Hope Not Hate 2008, Brixton Academy, London

This concert at the Brixton Academy marked the end of a two-week campaign by the fascist-hunting Searchlight to keep the British National Party out of City Hall, by picketing every local authority where the BNP has been trying to gain an electoral foothold. "Hope Not Hate" is the offspring of Rock Against Racism, a 1970s movement begun by Red Saunders after hearing Eric Clapton and David Bowie drunkenly espousing quasi-fascist positions. More than 80,000 souls gathered in Victoria Park in 1978 to hear The Clash, Buzzcocks, Sham 69 and Tom Robinson.

It was a brilliant statement of defiance. Thirty years on, the RAR audience seem to lack the anger and passion of their younger counterparts – or their younger selves. Many of the Brixton audience were comfortably padded, mid- and late-fifties, grooving gently on the Academy's greasy floor. Cutting edge it wasn't.

Introduced by Robinson, The Levellers swung into their old hooligan/gypsy folk-punk routine with aplomb. Mark Chadwick, in a porkpie hat, sang well and bassist Jeremy Cunningham swung his dreadlocks, but without Jon Sevink's inventive violin-playing, they'd be two-dimensional.

After guest-star exhortations from black trades union leaders, and a memory lane excursion from Saunders, Misty in Roots delivered 40 minutes of sophisticated reggae to the mainly white crowd. With their swirly keyboard soundscapes and three-man brass section, they're a far cry from Kingston, Jamaica; but then, they hail from Southall. In "Musi-o-Tunya", a hymn to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, the drummer brought a waterfall clatter to a solid backbeat, counterpointed by raspily fuzzy guitar. "No Love" was dark and throbbingly anti-romantic, heavy on the horns. Singer Winston Tyson's stage routine is remarkable for his weirdly fey little dance steps, but there was nothing fey about his song "Institutionalised Racism".

Alabama 3 closed the show and from the start you could tell something was wrong. Unsubtle power chords assailed the ears. They swung into "Mao-Tse Tung Said" from Exile in Coldharbour Lane, but, rather than actually swing, they stood listening to the backing tapes, as D Wayne Love, the band's charisma-free sage, intoned "Change must come through the barrel of a gun." Was an anti-fascism concert the place for tongue-in-cheek totalitarianism?

Larry Love, the Alabamas' front man, appeared looking exhausted, skinny, shorn and half-dead. Either his voice was shot or his microphone didn't work, but his performance limped thereafter. His attempt to involve the audience in call-and-response on "Work it all Night" got nowhere. "Too Sick to Pray" was lost in distortion. Thank heaven for Devlin Love, the band's tiny chanteuse, who seized the initiative and sang "Monday Don't Mean Anything to Me" like a woman possessed. A final homily from Robinson reminded us not to vote for the BNP next day – an admonition as redundant as the rest of the evening.