Josh Pyke: Borderline, February 26

Josh Pyke might sound like a brand of temptingly rustic organic cider, but he’s actually an Australian singer-songwriter who, on tonight’s evidence, has already amassed a loyal following of teenage girls. The throng at the front of the stage have the youthful exuberance – but not the willingness to experiment with mummy’s old eyeliner – of a Fall Out Boy crowd. There’s also a strong Antipodean presence: when Pyke asks, “Are there any Australians here tonight?” the whooping response suggests Shane Warne – or at the very least Madge from Neighbours – has just entered the building.

At first it’s hard to understand why Pyke commands such support. His songs, though melodic and jangly-in-all-the-right places like early R.E.M., never quite make the transition from pleasant to memorable and his stage presence seems as under-developed as Ann Widdecombe’s sense of humour. However, as the evening progresses, Pyke’s voice begins to reveal its robust strength and his easy charm starts to materialise. When he jokes that he can’t be bothered to leave the stage for an encore, you don’t think, ‘You lazy sod’; you actually start to question why generations of beloved performers - Elvis, Freddie, Robbie, Chico - ever bothered with the ritual.

Late in the set, Pyke pulls out his two best songs. ‘Private Education’ benefits from a rousing chorus, lyrics filled with savage imagery and a haunting keyboard effect that sounds a lot like a Wurlitzer organ. ‘Middle Of The Hill’ is even better: its combination of staccato vocals and simple, choppy rhythms is utterly compelling tonight.

The music industry isn’t exactly suffering from a dearth of whey-faced guitar-strummers at the moment, but, on his best songs, Pyke offers something a little different. The road ahead of him is crowded, but he might just have enough.