CARTER USM/MEGA CITY FOUR (Tivoli, Dublin)

I STILL don't understand how the Mega City Four can look like mad-bastard-cider-drinkers-from-hell yet make the sort of racket you'd expect from The Beach Boys after a whiff of amyl nitrate.

Tonight, the harmonies are as close as ever, the guitar attack just as frenzied, but for some reason Wiz and the boys fail to ignite and prompt only polite response from the t-shirted masses who seem infinitely more interested in perfecting their "You fat bastard!" chants for the headliners.

The band battle valiantly against the apathy and though by the end of the set they've switched onto auto-pilot, 'Ticket Collector' remains a perfect pop moment that you'd glady take up arms and die for.

When Carter last played Dublin, the SFX wasn't so much jammed as vacuum-packed with the only available standing room being on someone else's shoulders. Eight months later and the touts outside the Tivoli have knocked off early. The venue isn't exactly empty but there's no disguising the fact that there have been mass defections from the indie ranks, mainly to the sweaty dance clubs down the road.

No matter, Sarf London's favourite sons have always given it plenty of welly live and they're not about to blow the game plan now.

Kicking off with a version of 'Spoilsports Personality Of The Year' that namechecks the Sultans and nicks a few bars from Bowie's 'Heroes', Jim Bob and Fruitbat are in rollicking good form and determined, in true cabaret-punk style, to send the crowd home sweating.

'Bachelor For Baden Powell' and 'Anytime Anyplace Anywhere' certainly work up a nice glow but after the initial adrenaline surge wears off, you're basically left watching two blokes with some nifty tunes, a drum machine and bugger all stage show.

Where, prey, are the banks of TV monitors and the Pink Floyd hand-me-down lighting rig that they've been using in the UK?

None of this seems to deter the occupants of the mosh pit who, by the time 'Bloodsports For All' and new single 'Lenny & Terrence' arrive on the scene, are more battered and bloodied than Frank Bruno after going seven rounds with Lennox Lewis.

Carter deliver their own knock-out punch in the shape of encore 'Sheriff Fatman', a yob anthem par excellence and proof that, whatever their shortcomings on the night, the Sex Machine rages on.

• Stuart Clark