The Coral, Electric Ballroom, London

Anyone concerned that Britain's pool of musical talent may be running dry should be heartened by the success of The Coral. The Hoylake band's debut album, released last year, easily outsold many more vaunted imports, while their place in the nation's hearts is currently sealed by the success of their new single, the gentle "Pass It On", which on Sunday became their first hit.

Anyone concerned that Britain's pool of musical talent may be running dry should be heartened by the success of The Coral. The Hoylake band's debut album, released last year, easily outsold many more vaunted imports, while their place in the nation's hearts is currently sealed by the success of their new single, the gentle "Pass It On", which on Sunday became their first hit.

Six faintly roguish, confused-looking young men apparently obsessed with music made 15 years before any of them were even born do not generally fit the template for success in the ever-mediated music business. The pressure seems to be getting to them, though. The papers are full of interviews with "the Scousers who refuse to play music-biz games" (such as, er, talking to the press).

They could certainly lighten up a little. The singer, James Skelly, says not a single word to the adoring audience at this low-key show, recorded for future broadcast. Those who haven't already downloaded the forthcoming album, Magic and Medicine, can be excused for being a little bemused, as much of the set, including the first few songs, is lifted straight from it.

"In the Forest", with a bassline borrowed from Brian Wilson and a faintly creepy tone of menace (none of them older than 22, the Coral are nearer to childhood memories than many of their admirers, after all), opens the show, as it does the new record, followed by the frantic "Bill McCai", another observation of the local characters who inspire them. "Gypsy Market Blues", on record a somewhat shameless tribute to Bob Dylan's electric phase, rocks more pointedly. Bill Ryder-Jones's lead guitar lines, excellent throughout, cut through the sound in true Beat Boom, axe-hero style, while the brilliant album-closer, "Confessions of a DDD", sets up a good groove.

Skelly, seemingly dressed for an angling trip (a nice change from the Paul Merton-style cardigan he sported for their Glastonbury spot), seems unconcerned with audience interaction. Even the brief "Pass It On" receives a peculiarly cursory treatment, as if their big hit is already something of a millstone around their necks. Proven favourites such as "Simon Diamond", "Skeleton Key", the single that reminded the Great British public how much they really liked Captain Beefheart, and "I Remember When" are ecstatically received, although the garage rock of "Goodbye" hardly warrants a 10-minute extended version. And that's it. There's no encore, although the crowd are baying for "Dreaming of You", before they give up and boo instead. All two thousand of them.

Still, the Coral's skill can't be overestimated. They play extraordinarily well, so adeptly that one can only be glad that there was no surfing off the Wirral coast to take up their time as they were growing up. In fact, it's remarkable just how much their sound echoes that Sixties inspiration for legions of teenagers with guitars, The Yardbirds. That means they're condemned to turn into Led Zeppelin, Eric sodding Clapton or grumpy art-school teachers. Don't wait that long: catch them while they're still on for a rave-up (smiling optional).