London Marquee

THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAMERS have changed since their highish press profile of two years ago. Then they were a competent but lack lustre ensemble, unable to recognise when they were sparking with vigour and verve and when they were back pedalling.

Now they're harder, finer, more disciplined, more intense. At their foundation are a bass and drums drilling out a crackle of percussive noise and energy keeping, not only the audience, but also the rest of the band alert and lively.

A dynamic is ignited between the instruments that hovers between tenderness and tension. They build a web of sound which is also a web of intrigue – drawing one in like the plot of a good mystery.

Justin – a guitarist – steps back and forth offering an occasional malevolent glare and injecting an evil precision into his playing, snapping out a metronomic chunka or letting loose a ripple of twang that scythes through the mix.

Caroline – a singer – lets her voice sail through the sweetest melodies but can evoke a venomous accent on sterner passages. Meanwhile she executes arm flails redolent of folksy heroines and makes dramatic hoists of her oboe as though it's a bazooka.

The Impossible Dreamers are a thousand times more potent live than on vinyl. Yet none of the compelling stage interaction seems planned. It's more a natural flow within themselves which they've discovered and harnessed. It is this that set them apart, set me on edge and made watching them such a pleasure.