Wednesday 05/03/08 Editors, Sons & Daughters @ Alexandra Palace, London

Another band runs the Alexandra Palace gauntlet. Editors, having done rather well of late, take the leap from big indie band to proper, your-mum-has- probably-heard-of-them, arena showstoppers. Well, not quite - but they give it a decent go.

Support bands shouldn’t be allowed at this venue. They should just give everyone a few free drinks, or lower the price and have the gig start later. The venue is just so vast, so open, that anything but the most advanced sound equipment is utterly futile. Sons & Daughters may well be a very exciting young band with a captivating front-woman in Adele Bethel, but they sound flat and tinny against the backdrop of uninterested  punters and cloudy vibrations. They look like kids in a school play, completely lost at the sheer size of their audience and task. Sadly, those listening are left grasping the sentiment of millions of parents forced to watch said productions - you stay and watch, but that doesn’t mean you enjoy it.

To succeed at Ally Pally you need an enormous, epic quality in the sound, deep, resounding distinction in the vocals, and giddy devotion in the fans. Luckily, this pretty much describes Editors. After the warm, welcoming paranoia of ‘Camera’, they soon throttle any sceptics by crashing into fire- starting, anthem mode. Songs flash past, working by blending big, effect- laden, soaring riffs - you know, that one U2 have been using for the past two decades - with deft, subtle touches. ‘Munich’ is simply deafening, a menacing carousel of intent, while ‘The End Has A Start’ feeds off a crushing drum line that forces blaring energy into the set.

This vitality doesn’t really disperse into the crowd though. It’s a surprisingly old bunch, with less than instant enthusiasm, and the band lack the spark to turn the gig from an event to an occasion. Every time any momentum builds, a more considered track seems to lose the interest of those less than obsessively committed. While ‘Push Your Head Towards The Air’ is a comfy, plush little number, it gets somewhat lost amongst the blockbusting blaze of ‘Bullets’ and the relentless, purging surge of ‘All Sparks’.

One constant is the capricious, captivating performance of singer Tom Smith. Frustration seeps from each pained movement as he entangles his voice and arms around ’Spiders’, before a mischievous playfulness highlights an accomplished run through The Cure’s ‘Lullaby.’ Rarely has a band’s sound been so clearly expressed through a singer; his every move details each twisting guitar, every bellow betrays an intense longing for affection but distance. He hides the band’s shortcomings and amplifies their talents, and almost - almost - makes this a triumph.

Then the sound system breaks. Returning for encore, halfway through the euphoric hymn of ‘Racing Rats’, somebody throws beer on the mixing desk and that’s that. They return in vain for another try, before finally completing closer ‘Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors.’ This was a valiant attempt to break into the big time. They will before long, but tonight they fall just short.