Thursday 20/11/08 Ryan Adams and the Cardinals @ Brixton Academy, London

When did Ryan Adams get so content? This generation's brooding master of introverted, romantic disaster is up on stage, whooping and laughing. His mates are on board, his songs have all morphed into eight minute MOR marathons and the happier he looks, the worse the music gets. It feels evil to say it, but this would sound a whole lot better if he was a little more ****ed up.

Over a decade on from the stunning joylessness of Whiskeytown and the shattering beauty of his early solo albums, he's hard to recognise. Regardless, he is still extraordinarily talented. He manipulates his guitar with the effortless air of a boy still enthralled by the sounds he is conjuring and the belief that he can outplay anyone. His voice soars and tumbles, quivering on high notes and cursing jagged intensity at the death of every line. The sense of occasion he radiates through his mere presence is clear to see.

What he looks like isn't so apparent, as the whole band is draped in semi-darkness. Not dimmed lights to intensify the atmosphere, but intentional twilight, Adams' face impossible to find in the gloom. He stands stage right, allowing his gifted guitarist Neal Casal to command the centre, desperate to show the Cardinals are a band, not a backing group. They can certainly play, with Neal excelling on his two showcase songs, especially Grand Island. Their reactions to Adams's improvisations can often thrill, galloping off into extended jams, such as on a grandstand Off Broadway.

However, he is rejecting the very thing that could set them apart, the heartbreaking, golden moments of hellish love in the broken songs of his past. Sure, a whole set of When The Stars Go Blue-alikes would start to veer from memorable to miserable, but when he does revisit classics, he throws them away. "Let's get ready to rock to another super depressing song! Somebody get me a shovel," he exclaims, clearly bored with his own back catalogue and its history of hurt. Really, it's fair enough. Why should he want to sing old sad songs when he's writing new cheerful ones so prolifically?

He wants to be one of the boys, playing new tunes and rocking out over clunky riffs and half-arsed lyricism. Fix It, Born Into A Light, Goodnight Rose – differences in words hide structures so similar they could be siblings. Nevertheless, there are some spine-tingling moments – in over two hours, there should be, mind. When Adams takes to the piano he plays with twinkling grace, The Rescue Blues accelerating past mediocrity, capturing the magic between playfulness and passion. "Everybody wants to see you suffer/they know that you need the pain so much," he croons. Indeed.

Come Pick Me Up, complete with piercing harmonica, is compelling, but these standards can't be maintained. His delicate cover of Wonderwall is forced into a rollicking stadium staple halfway through, surely defeating its point. It's still worth it for the moments of masterful musicianship, offhand wit ("This song is about how well I dressed tonight,") and superior songwriting. He is elusive not in the frequency of his output but in the irrationality of his work. You can never pinpoint what he wants to be, let alone what he is. Everyone will go on trying to figure it out though, and enjoy the best bits in the meantime.