Editors, Roundhouse, Camden

Just weeks after international misery merchants Interpol sprayed the insides of Koko with their own brand of dark, Joy Division gloom goo, the Editors match Interpol’s new songs with a selection of rapid, euphoric, foot stomping lyrical tombstones. Interpol might dress like goth Nazis and have the kind of hair partings that Herr Flick from 'Allo 'Allo might be proud of, but tonight, The Editors smack the pasty face of Interpol’s guitar Gestapo Daniel Kessler with a smelly leather glove, snatch the gloom gun and take aim at Camden.

It seems like a lifetime since first album The Back Room made floral shirted Guardian critics get all excited about a band which spoke to public schoolboys, high school misfits and pretty much anyone who attended a musical festival last year. Tonight, new songs like Smokers At The Hospital Doors sound like anthems in the making, but ones which resemble the work of Sylvia Plath when the Prozac had run out and the demons came round for tea. “It’s probably the saddest thing I’ve ever written” said Tom Smith when speaking about the song which seems tailor made to soundtrack the UK’s imminent indoor smoking ban. Now, talking about the song in front of the expectant crowd, he says “this is the best song we’ve ever put on record”. It’s almost believable, until the live outing of the stellar, looping, rocket powered scream-a-long Escape The Nest blows the lid off the Roundhouse. Like a circus big top, Tom Smith orbits above the crowd like a human cannon ball and descends like an ice-white angel. When the epic switch is turned off and the piano is wheeled out, slow songs sound like prayers but eventually rise to to epic status once again. Tonight, the epic switch is broken, it just can’t be turned off.

Bouncing up and down like his stool is on fire, Tom Smith’s call to arms sound like religious sermons and make Chris Martin’s tales of heart break read like a downbeat Hollyoaks script. Words plucked from the track listing for new album An End Has A Start show how the barometer of doom is in danger of cracking: rats, spiders, bones, worn, anger and hospital. When Tom sings “let’s pretend we never met, let’s pretend we’re on our own” on The Racing Rats, you realise that The Back Room was only the start of the descent into the bleak unknown Editors universe.

“Is it okay in there? People are saying it’s a bit dead” says a confused member of staff at the venue. Assorted parents of the band stand, raise hands and become tearful. People don’t pogo, they stare, mentally unwrapping and silently rehearsing new songs in preparation for the festivals and the arrival of the album next month. It’s a test, a revision class with the Editors. Learn to appreciate the misery and the mire and you’ll be the one having the time of your life at V Festival.

When Tom sings, he’s pleading with the audience, crossing his fingers and hoping that the new songs of strife, death and despair are accepted. “Thanks for remembering us” he says with a shadow of a grin. The motionless crowd cheer and it’s clear that the Editors have the party faithful back in the palm of their cold, cold hands.