk", essentially) and ghostly country-folk to near-theatrical levels of storytelling via oodles of Catholic angst.

It might sound overheated on paper - the title of Oberst's 2002 album, Lifted: or the Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground, bears that out - but Oberst's dense lyrics, raggedly expressive voice, brazen arrangements, breathless sincerity and sheer ambition pull it off.

He's putting the work in, too: one estimate claims that he has 500 songs to his name; he's made five albums, as Bright Eyes and with a band, Desaparecidos; and his 2002 US tour, with M Ward in support and an orchestra, was a college-kid crowdpuller.

Tonight's gig was a near-miss, though, and it's fair to say that the tremendous support band, British Sea Power, made a more sure-handed job of it. Sure, the range of indie-kid factions in attendance makes it clear that the willowy, faintly worried-looking Oberst is heading for figurehead status in some corners. But the sound scuppers it, even though the band are more modestly sized than the usual Bright Eyes 11-piece ensemble.

Conor Oberst's distinct vocals and lyrics are central to his schtick, but even the "shhhs" among the audience drown them out. After a while, you suspect that it's the shushers who are being shushed.

Not that there's anything wrong with the songs, the new material assuaging any worry that Oberst has shot his bolt early. One track suggests that a broader, political bent is creeping into his writing, while a fractious, Pogues-ish number raises the mood a little. But as Lifted's jauntily philosophical "Bowl of Oranges" is greeted with great warmth and recognition, only to peter out when Oberst's voice disappears somewhere beneath the drums, it's clear that his nervy self-consciousness - much explored in his songs, and surely part of his appeal - is hobbling him tonight.

When Oberst takes this self-consciousness and turns it outwards, though, into near-rococo flourishes, you can feel the crowd's relief.

The set closes with him wailing "Let's fuck it up boys, make some noise" - and the band do, at last, rattling like pots and pans to nicely punk-marching-band effect.

He encores with Lifted's fabulously lovesick (albeit daftly titled) "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will", thrashing out the chords with a sparky energy you wish he had found earlier.

As he leaves the stage, Oberst's typically drama-dude parting lyric is "I'm leaving, but I don't know where to." Somewhere worth watching, no doubt, but tonight was a stumble, not a step.